Is it true that we keep losing the ability to laugh at ourselves over time? Ok. I just yawned, one of those short ones though. Didn’t last more than three seconds. My yawn bank contains some very randomly noisy and lengthy yawns. I think they can be segregated into different categories (the I can’t sleep but I’m still sleepy yawn, the you woke me up yawn, the yes i’m up, but i’m still sleepy yawn, and so on) This one was the ‘move on, this is probably boring’ yawn. And while I’m at it, I can see that the internet connection that belongs to my household has acted up yet again, like a daily annoying power cut. The only difference is that, one doesn’t need to wait for it to come back. It never will. It’s not human afterall. It needs a slight push. Switch it off once and switch it on back. Almost like the router has these hiccups and it needs to be patted once to come back to normalcy. The beautiful part is, that there is a mini war amongst the inhabitants of this room over who will get up and pat the switch. Almost like the who gets up to pick up the remote fight or the get up to open the door fight. We also have the who will switch on the fan fight. And guess who saves the day? It is the third person, my friend. Someone is bound to enter the room. Bound to.
Years ago, when Gariahat streets were plain and simple, sans the flyover, dotted with hawkers and the usual chaos; there were only a handful of places which found their way into tiny desire boxes. Wasn’t too far, proximity is after all, still one of those lucky charms that keeps the cash box jingling for some. The road is straightforward from what was once home. All the way till the Gariahat gol chakkar, another left and somewhere down the road on the right side of the pavement was the place which made eyes dance in anticipation and eagerness float like clouds. Well for some. Or most kids. And there it was, amidst toys and bicycles, boardgames, play cards..the shelf in the middle of the shop, the shelf that held all possible desires that your girlishly materialistic heart could hold . They all looked the same, with disproportionate figures, colorful outfits. Staring from the other side of the plastic on those pink boxes, with a price tag that was categorized under expensive, they all smiled through their similar perfection, little Mona Lisas them. Fascination that was. And so much that the contents of that shelf seemed like much deserved presents, birthday gifts or the best possible reward for some small academic achievement. Visits to that place would always be welcome, just for a glimpse. You wanted them all. They represented possessions. You’d build up stories in your head, and how they would fit into your collection, how they need new clothes or how your sister ruined some from your collection. If nothing else, it always seemed like the last one was given to you months ago and you rightfully deserve another one. You have waited and been a good girl, not asked for anything, done your studies, shared everything, aimed for that percentage on your report card. Not been demanding. You deserved it, you thought. Or maybe you just wanted it. All possible desires, stacked on that one shelf. And then…over time…you just grew out of it. Is that how we grow out of our desires?