The Distric Towers!!

This is a short essay-story kind of a thing I wrote slashing out against the concepts, the very foundations upon which modern society is built.However it also depicts certain gains of modern ideology.It is not totally critical, nor is it overly praiseful.It is merely reflective of my confused state of mind regarding the pros and cons of the contemporary world.

The District Towers

The gargantuan white complex had been standing abandoned for over a decade, before the Delhi Metro project became the reason for it’s metempsychosis. The latest sensation to hit the nation’s capital was going to streak right across the complex’s leaden face. The announcement of the route was enough to set in motion a sequence of events that were to culminate in my enthralling tryst on a frigid December evening. All the assorted brand names filled in tenders for
shops and showrooms in what was going to be the new youngster’s hub of West Delhi. Adidas, Nike and Reebok for footwear; Lacoste and Lee for clothing and McDonalds, Pizza Hut and Domino’s for fast food; in short all the exclusive and most “in” brands of the day set up shop to create another place for what the young casually called ‘hanging around’ or ‘just chilling’. In actuality these were euphemisms for getting “drop dead drunk” and “smoking your lung’s
off”, designed especially to conceal the truth from their ever trusting parents who were drowned in the sea of liberalism. Within two years the once dilapidated structure stood reincarnated in a more glorious form. The high rise towers now housed the showrooms of the hottest
selling products throughout the lower floors, while the upper floors were offices for multinational banks and insurance companies.

I parked my light weight scooter (yes yes the one which only the sissies are supposed to drive), in the parking lot just outside the plaza. A parking assistant promptly turned up, issued a coupon and demanded ten bucks. He was loaded with fake accessories, a T-Shirt which screamed Adidas from so many places and in such varied fonts so as to confirm that it was not original and sunglasses which might have been all the fashion at the time of independence but seemed definitely awkward in the present settings. Only a few years back the lot was an ill used, stench ridden and rodent infested public toilet of sorts. Now it had metamorphosed into a spic and span compound for the latest in Italian and Japanese cars and bikes. My scooter looked like an embarrassed washer man’s ass between the finest steeds. I paid the fee in a huff and made my way towards the multiplex which had recently come up in the premises of the tower complex.

The purpose of my visit was to book two tickets for the night show of the latest Hollywood potboiler. However unlike most youngsters I was not going to ask for the corner seats. Me and my younger brother were going to watch the film sitting right in the middle of the balcony. The special effects charged comic-action-suspense flick had generated much more interest than it genuinely deserved, but then who really cares for such mundane issues like story, plot and screenplay when you are getting to watch people combating in Kung-Fu while simultaneously being airborne like eagles, in the dark depths of the cosmos far from the Solar System. The queue was long and winding and the chilly wind struck the face with a wrath that illjustified the arduous wait. I was disillusioned with the movie and had no interest in spending 200 bucks on such otiose rubbish, but my brother's constant bickering and peer pressure made me stand firm and resolute.

I looked around at the once ramshackle buildings turned exhibitionist haven of the mighty and rich’s adolescent progeny. Flashy and multicoloured neon lights attracted and appealed, almost seduced, the onlookers to have a look and consequently buy expensive up market foreign goods. People drove towards the shops under these lights like moths towards fire. Boys and girls, and even men and women between the ages of 15 and 35 hurried out of the crowded stores laden with heavy plastic bags and gratified expressions. “How many days would they enjoy their new acquisitions before growing weary of them?”, I asked myself. How much time before they will throng these places again, in search of yet more items to give them a more permanent satisfaction? Not many if the crowd inside and current trends were any indication.

The line moved forward. So did I. A huge sardarji stood in front of me. He was regularly mouthing gentel obscenities, the type you get to hear everyday travelling by local buses. No one minds them very much and everybody uses them generously. However the written world is definitely not ready yet to see them in print. I hence refrain from qouting them. Anyways, this Sardarji's name was Yug Bahadur Singh. Loosely translated the name means this era's bravest guy. I knew his name because he made no secret of it. Whenever he hurled an abuse at someone or the other he told them who was doing so. "Yug Bahadur is not scared of you *********s" and "Yug Bahadur gives shit to you ******s" were the general form his expletives took. But why ,you may ask,have I suddenly started writing the vulgar Sardar's biography. Read on to find out.

The queue finally reached a stage at which, after 40 minutes of waiting I finally found myself just one place from getting the tickets booked. And in front of me was, no prizes for guessing, Yug Bahadur Singh. "9 tickets, center row", said the sardar. "Sorry sir, we don't have so many seats together anywhere", came back the nervous reply. Suddenly a hush swept over the whole place, though I think it was purely coincidental, but the effect was dramatic.... just like the movies. Standing behind I looked up at the Sardar's turban and tried to see through and find out what must be going on in his mind. The silence got a little prolonged. The almost sweating ticket guy asked sheepishly, "Sir??". The Sardar replied, a lot less unsure of himself, "What do you mean no seats?I have been standing in the sun for an hour... and no seats". And then as suddenly as any thing he started crying. No, not the ticket guy but the Sardar. He cried like anything, as if he was 5 years old and had been denied the ice cream which he had been promised for doing his homework. He started beating the ticket window, voice growing hoarse from all the crying. Horrified onlookers stopped in their tracks to take a look at the spectacle and some even asked me what had happened. I was as amazed as anybody and could not bring myself to tell everybody the strange tale. This went on for a while and then a little boldly I ventured to ask,"Sardarji what happened?"

The Sardarji trying to control himself, sobbing, then wiping his eyes on his shirt sleeves said, "My master he will kill me. He won't feed me for days." I couldn't understand. The idea that this huge sardar who had for so long been abusing everyone as if he was some bigshot was actually somebody's servant was too fantastic to imagine. "No one can beat you for such a silly thing. It's none of your fault that the hall ran out of tickets.", I tried to reason with him. "Oh you don't know my master, he is a beast... a true beast.",he said now a little more in control of himself, but still not able to stifle the occasional sob. "Oh come on, no one's like that, who is this master of your's?", I asked. Taking out a dirty hankerchief he wiped his eyes. The Delhi Metro streaked past by the towers with it's characterstic sound. Then he looked left and right in a conspirative fashion and then whispered , his voice drowning in the commotion caused by the train's arrival, ..... "Yug Bahadur Singh".