A Story — Back When I Was Younger
Sure as any fact on earth, this is true: you’ll one day grow old and become the sort of person a younger you would’ve never thought you’d become: the sort of person who’d start anecdotes with phrases like back when I was younger.
The anecdote
Well, back when I was younger, we’d hang out in dank rooms in shared apartments jamming for hours on end, until we tired and wondered what we wanted to do, now that it was 2 am. Invariably, someone would suggest we play poker, someone (mostly I) would express disinterest, and someone else would say they didn’t know how to play in the first place, turning the final dagger in that plan’s back. From the silence that followed, another idea would materialise. Someone would wonder out loud if a late night walk was on the cards; this suggestion would usually be met with widespread groans and laughter. I can’t even play the guitar anymore, I’d say. Too tired to jam and unable to reach concrete next steps for the night, we would reach a comfortable stalemate, supported by a few late night sandwiches on their way from a place called Chill Papi or Pot de Fusion or the like. Well now we’ve got to stay indoors, someone (mostly I) would pipe up. And everyone would shrug and agree. I’m really hungry, one among them would say, landing us in an equilibrium.
An unstable equilibrium
As if to rid ourselves from this repetitious cycle of Saturday nights spent wondering how Saturday nights must be spent, we would wait for someone to suggest we fall asleep right away and climb one of several hills within a 100 km radius of Bombay. There’d always be a special draw to each suggested hill: a lake or a fort or a pohewala or something or someone for which or whom waking up at 6 am no 7 am no worst case 9 am would be warranted. The dissent of a few (such as myself) was assumed. But a core contingent of two or three would set about rattling off names of others who might be interested instead. Once in six months or so, this plan would materialise; an uncertainty that added a bit of spice to 2:30s on a Saturday. This could be one of those times someone from this crew spends Sunday atop a hill? Who knows? Unlikely, but possible.
Chill Papi or Pot de Fusion would arrive. A sleeping friend would be awoken. He’d stretch two limbs then four as one of the prospective trekkers would run to get the food in a display of their enthusiasm for physical activity. Meanwhile, on many of our phones, distances of cabs would be monitored. We’d all have to soon stream out to our own dingy rooms and dingy apartments, and post-sandwich always seemed to be ideal. Or post-sandwich plus clean-up. Or post-sandwich plus some time spent hanging around so as to not seem like the sort of person who was only here for the roundtable and the sandwiches.
Storytelling through music and media
With the opening of the boxes of sandwiches and fries and peri-peri shakers, an ill-advised meal would be wolfed down drowsily as a playlist of songs accompanied by dream-like visuals would play. A playlist like this one.
Sometimes I miss being young.
