On National Duty

All else has been lost in the limited dimensions of photo-captures.

The camera dutifully swivels in a perfect ninety degree arc, stimulated by a computer program, that gave some geek a high, in the illusion that he had unraveled the large looming phenomenon of information technology; that he had become part of the niche group that had developed halos, found distinction, by coming to terms with the acquired taste of computer technology. I wonder - what opinion must it have of me in its sporadic thirty-second glances? Nothing warned me of this new-age Big Brother: no flash put me on guard, nothing indicated that I ought to wear my best smile. That I ought to keep my face free of the anger and disgust that burn me on the inside. I trust I cut a sorry figure framed there on its reel, stifled between its gridlines.

I try and put it in perspective. The one in the photograph, product of a value system that had its origin in the pre-capitalist era was with confidence handed this down to him by parents and educational institutes as the irrevocable right, was not conflicted by the alternate money-centric system that has begun to find favour in drawing room discussions in metros and in board-rooms of the west-inclined corporate. Truth had a physical face. Mother and Father, and Sir's and Madam's embody it. They had lived a good life, probably the best possible. The truth was unquestionable.

He's living his last wish. The fruits of his scheming are momentarily reaping him rich dividends. The Rolex that bejewels his wrists, the made-to-order three-piece Ritu Beri suit to camouflage the potbelly that sticks out in guilty conscience. The stench of money, that attracts false courtesy from the have-nots (one of who, shields him from the rounds that I'll pump in machine-gun wrath) I'll mix with the smell of freshly spurted blood. It'll be less nauseating.

I look through the corner of my eye at the bartender, whose stare seems to have attracted my attention. Why is he looking at me funny? Does he suspect? I turn around to meet him in the eye. His face softens in embarrassment and he blurts something. Yes, the same drink please, I tell him.

Maybe that's why no more snapshot of testimony. No further probe into the misdeeds I hot-headedly indulged in. What I did, why I did, are too deep seated in the super-subconscious of my mind to respond to willful call-ups. Maybe I had pledged then, in those sorry years, that I would erase, swipe out of existence the events of that period, for a 'less sorrier' future. And even now, today, each time, I climb the high pedestal of the thinking man, I pull the fast one over me and never really attempt to search deep enough, for the certainly of colossal filth (the knowledge of its existence a belief I guard to death) is, like pain, un-preparable for. Today though I'm determined.

Possibly, in the picture, the enormity of the change had just revealed itself to me. Distressing was the manifestation of my ignorance, for unsuspicious as I have forever been; I never so much as imagined that the breed that would warm to this new culture set would match me in years. I never dreamt that it could permeate my generation. Born and bred on Mario and Cable T.V., graduated to Hollywood and Backstreet boys, my batch mates seemed to be adapting untroubled to this new social order.