Off the record

Considering the profession I'm aspiring to enter, this phrase is going to be a great source of frustration for the rest of my life. Considering how important what I'm about to say is, I'll get to the point first and leave the rambling for later. I want Shekhar Gupta's job. I want to be the Editor-in-Chief of The Indian Express. My life's ambition is to become Top Dog of India's best newspaper. I won't settle for anything less. I have no problems with condemning this statement to the irreversible and irretrievable immortality of the internet and having to be reminded about it in case I should fail because I won't.

Right now, I don't want to think I'm going to regret being this rash and impulsive. It's just a matter of climbing to the top again. It took two years to become Head of Literature in my college festival and that started with a simple statement to my HoD that I was going to kill her and take her job. All I have to do to succeed this time is pull the same gag on Shekhar Gupta, laugh over it, remind him each time I see him and work hard in the meanwhile.

I can't imagine life without The Indian Express now and I've already decided what I'm going to do as its supreme overlord. Hold on, to be fair, I will reveal to you the source of current crazy ambition. On Wednesday, he invited all his employees to his house for a Diwali party the next night and that included us students too. Simply standing in his living room completely overshadows all my achievements racked up over 21 years.

Everyone who matters in this country was in attendance, mingling with us underlings, sounding genuinely interested every time we were introduced as the 'kids from the journalism school'. It still hasn't sunk in that I was in the middle of the biggest Diwali party in the world. What did sink in quickly enough was how terribly out of place I was. The imbalance in terms of simple intellect and actually being a fucking somebody was graver than Nitin Gadkari's weight issues. It'll take until next year's party for some of the overawe to slide to a more manageable level.

By way of an unwritten law, I can't tell you how wild it was. Let's just say that the bartender wished he had three pairs of hands. Come to think of it, he could also have done without goggle-eyed kids demanding orange juice with the same authority as some MP/Editor/Diplomat/Thinker/Millionaire ordered a second shot of vodka.

I'll be honest, I've been blinded by the razzle-dazzle of the night and plain simple greed. I want it all, the influence, the chumminess with the best in the world at something or the other and the delightful house in Delhi's poshest locality. Just in case I haven't made it obvious enough yet – I'm a power-hungry maniac with specks of talent and an unlimited supply of sand to build castles in the air.

When I do finally get the job, I'm going to take control of my ancestral home in Hauz Khas. I'm not bluffing, you may drive down to Y-87, Hauz Khas whenever you feel like proving me wrong. Then I'm going to tear it down, along with a few other neighbours and construct a huge 4-storied villa. I'm also going to expand the lane because it just isn't wide enough to admit scores of Bentleys, Audis and the rest of them high-brow machines. Unfortunately, this will involve flattening out all the neighbours in the lane so I might as well let a bulldozer and road roller loose without caring for the consequences. The final step involves converting Gulmohar Park (that is right next door) into Gulmohar Parking Lot. Face it, Delhi won't mind losing a small little garden when it has more green patches than all of Ireland's Leprechaun population put together. With all the accessories in place to perfectly time my ascendancy, the annual parties will be spoken of until the end of time and will most definitely be broadcast to faraway galaxies by hungry news organisations from all over the universe.

The alternative is to shift the headquarters of the paper to Bombay, the city that'll always be my home, even after the Arabian Sea gulps it down without remorse within the next few years. There's no reason why Bombay shouldn't be the news capital of India, after all it is Rich Rich Rich and besides, it's my hometown. And that is the extent of my vision for when I'm boss. Feel free to bring me to back to stinky little Dayanand Colony whenever you feel like it.

I Deserve Better

I came to Delhi with the Express Intention of slumming it out, to live rough and on the edge for a year. Somehow that sounded like a really good thing to do when I set out. If I'm going to live away from family I might as well do it different, renouncing worldly comforts I've taken for granted for 21 years. Since the world is a weird place, I need to brace myself for everything and a year away seemed like the perfect practice.

And I've turned out to be spectacularly wrong. It's not like I'm not suited to living on my own, my ability to adjust is crazily good. It's almost scary how easy I find it to change myself depending on the demands of a situation. Anyway, the point is, I can't do it anymore. Correction, I don't want to do it, I'm sick of adapting quickly and would ideally love to return home. But since that isn't happening, its time to ramp up my lifestyle here.

I'm bored of Dayanand Colony, sick of the tiny room which has served as my dwelling the past two months and would love to be taken in by some family with a spare room and decent internet connectivity. Then I'm reminded I'm not exactly rolling in cash and pipe down for a while. I've spent the the last 15 days piping down and it's a sucky feeling now. Suddenly, I don't give a shit. To hell with austerity and all that jazz, frugality can jump out the fucking window and hermit-ness can kiss my bursting ass tomorrow morning. I'm breaking up with modesty for good (for a year) and I just want to live better.

I don't have a job, the 18 grand earned at Bombay international airport earlier this year shows no sign of turning up but I don't care a fuck. I have a family with enough money to see me through and I'm allowing that offer to rot in the bank. If this isn't the act of some selfless nut bent on sacrifice where it isn't due, I'm going to hump a monkey.

The folks are crying out for me to move out to someplace better, to haul my rapidly rising girth about and scout for potential paradise and my explanation, “Do you know how fucking hard it is to find a new place? And besides, I like it here, it's alright and will do” suddenly sounds just a little weak. Hold on, fuck that last bit. I HAVE NO REASON TO DEGRADE MYSELF TO PUTTING UP WITH THIS HELL-HOLE. What the hell am I trying to prove to myself and what could I possibly get out of it? I'm torturing myself, I've become a damned masochist along with Delhi-ite. Who drilled into my head that I'm supposed to live out a compromise? That I'm supposed to accept second best and that I can put up with this unacceptable situation till August 2012 and expect to be the same kid that boarded the Rajdhani on August 30, 2011?

Clearly, I've taken this shit too far and too seriously and need to be re-educated on the goodness of creature comforts and standard of living conducive to the well-being of normal human beings whose family can afford to put them up nicely in distant lands. I know I should be doing this in my head but I've learnt that in crunch situations I always back out of making the brave decision. I'm convinced only verbal third degree can now cure me of my dangerous self-harming tendencies.

It's time to go. I'm tired of my dusty bed, that bastard Nishant who needs some consideration spanked into him, tired of having his bed sit next to mine. I hate how Anoop keeps barging in and making himself at home in my room, I hate how he eats his dinner on my bed when I'm not around. I want to kill him but he's doing me a big favour by moving out of this place and out of my life forever. I hate how cramped this room is in spite of what I've told the folks. I hate the cockroaches I find scurrying around in my cupboard every time I open it. I hate having to live in a place my family is ashamed of and wouldn't subject their maid to. I hate how it doesn't live up to the standards of cleanliness and order I've been surrounded by all my life and how it borders on the filthy. I hate that I have no life here and having to take to washing clothes and immersing myself in the laptop just to have something to do. I hate having to wake up at 7.30 am each day just to protect my slot in the bathroom and how that doesn't give me time to go for a jog. I'm eating like crazy and putting my eight-pack on the brink of extinction. I'll never be able to live with myself if that happens. I hate having to arrive here each evening at the end of a fabulous day at Express and having to think “What kind of fucken life is this?” just before entering the threshold.

There's a reason there are very few people I truly hate, that's because I'm my biggest enemy. Only I have the power to screw my life over till it's not funny anymore. And I've realised I need to wage war against the formidable combination of my brain and my perverted sense of self-righteousness. And I must win if I want to be happy until August. The human mind is the greatest battlefield in the world, forgot who first said this. Whoever you are, thanks for the gyaan. Time to do myself this one little favour.