Old men's music
Of note: Tracks 1, 3, 4, 7 and the superlative Track 10.
Am I eligible for a quarter-life crisis? or a mid-life crisis?
Aug 27, 2009
Aug 12, 2009
Where the grass on the other side is seldom green
I could be a farmer, tilling the land, watching in delight as the crop would grow under my care. I would work hard from sun rise till dusk, lunch and a simple siesta in between. An early dinner by candle light, sleeping in the moonlight, probably listening to the news on AIR. But then I'd be at the mercy of weather and perhaps the rains would play truant. I would have to borrow from the local money lender at exorbitant interest, which I wouldnt be able to pay back. Worse still, a corporate giant would decide to build an SEZ over my land, enter into a JV with the local govt. development body which would in turn 'fix' the rate of acquisition, which would be paid by the cash-rich corporate giant for my land. Effectively, a pittance. Id either have to shift to the city and do menial jobs or I could chose the easier way out and commit suicide.
I could be a 'floriculturist', growing exquisite flowers which can be exported to the West. I could watch the season change the colors of my produce, count the honey bees swarm around my produce. Perhaps have a side-business of producing honey the organic way. Make millions in a few years after I have set up farms over hundreds of hectares of land in a place with wonderful weather year round. But then, an automobile company would decide to set up shop in the vicinity. It would dole out thousands of dollars to the local politicians who would de-notify the forest and agricultural land and convert it into an industrial zone. The whole region would be attract a ton of migrants willing to live in squalid conditions in return for a job in the auto company. The pollution would harm the atmosphere and that would be the end of my farms.
I could be a call center executive, restricted to working for 8 hours a day only. Meet targets of taking calls by the minute, resolving queries from stupid foreigners and gradually moving up the value chain. I'd get an accent, perhaps a foreign trip thrown in now and then. But then I'd have to work odd hours, the pay would be a pittance and my health would go for a toss, life expectancy down by 25%, apart from the slur of having wasted by upbringing and education to do a 'call center job'.
I could be a tourist guide at an exotic destination, giving tours to firangs willing to shell out dollars in lieu of ludicrous tales of past generations. I'd work on my terms and refuse loud Indian tourists looking for a cheaper deal. I could take a few months off every year when the tourist flow is low and go explore other places and take tours myself. But then I'd be at the mercy of the exchange rate, stupid firangs (again) and be a part of the general cartel which is just as well adept in procuring hookers and dope for the tourists. Probably some day, the government of India would bow to firang pressure and declare the tourist place a heritage site, UN boards would be nailed across the entire area and the Department of Tourism would bring out printed tour guides and pre-recorded audio tour guides which would make the likes of me obsolete.
I could be in the creative field, a graphics artist, a photographer, a writer, painter, sculptor, an ad executive making a living out of the things he's created and the things he loves. I could work all day, all night, hold exhibitions that receive rave reviews. Over time, I'd receive awards and my work would be resold by investors for millions of dollars and give me a royalty. I could do dope, have models for girlfriends, travel to exquisite place and attend workshops to broaden my horizon. But then, I'd be probably disorganized, a junkie, depressive and prone to commiting suicide. The whole dream could go sour if I'm not good enough and I'd live a life making sketches by the footpath near the Jehangir Art Gallery or some such place. I'd have to work for a client who's paying for my creative work and therefore he gets to decide whether the color is blue or yellow, when all I want is a dull grey. Most of the times he wouldn't pay the final payment and I would be left with no recourse but to forfeit it. The worst of all would be the pressure of having to produce something creative / path breaking / revolutionary on demand and perhaps at short notice, which would eventually lead to a burnout.
to be continued...
I could be a 'floriculturist', growing exquisite flowers which can be exported to the West. I could watch the season change the colors of my produce, count the honey bees swarm around my produce. Perhaps have a side-business of producing honey the organic way. Make millions in a few years after I have set up farms over hundreds of hectares of land in a place with wonderful weather year round. But then, an automobile company would decide to set up shop in the vicinity. It would dole out thousands of dollars to the local politicians who would de-notify the forest and agricultural land and convert it into an industrial zone. The whole region would be attract a ton of migrants willing to live in squalid conditions in return for a job in the auto company. The pollution would harm the atmosphere and that would be the end of my farms.
I could be a call center executive, restricted to working for 8 hours a day only. Meet targets of taking calls by the minute, resolving queries from stupid foreigners and gradually moving up the value chain. I'd get an accent, perhaps a foreign trip thrown in now and then. But then I'd have to work odd hours, the pay would be a pittance and my health would go for a toss, life expectancy down by 25%, apart from the slur of having wasted by upbringing and education to do a 'call center job'.
I could be a tourist guide at an exotic destination, giving tours to firangs willing to shell out dollars in lieu of ludicrous tales of past generations. I'd work on my terms and refuse loud Indian tourists looking for a cheaper deal. I could take a few months off every year when the tourist flow is low and go explore other places and take tours myself. But then I'd be at the mercy of the exchange rate, stupid firangs (again) and be a part of the general cartel which is just as well adept in procuring hookers and dope for the tourists. Probably some day, the government of India would bow to firang pressure and declare the tourist place a heritage site, UN boards would be nailed across the entire area and the Department of Tourism would bring out printed tour guides and pre-recorded audio tour guides which would make the likes of me obsolete.
I could be in the creative field, a graphics artist, a photographer, a writer, painter, sculptor, an ad executive making a living out of the things he's created and the things he loves. I could work all day, all night, hold exhibitions that receive rave reviews. Over time, I'd receive awards and my work would be resold by investors for millions of dollars and give me a royalty. I could do dope, have models for girlfriends, travel to exquisite place and attend workshops to broaden my horizon. But then, I'd be probably disorganized, a junkie, depressive and prone to commiting suicide. The whole dream could go sour if I'm not good enough and I'd live a life making sketches by the footpath near the Jehangir Art Gallery or some such place. I'd have to work for a client who's paying for my creative work and therefore he gets to decide whether the color is blue or yellow, when all I want is a dull grey. Most of the times he wouldn't pay the final payment and I would be left with no recourse but to forfeit it. The worst of all would be the pressure of having to produce something creative / path breaking / revolutionary on demand and perhaps at short notice, which would eventually lead to a burnout.
to be continued...
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