Everybody Says I’m Fine But Let's Look Deeper

As I dawdle over a cup of latte, in a cafe full of wagging tongues, saggy heads and dialectic conversations, I get absorbed in observing different scores of faces.

Two tables down, a suave mom is busy working on her laptop while her kid is fascinated with a new game on his tablet. Mom is busy with daunting excel sheets while toddling between the screens she consciously tries to strike up a conversation with the kid.

The dimply lit corner is occupied by the chewing gum generation. They indulge in manic gawking and make anybody a target of breath-taking jokes. They have successfully kicked the trend up a notch by wearing extraordinarily weird clothes, but they all seem to be comfortable in their skin.

In a secluded corner, sits a woman with a metal face, high cheekbones, dusky complexion, with her kajal dripping down. She perfectly fits into a Fabindia kurta and chappal, silver jewellery with tribal motifs. She calls the waiter and speaks with a gratingly self-satisfied accent “I take my chai black, milking a cow is an infraction of animal rights”. There is anger seething in her voice.

A man with a deadpan face, no smile or frown is fazed with loud music and prefers a quiet corner. He scribbles something on a piece of paper. Towards his left sits a corporate gotcha, starry eyed zombie, wearing the organizational leach and is inordinately proud of his latest iPhone and passionately dabs fingers on the sleek silver body of the new phone.

Twenty tongues sprout here with twenty thousand words on their tips. A slice of a grilled sandwich and a sip of coffee gives me the uncanny ability to read minds. Like a twist in a tale, I peep into the poignant, humorous, stark reality.  Behind the ultra-stylish shades, extended pink lips, smudged kajal, and deadpan face reside a troubled human.

Today's mom learned to adapt a barrage of responsibilities. She's the family member who sets the digital alarm clock every night and the automatic coffee maker every morning. She doesn’t want to fail at the basic task of motherhood. She manages work, kitchen, kid’s homework, parent teacher meeting and corporate events. She strives to strike a balance between the constellation of roles she plays. The word she gets to hear often is “your fault”, the word rarely heard is ‘thank you’.

The bona fide brats subsist under fashionable concerns. On their priority is to patch up and break up. On their priority is also to get validated by the unknown world. They succumb under enormous pressure. The Instagram, Tinder, dating and doping generation is going through a volcano of emotions. The serious bums among the group are spluttered with the air of competition and the pressure of classmates studying abroad. Few of them have a dire need to prove their potential, and exhibit rip-roaring creativity but not sure if they’ll get a chance.

The metal face is an NGO activist. There is anger seething behind her kohl eyes. She’s mad at a sexy celebrity, who gets her kit off. All for the cause is what the actress claims. More than the cause, she gets promoted.  Enormous leaps of courage are required for the activist to hear stories of rape, incest, sexual harassment, molestation and dowry deaths. For her, it’s a bad world and she doesn’t know how to stay calm in a midst of a catastrophe.

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The deadpan face is a Poseur novelist. He took one less travelled by and live life on his terms and not up to the expectations of others. The cost he paid for writing two novels is clear unpopularity. His writing credentials are yet to bring in a shiny nameplate under his rack. He is learning to be friends with book page editors and suitable publishers. To pay off his bills he writes melodramatic sob scripts. His mind ticks more than others but the world has refused to acknowledge his potential.

The starry eyed zombie is ablest of his breed and probably the highest paid. He has no time to squander his hard-earned money on. He fears not being the best. After job and financial anxiety, he is worried about looking old, stinking single. He’s bothered about his receding hairline. The isolated megalomaniac is inspired by fat cats in the office. His life has settled into a tired, world-weary pattern but the emphasis remains on working: faster, harder and more.

The intoxication caused by caffeine pulls me down the dizzy high. The psychedelic cloud clutters; I find the atmosphere cold, dark and insalubrious. I remain befuddled by what I see.

The reality is closer to the opposite.

A quick thought that I may try to rework more thoroughly later bubbles in my mind. Everybody Says I am Fine almost certainly; I’m confused about what to make of it. The more I evaluate, the more obscure my reactions evolve.

Fine, are we?

The views expressed are the author's own.