Me, Myself, and the Hypocrite

I looked around, and I saw Irony.

And then I looked within, and I saw Hypocrisy.

Everyday, I get on my bike and drive to office. Along the way, I zip past cars, cutting through bike-sized gaps that exist for mere micro-seconds. I am a good driver. I can get away with such stuff. But when someone cuts across my front wheel, I jam on the brakes and swear at him. After all he’s driving rashly, whereas I’m just fast. Fast, and in control. Elementary physics tells me that the faster something moves, the longer it takes to stop. But, I’m in control. Or so I think, until that never-ending second where I realize that I’m going to crash.

Everyday, as I stop at the traffic signal, a small boy, dirty and with matted hair, does his rounds through the sea of vehicles waiting for the green light. He knocks on the tinted windows of a shiny car. Stretching his hand out to total strangers. To him, they are the means of his existence. He comes to my bike. Beggar kid. Dirty. Unkempt. I look away. He catches hold of my hand, and instinctively I recoil and glare at him. “Go away, beggar!” I do not think about why he is begging on the streets and I’m riding my bike. I do not think about how it could’ve been the other way around. I do not think about the lucky dip of birth, which ultimately made a professional of me, and a beggar of him. I do not think about how I had a choice, where he had none. I do not think about how I take these details for granted.

Everyday I gripe about my job. I complain about how it does not allow me to be what I really am. What I do not complain about is the fat paycheck that I get at the end of each month. I do not think about the millions out there who would pledge their lives, even for a job that pays peanuts. Not till I lose my job.

Everyday, I see young couples dancing their way around each other. Attraction. Emotion. From an objective point of view, it is so easy to chuckle silently at the would-be Romeos and Juliets. “Does she or does she not?” A young man’s entire life hinges around the answer to that particular question. While I, aloof of this tangled web of emotion, can grin to myself, and think “Why do they make it so complicated?” Because, I forget that once, I too was in love. That once, I too was wrapped up in its heady rush, unable to look beyond the girl I loved. Because I forget that, this eternal mating dance is the most beautiful of all waltzes we will ever see.

Everyday, I watch our sporting heroes, matching their brain and brawn against each other. I cheer myself hoarse as Sehwag whacks another one out of sight, as Sania cranks out yet another blazing forehand. I am crestfallen when Sachin edges to the wicket keeper. When Arsenal falter in their attack. Sadness gives way to righteous anger. “He shouldn’t have tried to play that shot!” “Pass the ball, Ball-hog!” I’m swearing at images on the screen. Voicing my opinions in public. Deriding the very men and women I had vociferously supported till a moment ago. Well, they’re paid millions, so they should perform, it’s their job. Right? I’ve watched the game for so long, I know all the rules, I know all the moves. I’m an expert. I do not know about how fast I have to react to get that thin piece of wood in my hand to meet a small, red, leather sphere, flung at a 100 miles an hour from 22 yards away, mid-flight, and get it to go where I want. But I know that Sachin shouldn’t have tried that shot. I have never looked around a penalty box, trying to find my striker in the crowd, as a hulking defender bears down on me. But I know that Fabregas should’ve passed through that microscopic gap, so evident on TV. I know everything. Until I’m actually on the field.

Everyday, I blame the system. I blame the system for letting politicians make money for themselves while letting the country go to waste. I blame the system when I’m caught in rush hour. I blame the system when I’m made to wait three hours for a certificate that could’ve been got in five minutes. I blame the system when the garbage bin in my locality overflows. I blame the system when women are teased in public. I do not think about who makes this “system” that I blame. I do not think about how I voted for the same politician who swindled millions. I do not think about how, yesterday, I flung a garbage bag into the already overflowing bin. I do not think about how I slip my helmet on only when I see a cop. I do not think about how I turn the other way when I see a band of louts teasing a young girl who dressed the way she wanted to. I blame the system for everything that I have contributed to. I blame the system for everything I do not stand up to.

Everyday I despair over the state of the environment. I speak at length about global warming, disappearing forests, toxic waste, plastic bags. I have learnt the jargon to make my stand in such discussions. “Biodegradable” “Fossil fuels” “Polar ice caps” Some catchy phrases too. “Ban plastic” “Reduce power usage” “Be the difference” But I do not think about standardizing my bikes emission every few months. I do not think about the plastic bags I use to get my dinner parceled every night. I do not think about how I do not shut down my PC when I leave the office because I do not want to close a chat window. I do not think about recycling after I’m done talking about it. Or bio-fuel. Or rain water harvesting. Or solar energy. I do not think about the words I say, after I have said them.

I do not think about these things because when I do, I know who is responsible for the state of the planet. I do not think about these things because when I do, I realize that, ultimately, it all winds down to the individual. It all winds down to me.

Not the corrupt politicians.

Not the ozone hole.

Not the omniscient “system”.

I looked within myself, and I saw the Hypocrite.