Rushdie

It’s 2 am and I am lying on my bed, thinking of an excuse that I should give tomorrow for missing the deadline of a project. It’s half an hour's worth of work and I may as well be doing that right now; however, I have decided to think of an excuse. It’s more fun, risky, and gives my life a purpose. Life is boring if you are on the right path always. This quote is not given by Mahatma Gandhi. Moreover, the work I am supposed to do is so uninteresting that thinking of an excuse seems to be a more creative thing to do. Dare I say, a better thing to do. I rarely have these kinds of days. I tend to finish things much before the deadlines. But tonight, I feel different. I don’t know why.

Before coming to bed, I had placed an order for Salman Rushdie’s latest novel Knife. Amazon is saying it will be delivered by Saturday. I am in no hurry, anyway. I have these deadlines, after all. I am not sure if I’ll even be able to touch that book this month. I hope that won’t be the case. A younger version of me wouldn’t have believed that someday I’d order a book and would not touch it for a month. I used to devour them; especially if they were new. Mostly, they were used or borrowed. I still remember getting my mind blown when I read Rushdie for the first time. By that time, I had decided to choose writing as my profession. Not the kind of capitalistic writing I am doing right now, but the kind of writing Rushdie does. Of course, when you are young, you have high ambitions for yourself. And then life happens.

Rushdie wrote his debut novel at 27. When I was 23, I had decided to write a novel by 27. I have four years, I told myself. In four years, I will write a novel and then I’ll be Rushdie. Young and stupid. The four years went by.I found myself at a completely different crossroads of life at that point. The thought of writing a book had taken a backseat, and that backseat was removed and kept in the garage to fit a bunch of new dreams. A few months after my 27th birthday, it so happened that I was reading Rushdie again. Two pages into the book and damn, I still wanna be him. Let’s google Rushdie. Again. When Rushdie was 34, he published Midnight’s Children. Great. So, I have 7 more years before I publish a Booker prize-winning book. Not so young but still stupid.

I am about to be 31 now, and for the last 4 years, I have not read Rushdie. So, when I saw his new book was coming out, all the memories rushed back to me. All those promises I made to myself, and all those dreams and everything. The only difference is, now I am not so stupid to think that I’ll ever be Rushdie in this lifetime. And that realization is making me feel… nothing. I should be sad, but I am not. I don’t believe in destiny, but I don’t believe in “making things happen” either. Things just happen, I feel. When you can’t control everything, why control anything? Let the river flow. A small part of me, still feels that I have 3 years left to fulfill my passion, but I am not making myself any promises anymore. No point in breaking them again and again. Dream modestly, dream consistently, and perhaps one day, all these aspirations will join forces, guiding you towards ultimate fulfillment. Anyway, I am excited to read Knife, whenever I will find time.

An email notification. Somebody has liked an old post written by me. 6 years old. I open the post and start reading it. I have no memory of writing it. But the style is similar, and it’s posted by me on my site, so it is written by me. How tragic! I wish it was written by someone else. It’s bad. I delete the post and keep the phone on my side. Time to think of an excuse. Fast. The deadline to make an excuse for missing the project deadline is lingering over my head. The thing is I don’t like lying because it’s too much of a hassle to remember the lie. Thus, my excuses usually revolve around household tasks I've procrastinated on for weeks—such as calling the plumber to fix the tap. This not only ensures the tap gets fixed but also helps me avoid the impending work. After rigorously thinking for 5 minutes, I decide to procrastinate.

Hey Siri, wake me up at 8 am I have to think of an excuse. And hey Siri, can you also check on me in 10 years? I think I’ll need your help.