Questions you cannot ask, but you will

I don’t believe that you don’t understand how babies are made. If you don’t, this concept I present about doubt and fear reaches closer to your hearts than a gynecologist. I was about thirteen, or maybe nine when I learnt the concept of sex. Before that, I thought all it took was two humans to sleep over one another. Like a sandwich without the jam or the sauce. Steady and still.

Then, boom! You just made a baby.

Two breads | Pikrepo

You see, I’m lucky from the beginning to not have believed that it was a fairy with the disguise of a milkman who delivered me to my mom. No! It definitely had something to do with these two giants who seem to like it when I widen my lips as they peek-a-boo with seemingly larger dots of white beneath their lips. It must be them. Turns out, it definitely was.

But, it took me nearly six years of science at school and four HIV banners painted by the Government on it’s walls, for me to understand the concept of conception.

“One condom, three benefits” was a regular sight before gas cylinders became the saviours. Sigh.

My parents still haven’t confessed about lying that it was God and only God who had anything to do with my existence. I still don’t know, or even try to know, about why we find answers from the weirdest sources for such basic questions. I mean, we all are here, right? And, someone had to put their penis in some vagina for humans to be. What more could be obvious? And, what more could be frightening that a concept so basic is often left to haunt the unknowing?

Much like most of the hip culture being taboo in the Brahmin household I live in, the concept of uncertainty remains widely untouched or even frowned upon in the world I’m kicked into. Given the fact that sex-talk remains unassumingly scary at my house, but even at yours, I am only bound to believe that even without the norms of a religion, the human race doesn’t understand itself as much as it pretends to know this planet.

We don’t know much. Yet, we like to boast the idea of information so much as to the fact that much of this world would stand still without it.

If you don’t know what to do with your life, you lack passion. If you don’t know what to work with, you are incapable. If you don’t know what to eat for lunch, you have no taste. When you don’t understand what to choose, the egg or the chicken during when they ask that question. Black or white? In or out? Up or down? Tic or toe?

Grey. Middle. Door. Draw.

You cannot choose these answers because you will be yet another normalcy in this chaotic piece of land, so tiny. You, somehow, have to come up with an equation to match someone else’s. You just have to know what to do when asked to do whatever it is that you are supposed to do.

Most of times, it is you yourself pushing further to know something out of human control. Often, out of human control.

Like, why does black look nothing like yellow? Why do we wake up? Why would anyone vote for Donald Trump? And, most importantly, why would Shreyas not say anything about his country’s Prime Minister but speak so boldly about some citrus fruit in America? Sorry, says the world, but you just have to know.

What if we fail in trying to know? Well, you can go fuck yourself and write a blog about it.

But, my friend, when someone tells you about your failure – they just don’t understand what failure means. They only know that someone did the same to that other person in a situation similar to yours. They believe in the notions of failure set by someone who never failed. Either that, or it is the lab instructor who could barely understand why would anyone write poems when the person could easily learn about databases and give up failing at life.

And yes, you will call yourself a failure, when seven others near you do. These seven do not understand that their voices sound like every other billion. And that their statements are burying the dreams, it’s hopeless optimism and even the seen/unseen passion. Be it any kind, people bury all of this back into the deeper cells of life – only to die. Only to suffer yet another single human, yourself, to pour the last shovel.

And, why? Only because you didn’t know. Didn’t know how to cope up with the never ending pressure during the age of information. Why would you not know? Maybe you are as blank as the bird I met in my dream, when it does not understand – why?

Why are these red-dead sheets of thin life swimming without effort? I touch and they react, unlike life they seem dead. It smells like the thing that choked my neighborhood last week. Why doesn’t it move? Maybe it is weak. Let me eat. This sucks. And, why did I die?

Questions you cannot ask, but you will definitely do, are my favourites. You cannot just ask me, why would anyone kill a dream? Why would anyone divide homes into colonies? Why should one wake up? Why won’t the sun turn blue? Why don’t you know anything?

One way to end my words here, is to pretend like I know how to do it. There are endings where I thought I knew. Most of the times, I did. You see, wewjfenmjfekfjrgrkjngjgktgmtjg.