Hello my dear readers. Did I ever tell you the reason why I do not use elevators anymore? Wait, did I even tell you that I do not use the elevator? Okay, I will tell you two things today:
One, I do not use elevators. Two, why I do not use the elevator? This however, involves a story. A story involving a small town, a pirated dvd rental shops, Easter Sunday and plain music and by plain music, I mean plain music. If that music was a soup, it would be clear soup. Get it?
If you had ever lived in a small town, you know that it is an entirely different ecosystem. A self-sustaining life source that offers so many things. Little things that fill and fulfil the soul. But one thing, a small town does not offer is PRIVACY. Of course it does not offer so many things like Metro Rail System, Universal Health Care, Casteless Society, Homeless Shelters etc. But those things are not relevant to my story here. I am only talking about privacy. Especially when I was an adolescent teenager, there was always a risk of getting caught by my parents or someone who knew my parents. Not that I was always doing things that had the risk of ‘getting caught’ but still. It was the early 2000s. Come on!!
During that time, I became a regular customer of a pirated VCD/DVD rental place. Shrek 2, Matrix, Laxmi Narasimha etc. But the most fascinating section of the store was undoubtedly the corner where the owner, Mr. Govardhan kept his collection of Malayalam movies. For those of you who have no idea what I am talking about or those of you who are pretending to not know what I am talking about, these Malayalam movies I am talking about are movies starring feminist icons like Shakeela, Reshma, Devika and others who, if you ask me, were way ahead of their times in the new wave of the feminist movement, waaaay ahead. These movies also had hairy chested, men but you instinctively edit them out of your sight (and mind) while watching. Now that I have explained what you people are already very aware of, let me also point out that these movies usually have the worst, by worst I mean plain, random and generic music. If that music was a bakery item, it would be milk bread. You would want to consume it only if it is toasted and accompanied by peanut butter or jam. Got it? No? Okay so if that music is the name AMIT, it would not be worthwhile unless accompanied by the second name SHAH. Otherwise, it is just a generic North Indian name. I think you are getting it now.
But what does all this have to deal with me not using elevators, you might be thinking my dear readers. I will tell you. One day I decided to watch one of those feminist movies. But since it was a small town, the rules do not allow me to simply go and buy/rent such movies. What if Mr. Govardhan was my friend’s dad? Or worse, what if he was my dad’s friend? So after pretending to browse the collection for sometime, I took a VCD of one of those movies and put it inside my pants without anyone looking. But since I was a decent Christian boy who knew stealing was a sin, I took out Rs. 50 from my pocket and gave it to Mr. Govardhan and told him that I found it amongst the VCDs. He was so impressed by my sincerity, at that moment I actually hoped that he should be my friend’s dad. Or better, he should be my dad’s friend. Anyway, just to avoid any kind of suspicion I also rented the movie ‘Deep Blue Sea’ for exploring Jessica Alba the… deep blue sea. What can I say? I was a curious teenager.
For the next few days, and nights, I got a peek into the lives of those inspirational feminist women. Truly inspirational. However, unbeknownst to me, that music, that plain music got incepted into my mind. If that music was a viral infection, it would be common cold.
After few months while visiting my uncle’s place for Easter in a city nearby, I got into an elevator for the first time. They lived on the 8th floor of an apartment building. As soon as the elevator door closed, the music started. It was the same music. The music that was incepted in my mind during the most formative years of my life. That plain music. If that music was a beverage, it would be tap water, at room temperature. Some circuits in my brain got activated by that music leading to unforeseen outcomes. The human body is a strange thing indeed and let’s just say that by the time I reached the 8th floor, the elevator was not the only thing that had risen. No, I am talking about Jesus Christ, the lord and saviour.
Several years had passed after that Easter Sunday. I moved on from that small town to smaller cities, to a state capital and then to the national capital. Everywhere I went, in every city, it was always that stupid music inside the elevators and every time, I had the same problem. It was especially awkward and embarrassing when there were people in the same elevator. It was not just embarrassing but was becoming highly risky, considering the #MeToo incidents. What would happen, if I was arrested for some kind of harassment? There was no way I could explain what was going on with me in a court of law. I could ask the judge to play that music and see for himself/herself but that would be humiliating to say the least. So I began to wonder if I should give up on using elevators once and for all. Then on one fateful day, I took that decision.
Like I said earlier, I moved to a national capital. My new office was in an iconic/colonial monument. The building has a history of close to 90 years having seen the downfall of an empire and the birth of the largest democracy in the world. On my first day in the office, due to some renovations, I had to take the elevator to reach my room. Otherwise, I had to walk across to the other end of the corridor to take the stairs. So, the elevator I had to take, and my dear readers, what a blunder it was. When the doors of the elevators closed, it was that damn music again, the exact same music – the clear soup, the Amit, the common cold and the tap water. Just as I was feeling sort of relieved that I was alone in the elevator, the doors opened and in walked my boss, who happens to be a Malayali woman. Karma is a Hound of Baskerville. That moment, I regretted my decision to watch that feminist movie and apologised to Mr. Govardhan telepathically.
It was all because of that damn music, the stupid plain music. If that music was a dosa, it would be, well, it would be plain dosa, without chutney or sambar.
The Cannibal 