A Little Wednesday Existentialism

A policeman’s daughter, my designation plate at the moment being RD green gets my father smiling. He’d always wanted me to be in Civils.

I travel in a beat-up old Gypsy with the license plate MZ 01 F 6377 which is younger than my dad’s Maruti 800 which is MZ 01 E, but is in much worse shape than the latter. Public vehicles. There’s a lot to be said about this. But probably for another day. 

In any case, I see people reading my designation plate sometimes. Some of them look up and read my face. I don’t know if they can see my face, and I don't know what they think. What I know is how different we all are. Sometimes I see recognition in their eyes but I don’t know what to make of it. What is a BDO? When I was little, I certainly didn’t know who a BDO was, much less what a BDO did. I am a policeman’s daughter. All I knew was what policemen did. Different people, different lives, I guess.

If we make it work, we make it work. And we should be thankful for it. A lot of people don’t. A lot of times, we don’t. People are fighting battles we know nothing about. I think the only real thing we can take away from any situation is to be kind. Very difficult to do, of course. I know for a fact that sometimes I make up my mind to make things as difficult as I possibly can for some people. And I have, too. Because when you meet with rude disrespect, all the little metaphorical warrior cells get activated in your system and they strike hard. I am happy that this impulse is lessening with age. But some days… ya.

Some days it is hard to accept where I am in life. Is this what was always going to happen? Could things have gone a different way? 

Most days, it is hard to guess what goes on in people’s lives. Sometimes I meet people I’d met once in some duty or event and spent time with. I smile or wave if they seem to recognise me too. It feels nice. Like an acknowledgment that I’m alive in someone else’s lives. Because some dark existential days, it feels like I am the centre of the universe and people solely exist because I do.

Of course, this narcissism is fueled up by the prevalence of social media these days. We all have our platforms that boost up our perceived importance. We feel important. We feel seen and observed. It is like an IV feed right into our vanity. And unfortunately, our self-worth. 

It is becoming so hard to differentiate between what is real and what is not, AI not making anything easier at all. It is harder and harder to tell who is fake and who is not. We collect receipts like memories will fail us if we don’t; pics or it didn’t happen!

And to think, if I were in Arthur Dent’s world, I could hitchhike my way to Betelgeuse! For now, I’ll wait for December to watch for it in the night sky.

Stupid Heroes.

Pa Zokhuma drove with a zozial. The Jeep was an old blue piece of junk and not designed for comfort even in its heyday. An 8-seater, with the back seats arranged perpendicular to the front seats but parallel to each other, it was perfect for transporting policemen on duty, or schoolkids. Maximum seating capacity for a vehicle of its size.

There were about eight of us kids of police officers of the 2nd Bn. MAP complex in Luangmual, Lunglei who attended Sacred Heart School at Venglai. A long ride, even for now, with better cars and better roads. It’s alright though because I’m pretty sure when we’re old, we’ll tell kids we “journeyed” to school every day, as an illustration of our perseverance and dedication to education and whatnot.

The zo zial, though. Pa Zokhuma was the designated driver for transporting school kids. He was always smoking. And he smoked the rolled up local tobacco. The zo zial would rest nonchalantly between his fingers, pad of palms lazily resting on the steering wheel. He would also chew paan that stained his mouth and every once in a while, he would spit out red gunk on the road. He didn’t even need to roll down a window or open the door. Police Jeeps don’t need safety doors. 

Jeeps are amazingly unsafe vehicles! I never realized. In all these subsequent years of romanticizing the vehicle, it has never occurred to me that it was a really uncomfortable machine! I mean we considered the Gypsy as the “comfortable ride”. Even the Ambassador with its Sarkari lace curtains and deep seats that offer motion sickness as an accompaniment to the ride was considered nicer than the Jeep. It made so much noise. The acceleration was slow. The ride was rough and bumpy. The negotiation with curves felt unstable. Props to looks though. I still want to own one. 

We romanticize everything so easily once they turn to memories. Trevor Noah said we should do this in the reverse when it comes to people – praise them when they’re alive and talk trash after they die. He may have a point. What’s the point rhapsodizing over a dead man? Unless he has an active ghost you do not want to offend. Maybe that’s the reason. Who knows?

I romanticize the Jeep and the Gypsy. And even Google says you have to be an old man car lover to love either one. I don’t even enjoy driving either. Driving a Gypsy 30 kilometres from Aibawk to Leitan, especially with a detour to Armed Veng via Chite Rd., is no joke. A Maruti 800 admittedly is tougher on the arms but at least it’s a small tiny car and doesn’t make half the noise my Gypsy makes. And they’re roughly the same age.

My sister Feli romanticizes smoking on an open road, wrist dangling on the steering wheel with a cigarette in her hand. She had once rolled up classroom notes, burned one end and drove her plastic red car around the front yard, fire blazing in her hand, grin as wide as a Cheshire Cat's. Until one of the adults stopped her in great alarm. They never should have given her a lighter to begin with. That was on them. She hero-worshipped drivers. She started cars for them. She helped wash the vehicles. She only wanted to do what Pa Zokhuma did.

Neither one of us chews paan but I do overeat khajoor supari occasionally. And both of us enjoy resting our left hands on the gear stick. A lot of our passengers hate this seemingly relaxed posture. They think it's pretentious.

Things you admire as kids have a way of staying with you. Remember the days we chewed that damn red candy that stains everything from your teeth to your tongue to feckin’ cement?! And how wonderfully adult we felt. How stupid we were, wishing we were adults.

Today I just wish I were a cat.