Skip to main content

The Bad Boy Syndrome

Everyday as you wake up in the morning, you promise yourself, to be good, to be nice, gracefully loyal and whatever. Before you know it, your rules are crushed by a huge lion walking around to beat your niceness all along.

Hate him, like you've hated sugarless cake or pepperless salads.

I walk down the road, watching him beat up innocent children. The smug smile, the rustic fervor that almost makes you drive him up the wall, the callous nature, and you just stare politely. you don't want to smile. You don't even want to look.

The second time I walked down the entrance, it was as if he knew I'd be there. I couldn't get pass it this time. "How can you?" I barfed at the thought of having to speak to this guy, who was now standing arrogantly after having taken the money from looney teenager.

"Don't pretend you're all that good. Nobody is."

I wanted to leave victorious, but now I was confused. "Yes, I am good" I reassured myself, holding my books closer now.

And that's when I made a mistake. With cars screeching up and down the street, all of them looking for the girl who stole their precious metal, I was now wishing the bad boy were here. The bad boy, who was walking on the other side of the bridge, probably listening to the music only to deafen himself from the city noise.

How did I get here? I wasn't the only one in the dark room filled with the metal. I wasn't the only one who was late to class? I wasn't the only one to hear the conversation between the masked guys. Or, was I?

That explains, the chasing cars, me hiding with some metal that could help thousands of poor people, and the bad guy.

I wished he would turn back. I wished he wouldn't walk away after seeing me in trouble. I wished, I had liked the bad boy.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Block by Block

OVERCOMING THE SO-CALLED 'WRITER'S BLOCK ' Writing is a measure of emotional intelligence. Why would i say that? Maybe because the first-time writing experience din't last long enough. It was moving. It grew with time. & then faded away in the memory of glory. Where does it come from? True to the heart, even rubbish sentences & word salads sound great when they're penned down by deep-seeded need to explore the long lost aspects of the self. Its been 2 years I havnt written anything meaningful. Did something stop me? No. Dint anything motivate me? Countless things did. Then what went wrong? Its the process. Words flew around in circles & giant tornadoes. Sentences kept forming as words settled into their positions. An idea was born. However, it was soul less. Becoming who you are, finding the one thing you really like, and then the disturbing thoughts of having to let it go. Save the heart. Save the soul. Save the words.

Shelf of unread books

'Where to mister?" she yelled at me from a distance, loud enough for everyone to notice.  "Hey, I'm not some kind of a thief, just looking around, grabbing a book to read. That's what they're meant for, right?" "Yea, if you pay for it!" "Of course, here." I paid for the stack of papers bound together in knots of tiny rounds, filled with words that were about to change my life. As I walked home, I was beaming with a sense of refreshment. I hadn't read a book in months, and calling myself an avid reader wasn't true anymore. It was a cold Saturday afternoon, and I was dreaming about a warm coffee in my balcony with my book. However, my footsteps had a different afternoon planned for me. "No, sir. Dalal Street is where I want to go. Could you help me?" I heard an unfamiliar accent from the corner of the street. "Seedha rasta hai" "What?" "It's straight from this turn, approximat...

Post-it

Waking up to the sounds of nature, She did all she could to avoid her start to the day. The routine wasn't hers to follow, so God help those who wanted to help her. With a bag full of munchies and a bouncy walk with the blaring music in her ears, she walked to her regular book store - one that was not ruined by the virtues of modern technologies. In the pile of her books, behind her glasses, she felt like a princess in her own right. Owning the world of words. Conquering all thoughts. Riding her horse of imagination. "This one is tricky",  she heard a voice which almost felt like it came from within. "I can't seem to decide what book I want read. They all either equally good, or well, equally bad." Slowly rising from the top rim of the book, her eyes tried to make sense of what her ears just caught. "Sir, what genre of books do you read?", asked the furious sales woman behind the counter. She was obviously not happy with this confused customer who...