The song remains the same

Things haven't changed much in my life between the time when I was 4 and now at 24.

The day would begin with an elaborate toilet routine. That has remained the same, though it is predominantly unsupervised now.

The first activity that was looked forward to was...food. Back then it was served to me, now I spend some time preparing the breakfast, and invest a long time in relishing it.

The day would be uneventful, enjoyed nevertheless. I would back then sleep at the slightest opportunity. Now in between work, I browse Failblog, Youtube and some unproductive websites whenever I get a chance. The highlight is of course our lunch outing.

The evening still remains playtime. As I am told, I would run down to the playground to mingle with more elder people (age 7-10). There would be multiple groups, playing games with their own bats/balls. Energized, I would choose to run with a randomly selected kid, pretending to be participating in a race/chase. I would sporadically change the objective of the game and thoroughly enjoy myself. The other kids would be clueless about my existence. My parents would watch from the balcony, witnessing this unusual behaviour. Now in the evening I indulge myself in infinitely more monotonous games - running on a looped strip christened Treadmill by the Americans, or lifting weights which are always heavier than my expectations. Around me there are veterans profusely sweating and ignoring me, barring some unexpected eye-contact-greetings. When ennui sets in, I switch to other curious looking machines, fiddling with the levers before finally giving up. I am sure some fitness instructor is watching from the mezzanine level, thinking "Moron..."

Hungry and tired, I would return home and look forward to ...food. Dinner would be a quick exercise, where television played a passive role. I would stare wide-eyed at the programme, not really understanding the subject or the story. "Is the good man hitting the bad man, or is the bad man hitting the good man?" was one of my crucial doubts. Tonight, as I consumed my Dal-Roti, Star World was broadcasting a reality show Greatest American Dog. Today's star event as I could perceive was a musical chairs competition for the mutts, eliminating Man-Mutt teams in painful singular stages capturing reactions of both after reach round. As the music stopped in each round, the owners pleaded with their dogs to squat on the low stools aligned for them, as the show's excellent camera work focused on the dog's crotch for the ablaze viewers to assess whether the balls actually made contact. Watching the weeping, agitated owners, I was again not sure who was the master and the slave. The doubts remain uncleared.

Exhausted from the exertion, I would quickly fall sleep, this preceded occasionally by some weird meandering bedtime story created by my father. Even when he repeated stories I knew by heart, about Bittoo, the mother Kangaoroos and all animals eating cake and singing Saare Jahaan Se Accha, it would thrill me. Now at night I watch my guru Jerry Seinfeld undergo bizarre experiences in the snowballing masterpieces of his comedy series, and I enjoy the jokes I've heard a hundred times (literally!)

I would fall asleep feeling happy about a great game in the evening or something equally insignificant. Twenty years later, in an identical emotional state, I'll go to bed delighted by my little achievement of the day - this facetious blog post!