An Accidental Extra in Everyone Else’s Biopic

 

Some people change the world.

Me?

I’ll just hold the beer.

There comes a time in every man’s life,
Usually between his third unsuccessful diet
And his fourth philosophical phase,
When he realises that he isn’t the protagonist of even his own story.
Worse still,
He’s not even the wisecracking sidekick.
He’s the guy who appears in the background,
Once,
In dim light,
Possibly holding a stale samosa.

Welcome to my inner monologue.
Please wipe your feet before entering.

All my life, I’ve harboured this very noble, extremely impractical fantasy;
To be the hero in someone else's story.

Not the real-life hero, mind you,
Not the tax-paying,
Not the tyre-changing,
Not the INR-into-USD-converting kind.

No, no... I mean the capital-H Hero.
The rescue-you-from-your-wounds,
Say-profound-things-at-night,
Arrive-just-in-time-and-smell-nice-while-doing-it kind.

A sort of Knight in Shining Mediocrity.

Except here’s the catch...

My armour is mostly dented.
My horse is stuck in traffic.
And my sword is currently being used to open Amazon packages.

You see, I have a knack,
A very particular set of skills.

I romanticize my mediocrity.
Not by accident, but by full creative choice.

Like it’s some kind of Indie film in which failure is a character arc and not just… well, failure.

I brood attractively,
Absently,
Wearing my T-shirt inside out,
Sipping tea at the window while the world spins on without me.

In my head, it’s moody cinema.
In reality, I’m just trying to remember if I locked the car.

And I’d check, but that would ruin the scene.

There are people around me, friends, peers, wonderful broken geniuses...
Who have actual problems.

They go through life’s grinder and still emerge,
With opinions, playlists, and working knees.

Meanwhile, I’m on the side-lines,
Watching,
Occasionally saying helpful things like,
“That sucks, bro,” and offering them biscuits I didn't bake.

They fight battles I wouldn’t know how to begin.
I hover nearby, the emotional equivalent of turning up with a Swiss knife to a building collapse.
Out of my depth, but deeply present. Like a metaphor no one asked for.

And I do what I do best,
Nod solemnly,
Offer tea,
Stand around looking available,
Like a half-used loyalty card from a defunct bookstore.
And mentally draft blog posts that sound wiser than I ever actually am.

And what use is a would-be hero who can’t even save himself from his to-do list, anyway?

So yes, I admit it,
I fantasize about being someone’s pivotal plot twist
While I can barely qualify as the background noise.

But here’s the weird twist,
I'm not even sad about it.
There’s something oddly liberating about being cosmically unimportant.
Like, sure, the universe doesn’t care whether I rise,
Fall,
Or just slowly marinate in existential uncertainty...

But that means I can write this blog,
Drink average tea,
And pretend that I’m a tragicomic character
From a novel no one’s writing.

After all, not every story needs a hero.
Some stories just need someone who shows up,
Keeps the lights on,
And reminds the hero where they left their keys.

And maybe
Just maybe
That’s enough.

ps:-

If you’re a fellow footnote in fate’s grand novel,
Give me a nod.
We can form a club.
The Motto:
“Not All Who Wander Are Lost.
Some Are Just Bad With Directions.”

Snacks will be provided, store-bought.
But, BYOB.

Creature of Comfort

Not lazy, mind you.
Not procrastinator.
Not sloth.
Not risk-averse.

No, no. We don’t do such basic branding here, not when we have Athmika on board.

So what I got was the velvet-gloved version: Creature of Comfort.

Elegant.
Original.
The kind of phrase you’d embroider on a bathrobe and wear while pretending not to hear the doorbell.

“You,” Athmika said, “are a creature of comfort.”
The phrase came in a casual comment, light and effortless, like a pillow tossed onto a couch.

And thus, I was seen.

Summed up.
Categorized.

Filed away in a mental cabinet under: homo couchicus.

The phrase stuck, like bubblegum to a shoe.
And I’ve been chewing on its flavour ever since.

Because yes.
Yes, I am that.

Now, don’t mistake this for someone who loves routine.
I hate it.
No, I don’t like routine, I detest it.
I long for novelty.
For excitement.
For reckless reinvention.
But apparently, not enough to stand up.
For I loathe upheaval more.
There’s an inertia to comfort.
A seductive gravity to the familiar.
Change, for me, must come with lightning and background score.
Otherwise, I shall not be moved.

You see, I’ve settled.
Into a couch, into a rhythm, into a lifestyle so frictionless that even my chaos now comes pre-cushioned. The inertia is so plush, I fear only a cosmic earthquake, complete with Dolby surround and dramatic lighting, could dislodge me. Yeah, the universe will have to conspire.

And yet… I do rebel.
In my own tiny, rather stupid ways.

For instance, I buy small pack sizes, even when bulk options scream “VALUE PACK” in capital letters and insult my financial literacy, just so I get to try new ones. I go for the tiny shampoo, the dainty aftershave, the one-bar soap box.
Because change matters... even in lather.
A different scent, a new bottle shape…
Variety in micro-doses.
Commitment only until the bottle runs dry.
It gives the illusion of reinvention without requiring any actual effort.

But the bigger leaps? Not so much.

Let me tell you about the house.
No, not the current one, I mean the house. The magnum opus.
I had once bought one. A real one.
A carefully chosen, under-construction dream that I bent to my will with clever civil modifications and diplomatic dealings with contractors. 
Within a shoestring budget, of course.
But with my personal stamp on it.
Plug points aligned with my soul, a light switch moved 7.5 cm to the left because aesthetic instincts. Doorways opening into better lighting and bigger metaphors. 

It came out perfect.
My little symphony of cement and choices.

But then came the dread.
Once built, I panicked.
A house is commitment in concrete.
A mortgage with walls.
A place where dreams go to hibernate.
You can't rearrange your entire life layout just because you’re bored on a Tuesday.

At the hint of permanence, variety gasped.
And I yearned for variety.
I needed my escape routes.

So, I sold it.
I told myself the location was noisy, dusty, unromantic.
All true, technically.
But also very convenient truths.

Since then, I’ve been the wandering monk of real estate.
Renting overpriced flats in the CBD, each one uglier and more architecturally confused than the last.
Landlord greed is the only design principle at work in these sites.
And I floated from one rental to another, like a high-functioning hermit.
A bohemian on a budget.

But I told myself I had freedom.
The freedom to pack-n-move.
The freedom to shift at will.
To be never trapped.
To leave!
To not settle!
Ah, that freedom!

Except, of course, I’ve now stayed in the same house for eight years.
Because the rent’s decent.
The view is tolerable.
And I’ve already repaired those taps.

This, my friend, is what we call dynamic stagnation.

I live frugal. I live light.
No showpieces.
No grand sofas.
Just cane furniture, a basic dining table, and two beds that double as storage.

Possession, you see, is overrated.
I admire design, but refuse to own it.
Let grand hotels have their chandeliers.
Let furniture stores house the art.
I shall be the monk who scrolls the catalogue.
The ascetic of aesthetics.
I’ve engineered a life that’s always ready to move.

I’ve made peace with living out of boxes.
Just not cardboard ones, existential ones.

Except of course, I never actually leave.
I’ve mastered a lifestyle optimized for escape, but I seldom escape.
I keep things boxed for ease of movement.
Minimal furniture. Maximum detachment.
But I haven’t moved in years.
Because this wreck suits me.

Because the idea of change excites me more than change itself.

I don’t invite people home.
I don’t throw parties at home.
That would require curating a space.

My home remains a no-visitor zone.

Not out of shame, or maybe.
Not because I’m hiding secrets.
But because I’m hiding the absence of effort.
I outsource my celebrations, restaurants, pubs, patios with fairy lights.
Because… let’s face it, restaurants exist.
And I live in the CBD.
One never runs out of venues.
Or excuses.

And so, I am,
As you said...
The archetype.
The textbook specimen.
A certified, laminated, proudly uncategorized Creature of Comfort.

Not stuck. Just settled.
Not directionless. Just reclining.
Not afraid of change. Just... deeply, profoundly, loyally attached to the idea of maybe.

So thank you, Athmika.
For the phrase that named the beast.
And thank you, universe, for not trying too hard.
Because if change is coming, it better arrive with fireworks and snacks.

Until then, I remain
On this couch.
Packed. Unmoved. Unbothered.
And supremely, stupidly comfortable.

Not stuck. Just… reclined.
Not waiting. Just paused.
Not afraid. Just generously cushioned.
Elegantly.
Indefinitely.
Lazily, with full lumbar support.

Change may still come.
But it better bring snacks.
And a playlist.

For proudly,
Unashamedly,
I call myself now,

The Creature of Comfort.

To the One Who Wished First

Some people bring warmth so effortlessly, you forget the world can be otherwise.

Today, Shilpa was that person.

She reached out with a birthday wish, fond, cheerful, no frills—and it simply made my day.

And me?
I thanked her. Genuinely. Politely.
Nothing more.

I had no idea I was missing the plot.

Then later, Instagram delivered the plot twist... like a nosy aunt, but with better filters.

It was her birthday too!

I didn’t see it coming.
Not out of neglect... just one of those slips that come with not knowing better.

So here I am.
Mildly embarrassed, entirely well-meaning, and playing catch-up.

Happy Birthday, Shilpa.
May your days be full of the same lightness you carry.
May your smile stay undefeated.
And your kindness keep sneaking up on unsuspecting people like me.

Thank you for wishing first.
Thanks for the warmth.
And for reminding me that grace often goes ahead of us... quietly, without keeping score.

Next time, I’ll try to beat you to it.

Cheers!

Global Warming Is Man-Made. One Man!

Somewhere out there right now, a fighter jet is slicing through the sky. A sleek marvel of human engineering — precision-tested, reinforced, optimized. Somewhere deep inside its classified bowels, you’ll find the handiwork of my friend Saji — a quiet, peace-loving man whose soul clearly belongs in a hammock with a pen, not inside a missile casing.

This… is the problem.

You see, the man was never meant to be tampering with afterburners and thrust coefficients. Saji was designed — by the universe, mind you — to sit under a tree, sip filter coffee, and casually write the kind of lines that make you drop your phone and re-evaluate your life. But instead? He’s busy figuring out how to make flying death machines more surgically lethal.

Why, Saji, why? You are in an unnatural place. You’re a painter painting warning signs on a BrahMos missile. It’s like asking Gulzar to draft a DRDO compliance checklist. I mean, sure — it’ll rhyme, but why?

They talk of climate change. They warn of ecological collapse. They call it a man-made crisis — but do they really understand what that means? Because this one is extremely man-made. You take a man of words and plant him in a warmonger’s workplace — and the balance of cosmic harmony tilts, dangerously. Oceans rise, forests burn, and somewhere… a missile sighs in verse.

Look at the man! Saji should be scribbling profound nonsense in a notebook and winning literary awards he might simply refuse to attend. But no — we’ve somehow managed to place him at the crossroads of scary acronyms and reinforced bunkers. And while the country may be safer (thank you, da), the soul of humankind has been left defenseless. Unarmed in the war for beauty.

All I ask — all we ask, really — is that Saji stop guarding his words like they’re HAL’s last surviving printout of the Tejas engine manual, laminated and hidden behind three retired colonels and a coconut-breaking ritual. Let a poem slip through. A short story, even. Scribble on the back of that printout if you must. Just give us something before another rocket is launched in place of the next great bestseller.

Because one day, when the literary world finally catches a glimpse of what we’ve lost to aero engines and defence protocols, there will be a great collective scream into the void: “Wait… he could’ve been writing this all along?!”

And on that day, I will simply sip my tea, raise one smug eyebrow, and whisper: “I tried to warn you.”

Single Malts & Double Standards

Two rivals. One bar. A war of ambition and conscience — served neat, no chaser.

A Playlet in Two Voices

---

Characters:
Sameer Varoor (S.V.) – Former diplomat turned parliamentarian, sharp-witted and eloquent, with a taste for high ideals and single malts.
Dev Jankar (D.J.) – Career bureaucrat turned foreign minister, calculated, pragmatic, and fond of victories — whether symbolic or strategic.

---

Scene:
A dim, smoke-tinged bar tucked away in Lutyens' Delhi. Dark mahogany furniture bears the scars of many clandestine talks. Persian rugs muffling footsteps, worn yet regal. The air is thick with the scent of aged oak, leather-bound books, and an unspoken history of deals made and principles compromised. Rain taps steadily against tall windows, while distant thunder rumbles like a restless conscience. A gramophone plays low, melancholic jazz — the soundtrack to whispered ambitions and muted regrets.

---

[Curtain rises]

Sameer is seated at a corner table, nursing a drink, posture composed but eyes distant. He does not look up as footsteps approach.

Enter D.J. from stage right, grinning as he approaches the table.

S.V. (without looking up):
You’re late, Dev. Or should I say—fresh from another flag-hoisting photo-op?

D.J. (grinning, zeroing in, sliding into his seat):
Still fluent in snark, I see. No wonder you’re better on panels.

S.V. (swirling his drink):
You mean editing out nuance and footnoting the Constitution?

D.J. (raising an eyebrow):
Call it what you like. I call it effective diplomacy — less dithering, more delivering.

S.V. (calmly):
Delivering what, exactly? Placation packaged as patriotism?

D.J. (leaning in):
Progress. Something your camp romanticizes but never achieves.

S.V. (sharply):
You’re the suave apologist for a regime that finds it easier to incinerate ink than to engage with inconvenient ideas.

D.J. (raising his glass):
And yet… I sit at every table that matters. Capitals pause when I speak. You, meanwhile, are busy chasing applause with metaphors no one remembers.

S.V. (chuckles):
No one remembers? Funny. They seem to quote me more often than they spell your name right.

D.J. (sips):
I don’t mind the misspellings. I traded clarity for consequence. It pays better. Idealism’s for memoirs. Not ministries.

S.V. (leaning forward, voice measured but sharp):
And what did that cost you, Dev? A clean record? A clear mirror? Or the rare grace of pause — to think before you endorse, to hesitate before you obey?

D.J. (tilts his glass, unfazed):
It cost me illusions. And bought me influence.

S.V. (dryly):
Influence... the kind that collects headlines but never holds up to history?

D.J. (sharp):
History is written by those who act. Not those who annotate.

S.V. (with a soft laugh):
Annotations are the only things that survive censorship. You torch libraries, Dev. We bind memory.

D.J. (coolly):
You call it memory. I call it clutter. This isn’t a symposium. It’s a scoreboard.

S.V. (smiling now, voice rich and deliberate):
Ah, the anthem of expediency — always rehearsed, never remembered.

D.J. (pointed):
And your anthem? Baroque, bloated, and out of breath.

S.V. (mocking gently):
Better baroque than bankrupt, Dev. Ornament carries purpose. Emptiness simply performs.

D.J.:
You went full vocabulary on us; I went full playbook — and look who’s winning.

S.V. (with a soft scoff):
Winning? In what arena, Dev? Vanity metrics? Ceremony?

D.J. (coolly):
Then enjoy your chapter of noble obscurity. I’ll be busy scripting outcomes.

S.V. (dry smile):
Outcomes don’t outlast scrutiny.

D.J. (raising an eyebrow):
Scrutiny doesn’t win power.

S.V. (smirking):
Nor does leasing out one's soul to power—delivered in prose, disguised as policy, and applauded by those who mistake pageantry for principle.

D.J. (leaning back):
Legacy, Sameer... Legacy’s a louder signature.

S.V. (rising, heading to the exit, without turning):
Signatures fade, Dev. But footnotes? They sting.

D.J. (finishing his drink, unfazed):
And yet here I am — still writing the index.

Lights dim to near darkness. Thunder crashes loudly, shaking the room. A distant flash of lightning silhouettes Dev Jankar as he slowly rises, drains his glass, and exits with deliberate calm. The rain intensifies against the windowpane, leaving Sameer alone in fading shadows.

[Curtain falls]

---

Penned in the shadow skirmish between a tactician and a tongue. Because I mistrust one man’s allegiance, and mourn the other’s restraint.