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.