Gangsta!

How could anyone possibly not be fascinated by the life of a gangster? I have no accounts of first-hand experiences and what-not, but the films have driven me to a love affair with this idea. The idea of what it would be like to be a gangster. To help you fully comprehend my obsession I will narrate two instances from my life. Few years back my best friend from school visited me. I had taken a 10-day break from my work to visit my parents, and he joined me for 3 days. The first night he stayed over we snuck out of the house around 11-ish (pm), after my parents had fallen asleep, and bought some beer, a pack of smokes, and my resourceful friend had some weed on him. I don’t take well to weed, at all. And it’s actually surprising considering the amount of alcohol intoxication I can handle. May be the onset of weed intoxication is too sudden for me, or may be I never fully grasped the subtle ways of handling weed intoxication. Anyways we snuck up to the terrace and after we had the beer started to smoke the joint. The beer and the weed, combined with my minimal tolerance to weed sent me into a blissful daze. I was "browned out" for about 2 hours, as my friend recalled the next morning. And during this entire time a particular movie scene constantly played in my head, like repeatedly running a tape start to end until it croaks and dies. A scene from the Guy Ritchie movie: Rock n’ Rolla, where the gangster/rockstar is hammered on booze and weed and drugs of all sorts, standing in front of the mirror looking at himself play the guitar with his shirt off. A quick clarification here is very essential: the “shirt off” part is not what I was excited about, it was his blissful state. Goddamn gangsters, they are so damn cool about everything! So there I was, standing on my folks’ terrace mimicking that dude's guitar-playing theatrics, in a state of blissful trance encompassing the vibe of a drugged out gangster.

The next day we got hammered again, kicking off with some weed in the morning and continuing the buzz with beer in the afternoon that went on until the onset of night. It was a disaster that we returned to my folks’ place that night, but that’s another story. Anyways I was blacked out this time, for good! And I sat in front of my bedroom mirror replaying Travolta’s scene from Pulp Fiction, when he is en route to pick up Mia Wallace for dinner. He is stoned as fuck and driving his car while listening to music on his radio, doing a snail-paced head-bang that culminated into a blissful, rhythmic demeanor. Just enjoying that moment. 

Brando’s scenes from The Godfather, the holy mother of all gangster movies, came next. It was undoubtedly a terrible impression that I was doing, but they were all in my head, and I was enacting them without any inhibitions. And of course the previous night’s Rock n’ Rolla scene again, this time with my shirt off, complete with the low-waist jeans held up by a funky belt, goggles, and a fucking stoned demeanor, playing the “guitar”. It is one thing to be stoned, a totally different experience being gangsta stoned!

After this my fascination with these films and their larger than life gangsta personas was obvious. The money, the fame, the women, the glamor, the outfits, and the cars. They could buy anything they wanted, fuck any woman they pleased, drive any car they desired, and smash anyone’s skull they hated. The shake-downs, the fear they instilled in people, and the respect they demanded. If I was to redo this whole shindig, a gangster would be somewhere on the top of my list. I would probably die of liver failure owing to the constant booze, cancer/heart attack owing to the chain smoking, or simply shot dead to be found later in a ditch somewhere in an abandoned alley. But as long as you've enjoyed every fucking minute of your life doing just as you pleased, who gives a shit? Isn't that the whole point, to live happily, every waking second?You cant really choose how you die anyhow. then why worry about it? If I was a gangster and was at gun point, I would close my eyes, think of the great fucking life I led up to that point, and smile. Of course I would be shot after, but once I’m dead why the fuck would I care if I was in a ditch or covered in flowers in a coffin? I’m already dead, remember? Oh, and there's that smug satisfaction that your brothers will avenge you.

Addicted to U, Baby!

I close my eyes and think of you. It takes me just a fraction of a second to picture you smiling. It’s a close-up view I have in my head always. You aren’t just smiling actually. You are laughing, gloriously so! You have your glasses on. And your hair is all soaked up and loose, strands falling over your face. You push them aside. And then suddenly you are laughing hard, throwing your head back, with your eyes closed and hand over your open mouth. I remember vaguely why you were laughing.You had managed a wise-crack at me and I was dumb-founded. Then you had launched into that beautiful laughter that still haunts me. But the reason isn’t important. My head knew that too and so it skillfully managed to almost erase everything else, to concentrate on that blissful laughter alone. You had continued that for a full minute. I was shamelessly mesmerized, staring at you the whole time…

Now, ironically so, the moment I see you I want to hug you tight and kiss you. I did that before too, but it just doesn't seem enough now. But more than that I want to tell you what you mean to me. That I cannot live without you. When you were with me I could have done it anytime... I always thought it could never end, that I would end up lazing in the sun in the front-yard of a fine cottage, all old and tattered. But happy, thoroughly so, as I would watch you sitting across me, engrossed in some novel. Yeah, I still remember. You love to read.

The way you smelt. It was not borrowed from any perfume or deodorant or talc. You were always too good for any of those. It was just you! A characteristically wonderful smell. But if anything could be better than that, it was the range of emotions that exploded in me whenever I touched you. You loved to hold hands. And I loved that you let me. You would slip your hand into mine the first chance you got, And if you didn’t, I would. And your skin- so soft, so inviting. First I would just have your palm in mine and within a few minutes we would be feeling each other’s fingers, holding our hands tighter. Then you would lay your head on my shoulder. And your hair! Oh, my god, your hair! It actually had all started with your hair. Weird, I know. But if you ever happened to read this, you would know!. Your hair is, one could say, wavy. And smooth! Bloody smooth at that! And soft. Actually unimaginably so. Ironically, I hated having to touch anybody’s hair till then. You knew this too! But you changed it all. I would sit for hours with your head in my lap. And you would let me play with your hair endlessly. I would curl it up, then straighten it back or try and make weird hairdos. You never used to stop me then. Not once.

I remember when it first happened. You were lying with your head in my lap, eyes closed and such a peaceful demeanor that I assumed you were asleep. I was absent-mindedly playing with your hair, brushing the strands out of your face, when my finger accidentally brushed across your cheek. Immediately, as if in response, you angled your face upwards, towards my hand, as if in appreciation. I responded to that assumption, and I was right. It was then and there that it all started…

You are an angel. Sent down to destroy me, no doubt! But you did that so goddamn gloriously, I would give anything to walk that cursed path again! To love and to be loved again; even if it means I should watch you walk away, all over again. Three years since you walked away, and I can still remember everything like it was yesterday. Even to this day whenever I happen to meet you, series of conflicting emotions explode in me. But the one that stands out is pure awe! Yeah, I am hopelessly addicted to you. And however fucked up that might seem, I just cannot let you go! At least not yet, and may be not ever!