How do you expect to fight the good fight if you’ve never had to? Does the pursuit of excellence require a hungry mouth to feed?
Four years ago, a very dear friend of mine from school was pronounced dead on impact, flying through the windshield of what I would assume to be a silver sedan on some highway in America. His friends and family were called to identify the body. And the worst part of the tragedy laid here — he wasn’t even driving the car.
I can’t say with complete certainty that my alma mater —which, for the sake of this piece, I shall refer to as Corn Flakes School because I’m not in the business of tarnishing any reputations— has produced the best and brightest since I graduated. However, headlines have been made involving friends and acquaintances alike; someone behind a wheel disaffecting someone else’s father, or someone else’s eldest son — intoxicated most of the time. And no worse for wear after a few weeks of moral turpitude to keep names off headlines and court dockets. Sometimes, it might just be a totaled Innova. Other times, unfortunately, a certain gravity attached to driving under the influence (DUI). But I’m not here to talk specifically about morbid tarmac things.
I am here to illustrate. If I do my job right, a common denominator — the grouping of the kinds of people involved. They can usually be spotted wearing Kenzo shirts, a mint condition Rolex — probably a Day-Date or a Submariner, Jordans, and a fancy car. Now if you’re new to town and you happen to be in their natural habitat once it’s an acceptable hour to be holding a cocktail, you might find yourself in a place with a fair amount of mirrors stuck to every wall, some top 20 rap song of the month (it’s usually Drake), plumes of smoke rising to the cheap Chinese recessed LEDs fitted into the ceiling, and altogether disappearing with your hopes of having a conversation with someone that isn’t about crypto, a sneaker plug, or Santorini in December.
Some of them might have partnered with the owner of the establishment, and they proceed to hire influencers to attract crowds — an F&B package, a weekly salary, and VIP treatment for said influencer who does little to escape the aforementioned financial investments in big name brands. But now that I have got the flogging out of the way, there is real privilege enjoyed here by these people. And it comes with benefits.
The scene now changes, as does the weather. It’s the night before Diwali. Bollywood music runs rampant, and chips are flying. At the low stakes tables anyway. The big games are always played in cash. Fat stacks of high society changing hands by the minute. Usually, it’s the same three childhood friends splitting pots. I found myself at one of these tables, completely overmatched. The man sitting to my right was at the height of his losing streak. He’d probably lost over Rs 60,000 over the course of 10 minutes, and you could tell that he’d be hunkered down for the next few hours, no worse for wear.
The game is Teen Patti and we were the only two people losing at the table. Waiters were bringing us our libations and it was more or less a feast of friends. An old classmate of mine, 20 minutes after that, had the biggest stack, and as I live and breathe, I saw him lose all of it again in one hand. It was close to three o’clock in the morning and what seemed to befuddle me more than anything else wasn’t his placid body language. It was the fact that once he got up, bone-dry, he traipsed on down to the dance floor. The party wrapped up soon thereafter, we all went our separate ways, and John Doe was then seen the next evening, ready to do it all again at the next game at the next Ghitorni or Chattarpur farmhouse satta carnival.
“We all play on credit anyway.”
“I spotted him what he lost.”
“He’s experienced, he’ll make it back,” said a third who was at the table the night before.
I wasn’t afforded the credit line, and I stopped playing for the better, but all things considered, that’s between one and two months salary for some. For most in this city, as a matter of fact. And while those who have more can do with it what they please, does that thought even compute? I’d prefer not to lean too much on hypotheticals, but that table we were on had five more, three tables to a row and column. How many fortunes were lost that night? How many were really lost? Long story short, this John Doe went on the losing streak of his life and continued to purchase and a month later attend a FIFA World Cup game in Qatar. The tickets aren’t cheap either. I have it on good authority that he did indeed wear a Kenzo shirt to the game.
I was gifted an old Playstation 4 in September last year. The year 2023 would be the 10th anniversary of its release. My younger brother and I are both Star Wars enthusiasts. I bought the game Jedi Fallen Order, booted it up, and waited for him to return home from squash practice. This is a routine I prepared, having practiced it on my neighbor, who on seeing the console remarked how he recently purchased the latest release, the successor to the 4 – The Playstation 5. A remarkable piece of hardware. I saw close to no joy in his eyes when we ran a game of Call of Duty Modern Warfare. He already had the gold standard.
Fast forward to Fallen Order, the protagonist finally brandishing his blue lightsaber after 20 minutes of gameplay. The person with the controller in his hands would be my brother, not more than three years older than the PS4 itself. The glee and wonder in his eyes were insurmountable — almost broke my chair. He came home to ask me a few days later why he couldn’t buy the latest Wilson squash racquet. His father told him that the one he had was still in perfect condition. Tempered by reason and couched into the reality of not spoiling yourself with a silver spoon, this boy is, what I imagine, what a lot of my social circle started out with. Before the five-digit dinner bills and the drunken driving.
Maybe Corn Flakes School will have its fair share of wasted potential. For every new horizon, there is always someone to meet it. Is a story written before it is lived? I think this is a cautionary tale. About vigilance. And the follies of fortune. How do you expect to fight the good fight if you’ve never had to? Does the pursuit of excellence require a hungry mouth to feed? Corn Flakes isn’t just a halfway home for future rap sheets. Every Cereal School has its lawyers and athletes and activists. Some of them make it out, others stay here and step into the family business to avoid the perils of ambition. Some do understand the implications of their actions and they live by their losses as vehemently as they do their triumphs. The vigilance could be a defiance. The ability to say no to yourself when life demands a stepping up.
That John Doe I told you about? He was one of them. Before consequence followed him to the day he stopped believing he could outrun it. No one can. From my experience at least. The victim of his decision to turn the gas on at eleven o’clock at night after a Chelsea game never rose from the tarmac, save for the body bag. He is somewhere in New Zealand now, the driver — doing a short graduate course in Blockchain. He didn’t stop drinking either.