I don’t exist.
Oh. Yeah. Smart.
No, don’t give me that “You think, therefore you are” crap. It has even been theoretically disproven. Of course, for the sake of self-depravity, I shall also argue that I don’t think.
How am I writing this if I don’t exist, you ask? This is probably some existential crisis, you say? Hah, I say to you. Hah, if only were I to exist, were I to have a crisis. I write this, not by myself, no Sir, it writes itself.
You still doubt my non-existence? You are but one of many to do so, I must say.
Why, just yesterday, I went to a bank to get myself a new bank account. At first, the manager saw right through me.
Stop grinning your self-important grin already, yes yes, he saw through me because I didn’t exist, I get the joke, now can I move on with a slightly more intelligent argument? Thanks.
I clapped my hands a bit, I yawned, I started at him with my hands folded tightly under my non-existent big breasts, these are the things that sleazy Delhi men like in any case, and finally, when he had absolutely no choice but to acknowledge my non-presence, Madam-ji, he blessed, Aapko kya chahiye?
Ah, I reflected. Finally, I sighed. I tried my rickety Hindi on him. Bhaiya-ji, I beseeched. Ek account open karna hain idhar. Form kahaan se milega, I ask. He blinked. He blinked twice. He looked down at his keyboard as if I had not even spoken. After what I thought might have been time enough for a buffet lunch and three drinks, he turned to his right and yelled. Salim, idhar ek naya khaata kholneka form do, beta.
As I filled out my details, I started to face conundrum upon conundrum. But the real problem would not be faced until I was at a loss for proof.
Proof of birth, it asked me. Here I was, hatta-katta, paunchy, tall, healthy, what more proof of birth do you need, I asked the form. In its mechanical voice, giving me no more argument than mothers tend to do, it said PROVE IT WITH PAPER, BITCH. A tenth-class pass certificate? Eh? But what if I didn’t pass. A birth certificate? Reader, dude, why are you on this again?
You see now? You see why I say that I don’t exist?
Oh. More argument? I see. That’s just paper trail, you think? Alright, then. I shall entertain your snooty existent Self then, for just one more moment.
A day before that, I went to get myself a mobile phone. You would probably be aware of what those things are, you do don’t you, you sly Reader, you. I bet you know what he asked for. Proof of Residence.
He wanted proof that I live somewhere. Preferably a real building. Something with numbers on it. And right there, I lost my bets with Existence. A real building with my name on it?
You try it sometime. Prove you exist. Then you’ll know what I mean.Until then, Readers, I shall fade myself into invisibility, live under a rock and not make any financial transactions.
I shall also, definitely, not think.
for A, who complained that nothing I write makes her smile.