It's a black hole at the end of the rainbow.

I am rapidly scanning a friend's friend's website with photographs of famous Bangaloreans. And suddenly life is as clear as black and white. I am never going to grow up to be one of them. My name is not going to go up on that wall. And my mug shot is not going to sit on that table.

Surprisingly, I am not too disturbed by that thought. Is it supposed to be abnormal? Not for me, it's not. I know fame doesn't come from a burning desire to become famous. Or from focussing all of life's energies into doing something just to top all of shallow society’s over-the-top popularity charts. All I am interested in is doing what I do best and doing it better than anyone else.

Now that's something I could grow up to be good at. Sure enough, it’s a long way from here. Knowing that I don't know enough makes it even longer. But it's a start nevertheless. I don’t really know if that will make me famous. And when I see the number of big blokes next to me who fart through their eyes, eat with 10 fingers and stick ‘em all up their nostrils, talk pretty to dumb blondes and dirty behind everyone’s backs and get backpatted all the way to the top, I don’t even know if I want to be famous.

I’d rather sit on a random table in an obscure corner and watch the world stage the biggest and longest running show that can send Broadway and Nukkad to the back alley. With scripts more complicated than a coffee-table conversation with all the saas-bahus in the world, plots more twisted than intertwined Mobius strips, people outperforming themselves to outcast others and decibel levels beating on eardrums, what with the whole world rehearsing acceptance speeches, surely such exhibitionism needs an audience. And it's one role that would fit me like a red satin glove.

So while I am at it, I might even end up in Raghav Sreyas’s Table by the Window. The next time you race a speeding yellow auto to meet the old and the new and old and young Bangaloreans at Koshy’s, you can see my ghost-like image hiding behind the shadows, in the out-of-focus background on the right-hand corner that forms a blind spot in most photographs. Just so you don’t miss me, I’ll be wearing Prada.