By Ratna Manucha
Remember that catchy song by Kishore Kumar…the one he sang aeons ago? Lately it seems be going around in a loop in my head, only the words are different…
Main hun Gen Z, Zen Z, Gen G
Khulke ghoomun main toh phir bhi
Main entitlement ka dhauns jamaata chala
Kargil pe meri nazar
Main duniya se bekhabar
Border ke rakhwalon ko
Main toh badmouth karta chala…
You see, I am Zen G, Gen Z, Zen Z, or Gen G…call me what you will. They all mean the same thing actually…bas zubaan ka farak hai.
We belong to the entitled lot. We have an opinion on anything and everything. And why not? Don’t you hear people all around saying that we Zen Zs are much smarter than the previous generation…we know more than them, especially where technology is concerned and that we know how to use it to our advantage and so by that logic, it is but natural that we have begun to strut around like the cat that’s swallowed the cream. We have even invented our own language, which most of you don’t understand…DUH…and we think we own everything in the country, including the people who guard our borders…which we do, because you see, we pay taxes…doesn’t matter if some of us haven’t started earning yet, our parents pay taxes… (at least some of them do), so I guess it’s one and the same thing. Uff…I’m ranting already…
We use our phones with impunity, whipping them out at the slightest provocation…we are not a very patient lot…there’s no time…we lot are always in a hurry…social media is waiting for our posts and we never disappoint. You see, most of the things that take place get our goat…and then our phones come to the rescue…or don’t they?
To give you an example, just the other day, I was in Ladakh, holidaying with some friends, trying to get from point A to point B (apparently it was a border area, but who cares) and at one point we got stuck in a road block. How dare they? Stop us, I mean? I jumped out of my car and began brandishing my phone. Since my phone was recording everything, I obviously had to put on my best act. So, there I was, screaming obscenities like there was no tomorrow, enjoying all the attention I was getting, egging the crowd on. Strangely the men in uniform were silent. They have no rizz, these guys. And there I was, grabbing everyone’ s attention, total sigma!
How dare the men in uniform stop us from going forward? Don’t they know we are on holiday? What is a border area anyway? Just because the soldiers’ trucks are moving we civilians have to stand on the sidelines and watch them lumber and groan past us. Are we less than them? After all, had I paid money to travel so far just to be told that I could not go forward? Do they own these roads? I own them too. Remember, we pay taxes, or our parents do…well whatever. I was so busy enjoying myself that I didn’t even notice that just like me, there were many others in the crowd, also recording me. I flung the term Zen Z as if it were a badge of honour and people around better accept it and bow to me… After all I am Zen Z…no matter that I am nowhere close to being Zenlike either in my speech or my behaviour. After all, delulu is the solulu. But again, I don’t expect you to know that.
In spite of my screaming for all it was worth that I was Zen Z, nobody seemed to care and we were finally allowed to cross only after the convoy of trucks had trundled past. But the next morning was another story altogether.
I woke up to see my mug shot all over social media, shouting like a harridan and horrors! Looking like one, too!
Remember, I had mentioned earlier that there were many others like me, who were also making videos…so what happens is, first, we grab our phones and then start talking, accusing, screaming, whatever…you see, we are constantly playing fastest finger first…who shoots first and who presses the upload button first to send it off on social media!
What was happening? I thought I owned the day but apparently, I was wrong. My diatribe did not seem to have any takers, so I did the next best thing. I did an about turn. I went on national television, shed crocodile tears and apologised to all my brothers in uniform.
I hope they bought it. My apology, I mean. So far so good.
Until next time. See you soon as soon as I spot something that gets my hackles up!
After all We are Zen Zee. The entitled lot.
Till then, let us cook.
(Ratna Manucha, educator, author and columnist, lives, dreams and writes in Dehradun, her happy place.)
