About life and its supposed realities in general, and nothing in particular. Feelings, and wayward thoughts, fleeting moments of happiness and the constant numbness from the sad realities, generally makes up the most of it.
Moments in Time
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Attacks on the mind, the country and the soul, Recession cutting us out of our inevitable goals, The journey is far, long and hard And still we find ourselves struggling from the start.
I seem to wither, I seem to cower, I try to see the burning beacon on top of the tower, I seem to drench, yet I feel the fire inside I burst out in flames, in a cold November shower.
The song of of the robin, is heard no more, Its the Swan that sings of better days of yore, Bloody hands, yet more on the streets Little pink papers as New Year's treats.
I ponder along, when all of it would end And struggle I do,till my wits' end. ...
A flash of serene white; and I hear a voice, From behind a green apple tree, Give peace a chance, and leave the rest to Me.
(The words didn't find meaning until they came out, better rhyme and reason could have been achieved; then again, so could everything else in the world...Happy New Year)
The best thing about my life, today, is that I don’t have to pretend who I am. It’s real, and fortunately for me, there’s no pretence about how I am living it. Today it doesn’t have that satiny, adulterated veneer to cover up the shady parts which I am not really proud of. Its sad, its happy, its fun, its boring, its melancholic, its ecstatic, it has its momentary numbness of defeat, it also has its enlightenment of realizing that sometimes you have to take your defeat with honour. I had read in my school diary quotes long back – The strongest man is he, who fights alone. And I fight, to keep my life real, free from social brunt, which often leaves its scars from its bloody aftermath of the constant proving yourself above your own laid benchmarks.
When you are real, and you don’t have to pretend that you are somebody else, just because the world needs you to be, you can be much at ease with yourself. You can laugh at our own stupid jokes, be ashamed of your folly, and get annoyed and angry when life doesn’t give you its right deserves, and pamper yourself to a honey-dew smooth B&H when the day goes well. And never feel guilty about doing all that, thinking of how your image can affect because of all these randoming. ‘Coz, in the first place, you have let go of that image, forever.
Life changes, or does it? Just a few weeks back I was happy going to SPE, looking at the throng, an obscenely priced KF pint in one hand, and perhaps, a shared smoke in the other; with my constant partner in our newly-found addiction to the Kolkata night-life; staring at the other, more regular “business-bringing” revellers and their skimpily clad “rock chicks” (for the uninitiated, these are the pretty young things that flank the ultra rich, ultra smooth, ultra suave party men, showing off their ultra-deep necklines) who were trying very hard to bring home the fact that SPE is their second home; its music being the sole food for their souls. And yesterday, at another night joint, a girl, who I had probably given a few cursory glances, came right up to me to the comfy divan where I was sitting with my Vodka n Sprite, and asked me my name ‘coz I looked familiar. Hmm, I was no way familiar to the night-prowlers in Kolkata, and recently my photo never came up in the papers, neither was I some Ashton Kutcher/Brad Pitt look-alike. Without going into the finer, saucier details, all she wanted to do was make a laughing stock out of a sheepish guy with the nerdy glasses, in front of her groupies. Well, I dint give her that chance and she looked royally pissed off. My partner-in-crime and I had a hearty laugh over it later that night… I think I’ll go back to trying to look in cool at SPE with my blue rubber slippers; although I really wouldn’t mind more such encounters with unfamiliar hot women at night-clubs, once in a while. Heck, nothing changes actually; I am sure I would never be able to imbibe the supernatural powers of Suave Serenading from our local bearded god of womanizing, with his trusty back-pack and firang followers, even if he chooses me for being his lucky protégée :)
The other day I chanced upon hearing a very old favourite of mine – Words by Ronan Keating, as a ringtone in a female colleague’s phone. Regardless to say, I had quite grown out of Ronan, Backstreet and their boy-band brotherhood a long time back. It is the age of rap, house, alter, metal, progressive and punk rock and I am neck deep into it. But something lingered on just as she took the call. Its only words, and words that all I have to take your heart away. It suddenly struck a chord somewhere. Really, what about the people only with a few lovelorn words to say, fragmented and out of sync mostly, not at all with the great suaveness and panache as in the latest James Bond flick? What about those who don’t have a guitar slung to their shoulders with a day old stubble, who cannot croon to the starry eyed women at SPE, with a Calrsberg in one hand, and the beau’s fingers in the other? What about them who cannot play a piano, high on weed all night long, while charming a friend sleeping over at his place, with a wanton desire of something a little more exciting than sleep? What about those men, who are just plain ordinary and simple, having no other extra talents to flaunt than the regular, decaf guy next door? What about those guys are plain available, and just hopelessly in love, and just cannot go without not giving the regular call everyday to his sweetheart, with the simple pretence of discussing some out-of-the way topic, just to beat around the bush, before blurting out one simple, silly compliment, or a silent, hushed “It would be great if you were here” or “I missed you yesterday while watching Harry and Sally”? Are they not eligible for love, for care, for momentary lapses of reason, for small trinkets of soft touch, or at least, for a goodnight SMS?
Intangible as love is, I seem to have finally discovered the yardstick (maybe even quite late!). It’s called difference, how unique you can be from the plain, unremarkable, unattractive, untalented version of Boy 101. Its all about your guitar pick, your joints and how you crush the weed, how many more pegs you can soak up and yet be deft enough to satisfy the moments of lust that she needs from you, its about the goatee, the piece of metal sticking out of your right eyebrow, the smooth jives at the dance floor and the suave nonchalance of midnight serenades, the moments of envy rising out of the time partitioned for other women and on a rarer scenario, the self-help-book-mugged philosophical rantings. And of course, the perennial six pack abs and day-old stubble would give you the necessary brownie points if you miss out on some of the points above. That’s how you take your love to greater heights; maybe even a six feet two.
1.I am currently out of the office at a job interview and will reply to you if I fail to get the position. Please be prepared for my mood.
2. You are receiving this automatic notification because I am out of the office. If I was in, chances are you wouldn’t have received anything at all.
3. Sorry to have missed you, but I’m at the doctor’s having my brain and heart removed so I can be promoted to our management team.
4. I will be unable to delete all the emails you send me until I return from vacation. Please be patient, and your mail will be deleted in the order it was received.
5. Thank you for your email. Your credit card has been charged $5.99 for the first 10 words and $1.99 for each additional word in your message.
6. The email server is unable to verify your server connection. Your message has not been delivered. Please restart your computer and try sending again.
7. Thank you for your message, which has been added to a queuing system. You are currently in 352nd place, and can expect to receive a reply in approximately 19 weeks.
8. Hi, I’m thinking about what you’ve just sent me. Please wait by your PC for my response.
9. I’ve run away to join a different circus.
Finally this one takes the cake: :)
10. I will be out of the office for the next two weeks for medical reasons. When I return, please refer to me as ‘Lucille’ instead of Dave.
There is a Khirki chaat shop beside my house. Khirki, loosely translated it means window in English. And today is a 24 hour CITU bandh. Loosely translated, that means no office, and nothing to do the entire day, apart from sleeping and staring blankly at the idiot box. Not complaining, just plain bored. Lots of people out today. Chevys, Mercs, Karizmas, Toyotas and maybe a glimpse of a few BMWs; females in strikingly "bold and beautiful"(not too sure about the beautiful part tho', but couldn't resist the pun!) clothes, men with a fat hip-pockets looking like they have a tumor growing out of their butts; ice-cream wallas, balloon-wallas, chana-wallas looking earnestly at the all-wallas to shell out a couple of hundred bucks for their stuff. Kids crying their hearts out for the oh-so-indispensable bhel without which their adolescent lives may remain incomplete; wannabe biker dudes, with their silencer-removed bikes zooming towards the gang of PYTs not there only for the mirch in their chaats; aunties shouting at there nephews/nieces for not going too near the fearless stuntmen,while secretly trying to avoid gazing at the charmingly bald uncle from next door. The crossroads eternally jammed with the madding crowd, and the this/that-wallas flitting from car to car, trying to put extra butter where required. Looks like Kumbhamela scaled down for the metro. The funniest part: I saw a horse-drawn fittan only seen in front of Victoria at the early dusks; maybe it's also a joyride out here. ... Yet the door doesn't open. A door long kept locked eternally, after some rowdy, para goons, maybe after a joyous, spontaneously rippling day like this, wanted to culminate their intensely spirited evening, by looting away the last shade of fading pride, from the washer-woman staying beside the Khirki shop, in a state of drunken stupor after a gala evening. No colours, no noise, no wallas there. The door remains bandh.Forever.
I guess I'll just wait. Wait n watch. And stop cribbing about the past, as for that matter, even the present and the future. I hope you'll just be there for me. Seeing me through.
Attacks on the mind, the country and the soul,
