It was the cologne I think
I have this thing for the way something smelt.
So all the sterile, forgotten leapt back in intense colour.
I had to stand there for a moment, and fight for control.
The fuel and green fields, merciless sun.
Nothing on our mind.
A train thundering overhead
And a lazy cigarette in the bridge below.
Dangling legs.
Peace.
The intensity in everything you said and did.
Wall flowers on my library book.
3 am on a watch tower.
Blue smoke and minimal rooms.
I miss you.
I missed you while we sat there
And I looked at eagles from Prax
And pretended you didn’t exist,
While all I felt was intensely alive.
And on odd mornings,
Dire straits. A sunny balcony.
A busy street outside,
And me – with the day to myself,
I think of you and
I learn to grow old.
Gracefully.
Thursday
Tuesday
Infinite possibilities
A garish beach track mixed with an infurating digital voice that screams 'Its time to wake up' 'Its time to wake up' breaks the morning air.
I hit the snooze.
Silence.
There can never be a pleasant alarm clock sound. Ever.
The proverbial tomorrow is dawning over a yesterday hangover. I can feel yesterday still pulsing in my head. It can’t be time yet – it just can’t.
In inalterable regularity, almost merciless - the digital display mutely blinks, morphs into the next number – instantly the alarm scream rents the air again. 'Its time to...' - a trained slap shuts it up mid-shriek.
Slience.
The held breath turns to a sigh - muscles relax, the air stills - Deep hush.
I could be the only one alive on earth right now –
The bed is warm. The 7 am sun is streaking all over the curtains where last night's headlight patterns faded on and off – in the drowsy irregularity of nighttime traffic. A page lazily lifts on the half read book beside me and falls back again. A spider makes a slick move on the ceiling.
To be alive – alone, without a thought or need, lightly treading the boundaries of the harsh world of waking up, its time to hover, lithly, in that No man’s land of a misty in-between.
This morning floating feeling - its the 15 minutes of my life I’d kill for. It’s the only thing in the world that truly belongs to me - these lazy, unaccounted minutes of floating - to be random, delusional, unattached. To be free.
15 minutes of chasing cars.
I hit the snooze.
Silence.
There can never be a pleasant alarm clock sound. Ever.
The proverbial tomorrow is dawning over a yesterday hangover. I can feel yesterday still pulsing in my head. It can’t be time yet – it just can’t.
In inalterable regularity, almost merciless - the digital display mutely blinks, morphs into the next number – instantly the alarm scream rents the air again. 'Its time to...' - a trained slap shuts it up mid-shriek.
Slience.
The held breath turns to a sigh - muscles relax, the air stills - Deep hush.
I could be the only one alive on earth right now –
The bed is warm. The 7 am sun is streaking all over the curtains where last night's headlight patterns faded on and off – in the drowsy irregularity of nighttime traffic. A page lazily lifts on the half read book beside me and falls back again. A spider makes a slick move on the ceiling.
To be alive – alone, without a thought or need, lightly treading the boundaries of the harsh world of waking up, its time to hover, lithly, in that No man’s land of a misty in-between.
This morning floating feeling - its the 15 minutes of my life I’d kill for. It’s the only thing in the world that truly belongs to me - these lazy, unaccounted minutes of floating - to be random, delusional, unattached. To be free.
15 minutes of chasing cars.
Thursday
Homosapien-ity
The Friend of a good friend. The Never-met-before person. That Much Talked-About Friend.
I was that, recently, and found my faded doppleganger and some minus points for humanity along the way.
I d blame it on the talk, if I didn't know better. Beacuse it was through all that talk that the goddamn love grew. That curious kind of love lavished from second-degree association. Through it all, I had developed into a doppleganger - someone they knew. And liked.
Like a long absent old friend, I had become a phony part of their universe of connection. Over many evenings, my doppelganger had matured from a ‘good friend’s good friend they didn’t know’ to a ‘good old her’. They had laughed and nodded along their gradual journey of assimilating me from an arbit ‘her’ to “she’s so that”.
But unhappily for this warm get-together, we don’t know each other from Adam.
Facts have an uncomfortable knack of getting in the way of mediocre make-believe. And so it was... as I burst upon the scene, in-the-flesh, so to speak... with an offensive alien air.
Shockwaves.
Here I was - a trespasser on their hither-to happy, make believe perception of me. My uncalled turning up in person was blowing it. I had intruded. And caused communal unrest in this happy, warm gathering of friends.
I was almost apologetic as I watched my doppleganger slowly melt like the snowman in summer.
‘She’s so tall’ I heard them whisper. They had certainly not expected it.
An abandoned rocking chair, on its last legs stood on the balcony and I tried to hide my abnormal span behind it. I hoped it presented a less offensive length of me for scrutiny.
It didn’t.
But they were large hearted and forgiving, as we ploughed ahead and communed, the doppleganger faded away.
But thats not the point.
The point is that I m quite sick of having to experience, first hand and repeatedly, that which makes us all so hopelessly human.
It’s categorically the vilest part of what makes us people. Connection at all cost. This depraved, urgent need to form a bond – of whatever kind. I can feel those eyes searching for a fix to fasten a belief. I can hear it: ‘yeah but she’s kind of bitchy, right?’ or ‘isn’t she sweet?’
It’s not so much them or me … the shame is in its need. Its thirst. In that solely human sensation to want to connect. I can feel it sucking at me like that goddamn Under Toad.
Like garbage on the road or exhaust fumes – a reminder of the intrinsic sham in everything we do and think - of everything that is so awfully human.
It kills me.
I was that, recently, and found my faded doppleganger and some minus points for humanity along the way.
I d blame it on the talk, if I didn't know better. Beacuse it was through all that talk that the goddamn love grew. That curious kind of love lavished from second-degree association. Through it all, I had developed into a doppleganger - someone they knew. And liked.
Like a long absent old friend, I had become a phony part of their universe of connection. Over many evenings, my doppelganger had matured from a ‘good friend’s good friend they didn’t know’ to a ‘good old her’. They had laughed and nodded along their gradual journey of assimilating me from an arbit ‘her’ to “she’s so that”.
But unhappily for this warm get-together, we don’t know each other from Adam.
Facts have an uncomfortable knack of getting in the way of mediocre make-believe. And so it was... as I burst upon the scene, in-the-flesh, so to speak... with an offensive alien air.
Shockwaves.
Here I was - a trespasser on their hither-to happy, make believe perception of me. My uncalled turning up in person was blowing it. I had intruded. And caused communal unrest in this happy, warm gathering of friends.
I was almost apologetic as I watched my doppleganger slowly melt like the snowman in summer.
‘She’s so tall’ I heard them whisper. They had certainly not expected it.
An abandoned rocking chair, on its last legs stood on the balcony and I tried to hide my abnormal span behind it. I hoped it presented a less offensive length of me for scrutiny.
It didn’t.
But they were large hearted and forgiving, as we ploughed ahead and communed, the doppleganger faded away.
But thats not the point.
The point is that I m quite sick of having to experience, first hand and repeatedly, that which makes us all so hopelessly human.
It’s categorically the vilest part of what makes us people. Connection at all cost. This depraved, urgent need to form a bond – of whatever kind. I can feel those eyes searching for a fix to fasten a belief. I can hear it: ‘yeah but she’s kind of bitchy, right?’ or ‘isn’t she sweet?’
It’s not so much them or me … the shame is in its need. Its thirst. In that solely human sensation to want to connect. I can feel it sucking at me like that goddamn Under Toad.
Like garbage on the road or exhaust fumes – a reminder of the intrinsic sham in everything we do and think - of everything that is so awfully human.
It kills me.
Tuesday
The diameter of the bomb
The diameter of the bomb was thirty centimeters
and the diameter of its effective range about seven meters,
with four dead and eleven wounded.
And around these, in a larger circle
of pain and time, two hospitals are scattered
and one graveyard.
But the young woman
who was buried in the city she came from,
at a distance of more than a hundred kilometers,
enlarges the circle considerably,
and the solitary man mourning her death
at the distant shores of a country far across the sea
includes the entire world in the circle.
And I won't even mention the crying of orphans
that reaches up to the throne of God and
beyond, making
a circle with no end and no God.
- Yehuda Amichai.
Heartfelt and then some.
and the diameter of its effective range about seven meters,
with four dead and eleven wounded.
And around these, in a larger circle
of pain and time, two hospitals are scattered
and one graveyard.
But the young woman
who was buried in the city she came from,
at a distance of more than a hundred kilometers,
enlarges the circle considerably,
and the solitary man mourning her death
at the distant shores of a country far across the sea
includes the entire world in the circle.
And I won't even mention the crying of orphans
that reaches up to the throne of God and
beyond, making
a circle with no end and no God.
- Yehuda Amichai.
Heartfelt and then some.
Monday
The Solitary Reaper
So then that superhero bully brother of mine got married. I mean, good for him. People who want to get saddled should be allowed to. Freely. I’m for things like that.
But what I m NOT for is making something so intensely personal into this ‘come over, gawk at my family and interrogate them for free’. It’s a malevolent antithesis of everything a marriage is supposed to be - in the whole friggin universe.
So for 3 whole days, an army of relatives personally subjected me to an on the house back poking and cross-examination exercise of the worst kind.
What’s shocking is that these people have the time and the energy to swathe themselves in various saris and muscle their way across town for 3 bloody days – for what? To turn up and comment on why I should get knocked up right away and present myself with the token baby in tow for their viewing pleasure next time…and put on more weight while I’m at it. Killing 2 birds with one stone, see?
They chuckle, poke and ask me to recognize them at command.
Oh my god.
The whole thing left me foaming at the mouth, wanting to subject frail creatures to pain and express rage in short bursts of incoherent speech – for days. My faith in humanity would have packed up and left for good if it weren’t for this one beautiful moment of unqualified redemption.
I was at my weakest on the third day of this epic ‘coming together of man and woman’ … and among the assorted ghastlies that presented itself in a dizzying array to my dimmed consciousness – this one stood like a sharp wet slap of reality. A completely out of place Accordion player was belting out an incongruous rendition of The Blue Danube, while all around the fury of a south Indian wedding raged on at full power- a mass of fast talking aunties caught up vigorously. Small children, high on sugar, ran round and round, screaming at the top of their lungs. The bride’s friends giggled sharply and continuously.
What on earth was this guy doing here? In the middle of this merciless battleground, in a tux, playing a friggn accordion for cryin out loud? Will somebody please step up and explain?
Before another second passed, a few spare aunties bore down upon me and poked my nephew who screamed loudly and started banging his head against my shoulder in protest and almost by cue a wizened old man jovially asked me to recognize him and a small child repeatedly asked me for food.
Tears of rage welled, obscenities welled, impotent ire welled… I’d have thrown myself on the ground and cried in long bitter sobs and then died instantly if it wasn’t for that accordion player.
A sense of calm descended amidst the chaos as I saw him … in the background…playing away like his ‘song could have no ending’, alone and oblivious, while the wedding raged in deep red and furious all around him.
‘O listen! For the Vale profound, Is overflowing with the sound’.
God bless him, whoever he was.
But what I m NOT for is making something so intensely personal into this ‘come over, gawk at my family and interrogate them for free’. It’s a malevolent antithesis of everything a marriage is supposed to be - in the whole friggin universe.
So for 3 whole days, an army of relatives personally subjected me to an on the house back poking and cross-examination exercise of the worst kind.
What’s shocking is that these people have the time and the energy to swathe themselves in various saris and muscle their way across town for 3 bloody days – for what? To turn up and comment on why I should get knocked up right away and present myself with the token baby in tow for their viewing pleasure next time…and put on more weight while I’m at it. Killing 2 birds with one stone, see?
They chuckle, poke and ask me to recognize them at command.
Oh my god.
The whole thing left me foaming at the mouth, wanting to subject frail creatures to pain and express rage in short bursts of incoherent speech – for days. My faith in humanity would have packed up and left for good if it weren’t for this one beautiful moment of unqualified redemption.
I was at my weakest on the third day of this epic ‘coming together of man and woman’ … and among the assorted ghastlies that presented itself in a dizzying array to my dimmed consciousness – this one stood like a sharp wet slap of reality. A completely out of place Accordion player was belting out an incongruous rendition of The Blue Danube, while all around the fury of a south Indian wedding raged on at full power- a mass of fast talking aunties caught up vigorously. Small children, high on sugar, ran round and round, screaming at the top of their lungs. The bride’s friends giggled sharply and continuously.
What on earth was this guy doing here? In the middle of this merciless battleground, in a tux, playing a friggn accordion for cryin out loud? Will somebody please step up and explain?
Before another second passed, a few spare aunties bore down upon me and poked my nephew who screamed loudly and started banging his head against my shoulder in protest and almost by cue a wizened old man jovially asked me to recognize him and a small child repeatedly asked me for food.
Tears of rage welled, obscenities welled, impotent ire welled… I’d have thrown myself on the ground and cried in long bitter sobs and then died instantly if it wasn’t for that accordion player.
A sense of calm descended amidst the chaos as I saw him … in the background…playing away like his ‘song could have no ending’, alone and oblivious, while the wedding raged in deep red and furious all around him.
‘O listen! For the Vale profound, Is overflowing with the sound’.
God bless him, whoever he was.
Friday
Where’s your drive?
It’s the highway to hell. Officially. There are no signboards calling it out, you’re just expected to know it and abide, or get the hell out of the way.
Every road in every Indian metro is a do-or-die dash to the finish line. There are no prizes for winning - the winner is the guy who stays alive. That’s the incentive.
“Wanna play?” asks the inviting stretch of jam-packed, smoky road with curses and loud horns renting the air – it’s a war cry: “Wanna play? COME ON then”, they say… “There’ s absolutely no space, but come on anyway”.
Assorted automobiles vie for 3 inches of space between the large smoke belching bus and the local cow. Death defying moves are made on-the-house. Red lights, stop signs, pedestrian crossing and lanes are things of the past. Don’t let them stop you from Getting Ahead.
Sign of having humanoid scruples - any dithering or an iota of fear is honked at, overtaken, cursed and sniggered out of the way. Any attempt to put your life or basic decency above the GOAL is not acceptable. ‘Get Ahead, Proceed’ yells the impatient public. ‘Make your little polite speeches and bows later on. We have no time’.
Welcome to the Indian roads – welcome to Hell. Out here, no rules apply.
When you make the decision to get on the road, you’ve automatically agreed to risk it all. Partial hearing loss, smoke inhalation, loss of limb and sanity is all part of the deal. Once accepted, the arms are thrown wide open. Senior citizens, candy seller with dog in tow, techies, college kids, fruit vendors, socialite aunties, who-the-hell-ever in whatever state of inebriation or sobriety. All are welcome. Age, gender, caste, status, time of day or night, physical condition and mental state and the weather are of absolutely no significance.
If you’ve chosen to be on the road - you’ve chosen to fight, chosen to reach point B from point A, chosen to risk it all. That’s enough. You’ve chosen life.
Welcome aboard!
Every road in every Indian metro is a do-or-die dash to the finish line. There are no prizes for winning - the winner is the guy who stays alive. That’s the incentive.
“Wanna play?” asks the inviting stretch of jam-packed, smoky road with curses and loud horns renting the air – it’s a war cry: “Wanna play? COME ON then”, they say… “There’ s absolutely no space, but come on anyway”.
Assorted automobiles vie for 3 inches of space between the large smoke belching bus and the local cow. Death defying moves are made on-the-house. Red lights, stop signs, pedestrian crossing and lanes are things of the past. Don’t let them stop you from Getting Ahead.
Sign of having humanoid scruples - any dithering or an iota of fear is honked at, overtaken, cursed and sniggered out of the way. Any attempt to put your life or basic decency above the GOAL is not acceptable. ‘Get Ahead, Proceed’ yells the impatient public. ‘Make your little polite speeches and bows later on. We have no time’.
Welcome to the Indian roads – welcome to Hell. Out here, no rules apply.
When you make the decision to get on the road, you’ve automatically agreed to risk it all. Partial hearing loss, smoke inhalation, loss of limb and sanity is all part of the deal. Once accepted, the arms are thrown wide open. Senior citizens, candy seller with dog in tow, techies, college kids, fruit vendors, socialite aunties, who-the-hell-ever in whatever state of inebriation or sobriety. All are welcome. Age, gender, caste, status, time of day or night, physical condition and mental state and the weather are of absolutely no significance.
If you’ve chosen to be on the road - you’ve chosen to fight, chosen to reach point B from point A, chosen to risk it all. That’s enough. You’ve chosen life.
Welcome aboard!
Tuesday
Checked out.
I check. Every 21 st of a month at an auspicious time. Looking for an update. Its never there.
'Outer reaches of Alaska’ features. ‘Xinjiang experience who can speak Uighur’ features. Where on earth is the name of the goddamn country I LIVE in? Its just NEVER THERE.
In my lifetime I have:
Owned a goat...
And a cat with the sex drive of a rabbit - and therefore 54 kittens splattered across the length and breadth of my childhood.
Tolerated several Choms - one of whom infiltrated and became a friend.
Wore my brother's hand-me-downs till the age of 15.
Tolerated very old people give me advice at several doorsteps. Really long advice. Really slowly. And none of them were knifed. By me, ie.
So I qualify. Unconditionally and in flying colours.
But no goddamn feature. Ever.
They're right. It IS a bleepin’ Lonely Planet.
'Outer reaches of Alaska’ features. ‘Xinjiang experience who can speak Uighur’ features. Where on earth is the name of the goddamn country I LIVE in? Its just NEVER THERE.
In my lifetime I have:
Owned a goat...
And a cat with the sex drive of a rabbit - and therefore 54 kittens splattered across the length and breadth of my childhood.
Tolerated several Choms - one of whom infiltrated and became a friend.
Wore my brother's hand-me-downs till the age of 15.
Tolerated very old people give me advice at several doorsteps. Really long advice. Really slowly. And none of them were knifed. By me, ie.
So I qualify. Unconditionally and in flying colours.
But no goddamn feature. Ever.
They're right. It IS a bleepin’ Lonely Planet.
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