Spring Cleaning

What I perhaps will never learn is how to deal with yesteryears. I don't think I like the feeling of flooding myself with a certain set of memories. And yet, I keep all the stuff, just because I am afraid that if I let them go, I would have nothing left. It would be like losing history of my being.

I have never been able to delete mails from the past. The way I deal with files/photos is even more peculiar - I zip them up, and put them away in a CD or in a folder named "Important". And then one fine day shift-delete or junk the CD. It helps me get rid of the remorse, and doesn't spike my curiosity of why I kept them in the first place.

Clutter. It is almost impossible to classify my clutter between what's truly "junk" and what's really "important".

In comes Ramdeen, who got an unfair share of wisdom at birth, with the recommendation of the cleanup. The experience, he promised, would be cathartic.

So I have cleaned it all up - good, bad, otherwise. Have kept a few priceless treasures, though - one being the first email sent by then-little nieces, one with an intense discussion about the feasibility of the layers of a stack being implemented as different processes, one containing sepia toned pics of awkward teenagers in bright shirts, and one with my favourite little Johnny joke.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

And Ma said today -

If for all these years, I could keep the plastic flowers from withering away,
why can't you?

the escapist

there was a time, the truth was fast
like the highway,
the view of everyone
everyone's view
blinkered by the helmet.
sticking to the order of the day.

now its the winding road,
hidden from everywhere
convoluted
the ride is scenic
and un-polluted.

at the hairpin bend,
i take a break.
i stand in a corner,
hunched.
thoughts collect
bunched.

as is the case,
they are -
all lowercase.
and i am the protagonist,
the narcissist,
the escapist.

Horror. Hope.

Opened the previous post.

Date: 16-April-07
Title: Horror-scope.
Last line: Somedays, horoscopes stop giving you hope.

Gave the post another read, one of those pointless, inconsequential posts. And yet, a certain sense of ominousness took over. Horror. Hope. The words seemed the same, I had written them alright. Cut pasted them fine.
What had changed then? The perspective? A perspective which seems to fix itself only in hindsight.

Virginia Tech happened. A senseless act of murder. For the past few days, I have read and re-read the news. Watched the guy's rants on youtube with a sense of disbelief. A seemingly normal guy. The kind you would see walking on the streets around you.

Gooseflesh.

This of course is just the beginning of what will seem like an endless analysis of his psychological profile. You know, finding the right pigeon hole to fit this guy in. Son of immigrant parents. Had a tough time fitting in. Wrote of sadness. Wrote of violence. Obsessively listened to Collective Souls' Shine. Sounds like a killer alright?

Is everyone who writes of sadness depressed? Is everyone who writes of violence a potential murderer? Is everyone who comes from modest origins a threat?

What could have been done to stop this?
Guns? Enough has been said about the ease of access to guns. And yet, not enough for them to do something about it.

But I would also hold the gross neglect of mental health issues responsible for a good part of it. On hindsight, its easy to judge him, call him a madman, with a perfect profile for a killer. But I wonder if enough was done to prevent him from sinking to these depths?

PS: Orkut offers advice today: Society prepares the crime: The criminal commits it

Horror-scope

Dear Mo,
Here is your horoscope
for Monday, April 16:

Could it be that you've outgrown this way of life? If that's the case, you need to let this old identity go. Isn't it time you acknowledged how much you've changed, and accept the scope of your recent emotional development?


Somedays, Horoscopes stop giving you hope.

The calculus of story-telling

A story, simplistically speaking, is driven by a function. Like a curve - it has its ups and downs. You remember the once-upon-a-time when we all had to study differentiation, and calculate the maxima, minima and inflexion?? If you carefully observe, a simple story would ride on a curve.

• Boy meets girl, (At t = 0, perhaps? )
  
• Boy and girl fall in love, Maxima
• (Lo and behold, we discover that the families were always rivals. )
  
• Girl's dad-mom find out and threaten to kill the boy, Minima
• Girl and boy elope, Point of inflexion.

The point of inflexion. The point where the double derivative is zero (??). The point where the direction of the story changes. The point of freedom. The point where there is nothing left to lose. The real art of finishing up a story, I believe, comes with bringing your characters to this point of no return. Beyond this point, even if its a tragedy, the story itself takes over.

So, the aforementioned story could either be QSQT-esque tragedy ending in a bloodbath. Or, they could have a child and then the parents look at the grand-child and have a change of heart (Now which movie was it? Dil? Bobby?).
Of course, nobody is making these formula films anymore. But, even for a complicated story, it should be possible to identify such points.

Cheats, (like me), create a vivid landscape for the characters, write about the maxima usually soaked in nostalgia, drag the story to the minima, to the sadness/helplessness/despair, and let the pathos do the trick on the reader. Probably because of the lack the creativity and/or the courage to give a fair treatment to the characters.

What do you think?

Song of the Road

I recently read somewhere that the first principle a writer should remember while narrating a story is - "Show, don't tell". One can write volumes explaining how the character feels, but nothing is as powerful as conjuring up the image of the character and his surroundings in the reader's head, making him a part of the narrative, getting him to think and judge for himself.

But doing it in cinema? There are too many distractions, if one may put it that way - the music, the colours, the costumes - all force the director's vision/ imagination into the viewer's head. Detachment is easy in such a situation. So, to elicit emotions, Indian cinema uses melodrama to great effect - people crying, gore on screen, dialogues drenched in emotion, songs to illustrate the agony of the separated hearts, the high pitched tones of the shehnai. A director will use it all, Unless of course, he is a genius.

Watched Pather Panchali till late last night. The last time I watched it, I was way too young and way too naive to perceive the depth of each character. Now, older, and obviously more exposed to average-tending-to-bad movies, I realized how well Ray used the aforementioned principle brillantly and that too in a difficult medium. Images come and go, without being overbearing. Minutes on end are spent in silence, where one is left alone to explore the emotions, study the evolution of the characters. Emotions are presented sans melodrama, understated, almost matter of factly.

Genius, I tell you.

The obligatory cricket post, before we move on...

Agreed, that one needs to be qualified to comment, but yet, this needed some airtime.

The first half of Friday night was spent watching the cricket match, and the latter, discussing the reasons for the sorry state of the cricket team, and Indian sport itself. This went on till wee hours in the morning.
We discussed the usual stuff that makes up an editorial - how endorsements have ruined the game, how cricket as opposed to football and basketball is an elitist sport, how the local leagues never get any encouragement, and how the players play for themselves instead of being a team. We also discussed moments - all those moments of glory we could collect and recollect - that game when Kumble and Srinath put up a brilliant partnership, and Jadeja in Bangalore against Pak, at quarter finals of the world cup. Maybe, those matches were fixed too.

A few promised to have given up the game for good.

Disgruntled fans.

Nearly everyone has the same thing to say, except Harry, one who enjoys each and every sport, the one who perhaps booked his tickets to Barbados hoping for an India-Pakistan match, and will watch Ireland play Bangladesh instead. Over to Harry -

Oh, well… like Nick Hornby said of his beloved Arsenal in the book ‘Fever Pitch’… you don’t choose a team to support, your team chooses you.

I guess we too must ride the waves of frustration and inexplicably stick it out game after game, in the faint hope of 1983-like joy. For that, we need to be underdogs again. And for that, we need to lose consistently first. So, I guess we’ve begun the process… J

I agree – the game has lost its luster, and the match fixing scandal and the Woolmer murder leaves one jaded. But it will bounce back in our memory – simply because it’s the only Indian sport of note. I think endorsements have made the game, and ruined the game to a degree. But I would like to see some more attention in India on the game itself, and the passion involved in just supporting your team, not matter how rubbish they are. We can’t be fair weather supporters and expect the game to develop and reward us the way we want….

True, very true.

Once upon a time.

A fairy tale sounds better with a head full of wine than with a belly full of beer.

Beer makes one full, content.
Wine, on the other hand, has a sense of emptiness. The kind that can be equated to unrequited love. The kind which is reticent. The kind that needs unnecessary elaboration. The kind for which volumes need to be written.

That day, holding the glass by it's stem, sipping on her wine, she swore on the emptiness of her once-upon-a-times.
And emptying the rest of his pint with a quick swig, he promised her the happy-ever-afters.

Happy ever after.

Equality...

To be mistaken for a feminist is far more difficult than being one. Because I don't know what to do with the projected personality.

In any case, I had decided not to write anything about it since it will degenerate into another convoluted rant. Until last evening when my colleague and I witnessed the rather enlightening discussion in the lift between the lady who happens to be our big boss, and a Chinese colleague, a lowly male.

C- Today is women's day you know.
B- Oh yeah..
C- In China, today, most places give their women employees half the day off.
B- To do what?
C- Just take half a day off, go shopping. You usually have massive traffic jams around noon.

Go shopping? It's women's day for God's sake, all women are supposed to get on the streets and brandish white flags or black flags, and get into some kind of loud mouthed protest. But no, for all the privileges attached to being a woman, shopping is something they choose to indulge in. I would perhaps do the same.

So for all that it's worth, this day of celebration of being a woman, has become a marketing gimmick. And frankly, nobody cares. It doesn't provide solutions to any of the problems of discrimination or otherwise, because the crux of the feminist argument is not about empowerment (any more?). It surprisingly seems to be about bringing to light how women have been wronged for generations, and are still being wronged by the evilness of men. The magazines and newspapers are full of stories of victims of abuse, and pictures of protests carried out afterwards. And do we realize what a terrible example it sets? It just states that to be a woman of substance, you have to be a victim first, then bash the guy up and that will show the world what you are worth. What about the millions of women who are leading normal lives?

Rest of the time, its about the wrong portrayal of women in the media. (Frankly, firebrand feminists have done more damage to my image than those photoshopped aunties who score a 10, because I get typecast as one)

So we, the louuly leddies, try to drop a hint to the boss- "Maybe you should consider this next year, give us a day off ".
And she said - "The only way to show that we are equal is to work all day like an equal"

Perhaps. I still want my day off. To hell with equality.

The moment...

Another attempt at a shortish story.
---

Sitting with his head bowed down, he could see her shoes, through the glass table. The heel of the right shoe had worn off unevenly on one side. A reflection of her unsteady walk, his vagrant observation reasoned with his conscious thoughts.

She looked straight ahead into emptiness. Emptiness, in this case, consisted of unknown people at the crowded coffee shop. She had chosen to sit next to him, so she didn't have to look at him in the face. He didn't have to look at her either, but he chose to steal glances, and occasionally, held the gaze out of greed. From the corner of her curious eye she could sense him trying to understand her blank expression.
She, the stoic. The emotionless fool. The one who had nothing to lose.

How do you ever talk to such a person? They thought to themselves in a rare moment of resonant thought.
She fidgeted with her spoon in an attempt to distract herself. Picked up a grain of sugar, and put it in her mouth, perhaps to add flavour to her bitterness. In symbolic protest, he let out a sigh and fidgeted with the silence.

For with all the comfortable private moment of togetherness, they had two more people sitting at the table, a pair of twins, identical yet fraternal. One looking at him in the face, one looking at her. And do you know who they were? Those two were the embodiment of their past - one his version, and one hers.

And there was no use reconciling.

The moment culminated....
And there was no going back....

Summer of 69: The lower-middlebrow's musical journey

It started with this polka dotted writeup from the pinstriped gentleman. Fairly and embarrassingly accurate, I must say.

So, I was left with no choice but to write about the lower-middlebrow's musical journey.

To start with the difference between the highbrows, and lower-middlebrows comes right at birth. The highbrows have parents who listen to Beatles and Ventures, and own an LP player. The lower middlebrow music listener, on the other hand, grew up to Old Hindi Songs recorded on tapes and reading the books the house was flooded with. Old books, Old tapes. If the tape got fungus, he just had to put it in the deep freezer and it would be fixed for a couple of plays till he recorded it to an empty tape. For everything else, there was the highly rationed Chitrahaar and Aakashvani ka panchrangi karyakram where Chunnu, Munnu, Pinki and their Mummy-Papa from Jhumritallaiyya would put in their requests.

The highbrows grow up and are able to appreciate Jazz. The lower middlebrow tries too hard to keep up. But you can't deny he has taste. You name a band, you will find him getting frantic, till he listens to it, and forms an opinion.

The first English Songs that played on his tape player was called "Best of 9x" containing - Lemon Tree, Happy Nation, Scatman and I'm blue-da-ba-dee-da-ba. The tape looped till he got bored of the songs.

The true musical journey, in my opinion, started when MTV took over lives. It started with with the Brian Adams. The Canadian crooner apart from starting the deluge of Concerts which made DNA networks rich, had won the hearts of millions of girls who would swoon all teary eyed, at his phlegmatic rendition of "Please Forgive me". (As for the show, it was a terrible by all counts, for everyone except that girl who managed to get on stage). There were others too enjoying varying degrees of adulation- Messers MLTR, Boyzone, and Backstreet Boys. Some girls and guys stuck on. Others, you, me, moved on...

To college. As you tried to explore further, you realized that songs by blond pre-pubescent boys wasn't what cool people listened to. Embarrassed by your vern origins, you tried to keep up. It is a very sad state of affairs: you listen to the popular songs, and are stuck with the best songs of every artist. You acquired Nirvana. Smells like teen spirit. And Floyd. How I wish you were here. And Metallica. Nothing else matters. Hotel California, Sultans of Swing, Light my fire, Brick in the wall, Cats in the cradle, Tears in heaven, Wonderwall and every band members dedication to his erstwhile girlfriend - Sweet child of mine. Every Paul, John, George and Ringo knew these songs forward and backwards, and you head banged in a cliched I-am-the-rebel unison with a vengeance.

Tapes were passe, CDs unaffordable and hence Mp3s became the prized possessions, and took up much of disk space and lives. Those who ran out of space, begged the owners of CD writers to burn some for them. I still suffer from severe reluctance to delete any Mp3s. The bulk of these added the much needed diversity and dilution. In those days, people then were always gifting Mp3 Cds, with printouts of lyrics for added measure. The girl you like broke up with her boyfriend? "Wasted time", it is.

The college band was a great influence. They taught you how to pull your nose up at boy bands. They taught you that Smoke on the water riff. Those musical elites with nimble fingers would actually know the names of all the band members in Dream theater, while you stared in wide-eyed amazement at these people who memorized every little detail about the "Who's who of music", and still carried backlogs of papers over semesters.

Eventually, college gave way to work. Slowly you moved on, and had money to acquire CDs and listen to them in your private space, or on your iPod. And this was when the true Nirvana happened, when you broke out and discovered what you really like, and were not afraid to admit it. For a while you stick to the same artists whose "best" songs you liked- but you still find the Romeo and Juliet, Mustang Sally, The End, Take it easy and Morning Glory much better. These songs grow on you. You grow with them. You delve deeper into the lyrics. Realize that some of your old favourites are covers. As you get more confident and experimental, you discover artists from long before yesteryears: Tull, Janis, Joni, Dylan, Stones, CCR and more. You even listen to Hendrix. (though I still don't understand the hype around the momentous guitar burning at Monterey - that was mediocre at best)

The nice thing about this point of time of your journey, is you don't feel the need to conform anymore. You settle for your own favourites, a list of 10, maybe 15 songs and feel very unapologetic about your likes, and tolerant about others' likes. And you don't aspire for more. The end, my friend, the very end.

This year I got an LP player.

PS: The title of this post comes from the analogy I put in the comment box of the aforementioned post, during that rare burst of creativity: the musical journey of lower middlebrows starts with Summer of 69 by Brian Adams, and pitches its tent at Yasgur's farm in the summer of 69 at Woodstock. No?

Links to this post:
Desipundit--The lower-middlebrow’s musical journey
Ginsoaked: Summer of '69

The tooth, the whole tooth, and nothing but the tooth.

Today I rue the loss of wisdom. Am still numb. Comfortably, thankfully. And still wise. Three-quarters none the lesser.

Am still looking for the symbolism behind the molar decay. These were an early gift. At 15, these painful vestigials had already started asserting their presence, and I guess by now the guarantee period for these precious pearly-whites-of-wisdom is over. Considering the fact that I have had them forever, without them, I think I can't think anymore.

So I helplessly stretched into the chair. He peeped in - "Ha, easy one!".
He poked me, twiddled his thumbs, adjusted the light, arranged his tools. At the moment, when I was settling for which of the Gods to pray to, he spoke to me about the mystic from India with curly hair, who is supposed to have healing powers. I nodded in wide-mouthed assent. I didn't want to disagree, as he was the one with the weapons.

Then he got the drill. "High Speed", he said, reassuringly. The buzz put a brief pause in my morbid chain of thought.
Using what looked like a giant lever, he tried wedging my tooth out, with the skill of a car mechanic. The tooth refused to budge.
He quickly shuffled his feet and changed his stance - "Ah, Tough one!" and then with a deft move, fetched a pair of pliers. Not some itsy-bitsy-polka-dotted surgical types - these looked like they were industrial grade. Like the ones used for automobiles. At least from my point of view.

I think I zoned out right then....

Disgusting as it may sound, I got my tooth back in a box, just in case it was the ONE. I plan to keep it on my table, and consult it in times of need.

The whole day I have been feeling the presence of a phantom tooth.

Please don't laugh. Trust me it is not at all funny. As we all know, I am bad at writing humour, so, I am not even trying.

And the poke hurts more than the yank.
I want my mummy.

Post

Heights of MBA-dom: Inside sources reveal that a quiz comprising only of Multiple choice questions was given to students of a B-School to assess their creativity. Tears well up in my eyes thinking of what the world has come to. I will observe a moment of silence now.

Bengaloooru is stuck in war from the Viking era, also known as the Cauvery galata. Somebody please update me on the goings-on.

Meanwhile, people had barely recovered from the Ekkkta-Kkkapoor-esque drama around Shilpa-ji, and the shock bestowed on us by Abhiwarya-jis, and now Himeshji decided to create a furore by revealing to the world that he won't be singing in his nasal voice anymore. People have strong reactions, and requests - priceless gems of which I read only a few. Some have heaved a sigh of relief, some others advised him not to care. Supposedly, Hathi jab chalta hai tab kutte bhaunkte hai lekin fir bhi hathi apni hi dhun main chalta hai. Some say, he should replace cap after use.
Bad joke. And a regular (non-pensive? in-pensive?) post. The times are a-changin'.

On us...

Onus

All around me I see people falling like ninepins. Many years ago, it was just matrimony which would get people to stop questioning the need for future. Once you were married, you had nothing left to dream of and to achieve, except collecting material wealth and acquisitions, and having babies - a constant greed. Like dust, you would settle. Life from then on would take a comfortable predictable pace of alternating surprises and nightmares. But, unfortunately, it is not so any more. Like vagabonds, we look for that something else, the one point, the high that would make us stop scanning the faces in the crowd and then, then we feel bad about being the crowd. We reach a point where we sit in the chair and stop not because we are there, but because we have no choice. Its because we are tired. And we get disillusioned. That is our ultimate end, the end of discovery, the freefall down the rabbit hole of cynicism. Cynicism is fashionable, cynicism is intellectual, cynicism is cathartic, cynicism is our comfort zone.

And why not? Our circumstances don't make things any better. Everything around us is so temporary and yet has a long term impact, like the 20 second spot on tv, which has to leech out on our brain, the annoying jingle which is the earworm. You scream to get it our of your head. Those temporary things, which have no impact in the present moment, and which leave us uncomfortable long term. Inconsequential things, which were the be-all and end-all of our existence, and now we realize the lack of purpose in them. They weren't even good while they lasted.

We work like insane as kids, grow up believing that when you are there you will be happy, and you are there, and you think - now what? I am here, doesnt feel like the most happy thing. This ain't bliss, this ain't the paradise they spoke of. Where is the euphoria? I am still wandering in the desert and leave alone the oil well, I haven't even found my oasis, all around is just a mirage. I have reached a personal pinnacle, and I am too good to be doing this.

So you meet people, just like yourself. Identical in history. Bond over a few beers. Narrate stories of yesteryears. Discuss fight club, floyd, and prufrock. Blow your thoughts away in a plume of smoke. These are your buddies, your friends, the ones who will be your rocks, define the next ten years of your life. And you see them, all there, up there in their personal heaven, and yet discontent. And all you seek is temporary numbness. And would do anything to get that one moment of ecstasy. And yet feel, why are you left alone? Why are you the lone traveller in this journey?

They would call it your own journey, but there is nothing worse than traveling alone. You sit at bars, and stare at people in big groups having fun, wondering about people who could have been there with you to share a drink. You drink for drunkenness, the reduced response, the quiet senses, the paralysis. Shake your shoulders to the last song, lip sync, hoping nobody notices that you are actually lonely. Strike a conversation with a stranger. Make bonds, giggle, laugh, and shake your booty, and you recede quietly. This is not a lonely traveler, this is all of us.

So you wake up on Monday morning and go to work, and find solace in the work. The bad boss, the colleague who seeks too much attention, the annoying clients, the decisions, the weekday numbness, full of people who you calibrate yourself against. Yes, I am too good to be doing this. He is too good to be where he is, and I am not there. And how the hell did he ever get this? How do I get it? These are people you like and don't like, and you desperately look for people you could respect.

But then those you respect, are cynical too. Almost as bad as you. They are the ones who are there. Successful, smart. Intelligent as hell. Well read. With talents that would make you envious. You measure your words before you speak in front of them, just because you are afraid you will look like a fool. And these poster boys of our generation are as discontent as you are. If they slip into the comfort zone, then there is little or nothing left for you. And you feel a pang of disappointment. In yourself, of course.

It leaves me even more confused.

Despite all assurance that it is just in accordance with the phase of quarter of my life passing by. I wouldn't want the prime of youth getting over spent with the gnawing feeling of nothingness, just because I can't believe. Because I have no faith in anything around me. Because I feel nobody knows what they are doing. Because I feel doubtful of the intentions that people have. A permanent state of disbelief. But, it just seems plain wrong. It can't be a crisis.

So, you look for answers, and then pause for a second and think of the question. There is no question here. Having grown up in an exam centric system, for everything we have to say, and want to say and are wanted to say - we need a question. If it wasn't for questions we wouldn't have conversations. What do I say?

So I ask you a question, "Why are we doing this to ourselves?"

And yet, you know and I know that there are no answers, just a map for a way out of the rabbit hole. I want out. I want out of this now. The question now for you from me is simple, how do we get out of this? Think buddies, if you could tell me how to get out of this. Would do anything for the resurrection of faith. Would do anything to be able to believe.

Tell me please.

Chain of thought of a cluttered mind.

In my mind, clutter is all I find. Time for some spring cleaning. In a futile attempt to convince people that I am not slowly turning insane, I explain. If I cant convince them, maybe I should confuse them. If I land up confusing myself further, I will make a list. Seriously, there is nothing in the world a well-intended, well-indented list can't solve. Make it with bullets for added measure, and posterity. So, I am thinking -

• that missing a flight because I was too busy eating apple strudel at the lounge was a liberating experience.
• that I am too young to be thinking that a weekend spent lazing around is a good weekend.
• that I am too old to be thinking that a vacation spent in the eat-sleep-eat-sleep routine is a perfect vacation.
• that the best thing that has ever happened to me on the bloody-I-don't-need-this-first-day-of-work-after-a-lazy-vacation was to see a surprise gift waiting for me at the office.
• that to find that the package contained a book that I have been wanting for really long was a cherry on the icing on the birthday cake. (Thanks Sin-Gin, for the wish of getting older and saner and well... godbless)
  
• that the near-death-experience resulting from hypothermia for the sake of vanity was the best gift I could have given Mathur on his wedding day.
  
• that hyperthermia is called fever.
  
• that I would like to deliver a speech saying thanks to Parle for the adulterated Limca he plied me with.
  
• that I like Limca.
• that I like Appy fizz almost as much.
• that I figured that a surefire way of putting people on the defensive is to ask a question starting with "Why would anyone..."
• that the surefire way of getting miserable is to think in sentences starting with "if-only".
• that "what else could anyone ask for?" is a contorted idea of happiness.
  
• that opinions should be gift wrapped.
• that one needs to search for lack of purpose. I think search for purpose is making us miserable.
• that giving up favourite things is an easy exercise.
• that easy is not what I like, and hence I am about to give up on giving up.
  
• that there is no one else I know who needs a sabbatical more than I do.

Mobius

It was just yesterday we were sitting on that terrace,
the one at the other end of this town,
tucked in a corner,
talking about life, love and nothingness.
It was just yesterday, we were talking.
And today,
we are ready to do it all over again.
Freeriding on the Mobius.
Twisting and turning
on the same plane.
Talking of the same things,
Over and over again.
If there was something I could pray for,
it would be
for a breath of fresh conversation
to make patterns with its pitter-patter
in the empty spaces
that once lay between us.
And to rid myself
of the promise
to write pensive verses
on afterthought.

On aging...

Exactly a year back, staring into the mirror, taking stock of life for the year, I noticed my first strand of grey hair. Pleased to meet you, it said mockingly. I looked at the unwelcome guest in an already rebellious mess, and told myself in my best serious voice that I needed to do something about it. And I wondered - do I pull it out unceremoniously, or do I disguise it? The latter seemed realistic, simplistic. So, I used L'Oreal. Because I am worth it.

Somewhere then, standing in a pool of coloured water I realized either I am in denial about getting old or I suffer from the Peter Pan syndrome. You know, when you were young, the people who were as old as you are right now, seemed a lot older then. And you always thought, when you become their age, you will be like them, as mature, as focussed, as dignified. But now at this age, while you clumsily search for an iota of change within yourself, you don't think you have remotely made it. And, you dread that it would never be any different. You dread that wont be able to do what every Paul, John, George and Ringo could do. You dread that people would never take you seriously. You just dread.

I feel that today. Here I am, on the wrong side of the quarter life crisis, and heading towards the big 3-Oh at breakneck speed. I do carry the albatross of responsibility, yes, but yet, I don't feel like I am changing for the better. The same euphoria, the need for attention, the drama, the noise, the short attention span, the unnecessary rant, the nervousness, the anticipation, the love, the hatred. All like there is no tomorrow. No change. Not a sign of it. No hope either. I don't know whether it is good or bad. But, I wonder whether I could ever fulfill the duty of aging gracefully. Time is running out and I am not getting older, per se.

A crash into reality.

I think I take life too seriously.

So, I stand at the immigration counter, take off my glasses, give a pleasant smile to the officer, take a candy, and as I head to collect my baggage. I enter the shop which sells spirits. But the whiff of a new limited edition perfume drifting in the air distracts me. So, I walk into that shop instead. Perfumes make good gifts. On one shelf, I see gracefully wrapped pots of sweet-smelling stuff. Miracle waters, creams, tonics. One for each part of the body: eyes, nose, mouth, palms, arms. To increase glow, to decrease shine, to lighten scars, to reduce fine lines, to prevent wrinkles, to cheat time. A pot for everything. And, I stare at everything in the shop, with greed, and quiet contemplation. Duty free, it says. And I realize, if there is a gift I need, it would be a duty free approach to aging.

End of another year

In that split second, you go through another paroxysm of emotion.

Standing on the same broken and uneven pavement where your clumsy steps get your high heels stuck, you flag a cab. A lady sits in the corner with her big basket. She is selling her apples or tomatoes or whatever they are, arranging them once every few minutes so you see the good ones. Or only the good side of the rotten ones. The bright ones. The shiny ones. The happy ones.

She also sells emotions very cheap. And dichotomies, in pairs - Good-bad, right-wrong - not the black and white choice of the forked road, but a whole baggage full of emotion. Not to mention, a change of clothes, shoes, perfume, and a different set of accessories, for each new day.

And thought, the thoughts. Thoughts are on sale. All of two cents worth. And you buy one, you get ten free. You remember those? The ones which were given away at a contest held on top of that hill. Intense. Like the little souvenir your colleague got from his trip that sits on your table and watches you. Redundant yes, but isn't it always the thought that counts?

She sells the sorrows of life's misfortune. The happiness of it-could-have-been-worse. The gelid hyperboles. The excuses for impunity for yesteryears. The incredulous promises for tomorrow.
Words melt, flow and collect in the broken part of the pavement. They form a puddle. You reflect. Thankfully, you resist splashing in.
The end of another yearn.

A ruined tale

She waited for him at the gate. After 7 minutes and a few seconds of impatient scanning of blank faces, she spots the tilted head she was looking for. They meet in the most unlikely of places.

The moment comes, they hug. Fill their lungs with each others scents. Exchange a moment.

"Beer?" "Of Course!"

Sitting on the tall chair, she kicks her shoes. "I hate 'em"

The world takes over, people walk in and out of the conversation, loves, hates, likes and dislikes get their 15 seconds. She tries to narrate a story. She ruins the punchline.

Like she ruined this one.