To wrap up the below post I had written something about how I met an American-Italian who sported a nose-stud like Gujarati babes usually do. And how we ended up having a conversation
which climaxed in she quizzing me about an Indian dish she had tasted a long time back
(it was, I had decided - Paneer Mutter Masala and written it down in block letters for her reference).

When I read what I had written it seemed not so funny, not so interesting. And hence I just forgot I even wrote it. All that remains is the above obituary of that post!
Shit, my life could end up being so, in someone else's obituary.

What then?

Mmm, I feel better.

p.s.: Listening to Efterklang. To my ears they are a worthy replacement for Kraftwerk, Pink Floyd et al.

Summer Showers in New World

One’s smile veiled by various tragedies. Light, such, pours past layers of clouds - sometimes upon an earth just showered, sometimes upon an earth foreshadowed. Whichever way, a face made lovelier, I summarise, imbued with life and light.

These clouds have descended upon unsuspecting folks like an immaculate conception and I am watching the sunshine upon this foreshadowed earth. Stray drops pellet me. I am by the wayside, under good shelter. My back is stuck to the glass panes of the bookstore and perhaps it is being browsed by the books stacked behind the glass. They are returning the favour. Would they find us interesting? They are after all us, set down in paper.

At a distance, the traffic is muted, the roadscape looks deserted yet simultaneously busy with the clouds getting arrayed into a massive front. On ground, busy feet scamper towards shelter with short, precise steps – a balancing act featuring safety and alacrity - as the clouds begin their shower. The first drops 'dopple' here and there as if aimless but frantically seek a groove to settle in. Soon enough, as the drizzle becomes rain, and the shower a lash, a rhythm, lush and insistent, arises. It reminds me of the initial dithering when two bodies grapple with each other’s desires, the frantic foreplay that follows, and the eventual rhythm they revel in and settle into.

If someone could strum a guitar and sing a simple melody to go along with the lush score of the rains it would have been perfect. Like how a rainbow befits perfectly a world sparkling with recent rainfall. Alas, rarely do you have all the stars aligned in one lucky line. Rarely do you have coincidences worth recounting.

I can remember of one right away. Years ago when I bid goodbye to what was then one of my serious sweethearts, on the shared terrace that was also the conduit between two hostels, the sky was unbearably clear (ok this is a bit of a Photoshop style cleaning up but what now follows is absolutely true to original detail). Upon this blue sky a pair of high-attitude jets passed by each other, as seen from the ground apart only by a centimeter, their feathery vapour trails forming a perfect pair of parallel lines that shall meet only when they dissolve into oblivion. As those pieces of metal passed by each other, their speed rendered into a cool slow-mo by their altitude, I brought her attention to their bodies glistening as they caught the sunlight at the correct angles. She nodded, looking bemused rather than amused. What a piece of memory for a parting gift, she must have felt.

Back to the rainy day in NJ. I now see fluid sunshine fractured into a million pieces and readily held captive by the raindrops that decorate the face of earth. A lady by my side lights a cigarette and that almost physical need to juxtapose contrasts, to match something hot against the chill rains envelops me. A girl of Indian origin, bespectacled and too busy on the phone to notice my presence walks by, remains under the shade for a while and then restless, goes inside the store. After the cigarette has vanished into thin air the other lady too rushes into the rain towards her car and drives away. In a few seconds I am left alone with the rains. Having had enough of them and also sensing boredom (I knew he would beckon his more portentous twin, Ms. Loneliness soon enough and I was in no hurry for her companionship.), I too go in to the books, DVDs, and coffee.

(Hope to continue...)

Tragedies for Consumption.

The overwhelming moments at the WTC memorial site remind me of what vicarious emotional experiences end up being, especially upon a filled stomach and a warm body: a self-indulgent trip full of gravitas and solemnity.

I am sure, that day, Vanitha and her parents weren’t as much washed over by a sense of tragedy as I was. Yet, that the lump rises less readily up their throat doesn’t mean they would be any less constructive in amending others’ misfortune. Mooning over others’ sorrow is more often just that – feeling and mooning over, and as a rule worth precious little. The exceptions of course become revolutionaries and lose their lives.

Vicarious experiences are not the equals of our darker emotions – jealousy, depression, suspicion, hatred, loneliness, loss, and those accompanying sheer starvation. These are real troubles and cause real heartache, not the ‘ensconced-in-comfort’ wallowing in others’ tragedy. However big others’ tragedy is, it wouldn’t bother us as much as a bolt which has descended upon ourselves.

Eventually, our deepest feelings for others are noble-colored fluff. And they frequently get degraded to the level of ‘the sentimental dope of this month.’ They become yet another piece of gratification, which in a twisted sort of way makes us feel less bored. As proof I could perhaps offer media’s penchant for disasters, corruption, serial killers, ethnic cleansing, besides grotesque relief such as Bush and Indian Cricket, to go along with our morning coffee, and to act as fodder for small talk through out our day.

The Empty Thumps While Kick-Starting a Habit Left Out in the Cold

Wanted to post something but had nothing to talk about. So what does one do? What does one do if there is craving but no hunger, desire but no appetite? Wait it out and let time take over?

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Our sins could make us more connected to the rest of humanity than any amount of empathy! The only sure key to understanding others is to understand myself thoroughly, by being cognizant of the sea within myself, with the penchant of a pearl-diver.

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Now with the act of forgetting my old password amended by resetting it to a new one, now with the block removed, let me see if I can begin to regularly publish in these pages.