"I Am Sure There Is A Better Way To Say What You Just Said. I Am Becoming More Like You."

Every evening sleeps over itself. I follow myself onto the stairs, neither one knows what’s happening. The further I come, the further it goes. I am a long way from home.

2200 hours. Of life that does not augur well for most stuck in it. Glory that is reduced to fragments of its usual self. All accolades dwindle in that one last attempt to feel sane. The skies are livid with obtuse pain; as they witness the haggard bodies scrambling across to reach over, do not get the point.

Its Wednesday. Its rheumatism. The erudite. Its Pearl Jam and then it is Ani DiFranco and then it is Sting.

In the midst of so many gigabytes of unarranged music, there is Pearl Jam's 'Leash'. "Troubled Souls Unite, We Got Ourselves Tonight". Just the beginning captivates, how I can stop the song then. "Get outta my fuckin' face." There is ''All Four Seasons' and there is Porcupine Tree's 'Lazarus', which when searched for results in Sting's 'The Lazarus Heart'. Had I told some, they would have come up with another "its a small world" tag. Unintelligent brooding is the norm of 2007. Though nothing suggests or portends a good or a bad outcome, it is the vicinity of those who move ever so happily that scare me to imagine what is happening. I am normal. But there is something missing. The medical circumstances break even with this trajectory of daily occurrences, frail self-rummaging through past anecdotes and tales of times there have been. Lazarus - Follow me down to the valley below. It’s almost like telling myself that I will somehow manage to complete this. Get over this agony of twisted falls and break silence. Tweed coats look spectacular in English summers. Radiohead's 'Thinking About You' comes out of nowhere, without me. Let us repent NOW. And blogger now saves my drafts automatically. Do not preach, I know what to say and when to say whatever it is that I wish to say.

In the normal life, it has not been hectic. But has been very tiring. I went out of the city towards the mountains this weekend, we drove an old Maruti 800 to Khandala and forth, losing almost half the car, if I may recall. Unintended it was as four of us just left city limits, breeching all posts and saving toll tax to just somewhere. Life flashes before one's eyes in certain instances despite death not being too imminent. One of those times. We stood with the car parked in darkness, next to the sound of 10 waterfalls in chorus. The bridge in front of us, and city lights out of context. Someone's bright idea of switching on the car's parking lights provided icing, to a cake still unbaked. We stood there, honest fireflies all around, we counting them, the picture that may eventually spell very little taken and listening to almost the only two songs on a whole. We then drove back, quiet, emancipated by a prompt trip, which was mere deafness in the silence that has engulfed this whole desire to reach ahead.

Radiohead's 'You And Whose Army' begins, the quaint Thom Yorke monotone ringing in a Thursday, much without that boring string in his voice. An elusive break later, and some further work completed for submissions next week, I am back to my favorite pass time. A nation hobby is what writing should be made to. Maybe someone new will come up with interesting means of describing 123 and whatever is so nuclear about it. Then I also know people who defend the leftist policies for their far-reaching thoughts and they can take everything along with them their death bed. Retardation, in the face of democracy. And then they say we should not have an unhappy life. What am I exactly writing? I do not know. But I want to make sense. I want to get across so much to everyone around without acting seemingly over excited and without that hint of sarcasm. I wish, I wish, I wish = Radiohead's 'The Bends'.

"Two jumps in a week, I bet you think that's pretty clever don't you boy.
Flying on your motorcycle, watching all the ground beneath you drop.
You'd kill yourself for recognition; kill yourself to never ever stop.
You broke another mirror; you're turning into something you are not."

Radiohead's 'High & Dry''. Uninteresting, I know. I have mastered the art of being random, as arbit as it is and trust me, you will never figure out a fucking pattern. However predictable I may become.

Ani DiFranco - "Art may imitate life, but life imitates TV."

Her.

I am still bothering myself with a simple query. Did I have to do this Delhi trip? Was it really that consequential? Nothing really materialized out of it. But then, I would not have achieved value addition in Mumbai either. Trying to construe what all of this could have really blended well into, there is but a little apprehension at going back. Sitting here staring out the aircraft window with Beck entertaining me, this happiness is hard to find. Music, which is so subtle in all means in which it is consumed, is what eventually makes the difference. Yesterday was more than typical depression. I do not know till when this would last. We will meet up once in six months and those two hours will be etched till I meet her again. One good thing out of this whole process is the fact that I can now afford to delete all her saved messages since the last time. As another new process of text has been validated and shall hopefully, be a certain means of getting up to each new dawn. Every time I meet her, it reconciles with me as to how much I still have to read in life. I stopped short of the Kafka collection; I am yet to complete so many classics, which stay rotting. Her chant of Virginia Woolf echoes through this whole grace, magnitude surpassing the want to pick up ‘to the lighthouse’ and get over with it. The best part about her is that I don’t feel like I have much to prove to her. She is happy narrating how her life has been (nothing new) but inculcates some sort of insanity in talk, as if it is yet exciting. She goes off on her old self, as our intelligent souls become fickle minded as we try to rate every mutual friend and every other idiot who chanced a meet with either. This time was slightly better off. We actually went off on a whole trail of India China discussion and eventually, settled the conclusion in sand. She does not know how much I love her.

Another question. What exactly in Love? I used to ask myself and knew for a surety that we love only once and I had been through the whole ordeal and the rest of my life and females I would end interacting with were mere reflections of a good time happening. But maybe it was not love the first time around. I cannot recall the last time I felt so depressed as soon as I left the company of anyone. Each time, well dressed she did come, I did drop her home, she still looked as radiant as she did when I had picked her up. I then changed the angle of the rear view mirror too look at myself out of curiosity and found a forlorn smile, emptied due to worn out eyes.

New Delhi. However much I might have mentioned it previously and compared it to Mumbai has that permanent authority. Ever calm without movement, it is the perfect embodiment of what not to do when peeved. It keeps away the grains that start me to feel wholesome. In a nutshell, the wide roads and empty skies, the daytime haze and nighttime shimmer, the whole not happening city. There is a stark difference yet. Delhi changes as people change, we actually hold power to look at it in our own way. The city adapts. Mumbai, on the other hand, makes a person change. It makes the whole public re think and dilute every notion of doing it ‘on their own’. Street spirit is emancipating and people have the ability to think different from day to day, all the while getting engulfed in their ability to make something new happen.

I wish I were an authority on some subject in life. I am but I do not know on what.
Like me always told her, a la radiohead, “she goes backward, I go forward, somewhere we shall meet”.

Night Delhi. Maybe it is life that beckons. Beck.

Dettol.

The ability to write has gone. Not exactly but it feels better to tell myself that. Because that is when the result seems reasonable, work well done.

Since two weeks, I have been upto more than or maybe not. I have many an achievments to talk to myself about. I have video-graphed a college show, had 8 and a half pitchers in less than 4 visits to toto's in 7 days flat, driven half way to and fro to a farmhouse on Mumbai outskirts semi drunk, swam for half a day in a 'talaab', heard a band play stage without monitors, got an apple, claimed a place on the 'poor joke' walk of fame - read for examples etc. Not interesting, I know. This is life. And yes, I am over with my law presentation and am enjoying moments spent in movies and music, all sourced from various people. I speak to one person on a daily basis and google my way out of this unholy spectrum of pessmistic joy.

I have to upload pictures, have money to repay, have marketing phone calls to make, project deadlines harbouring, a New Delhi trip starting tomorrow (first time when I cannot wait to get home), and so many people to tick off from the list of "people I like to talk to".

Examples as told above -

Q. What do you call Las Vegas the day it comes into fashion?
A. Las Vogues.

Q. When a Mumbai person says "apun", how do you reply?
A. Intended or Unintended.

I have also accomplished consumption of a Custard Apple in one hour, semi stuck to one place, eating it for all its worth, a state of brilliance. I have written poetry this past week. I have seen rain and the sun but I am not the only one.

I got to go home. I have to update this space before I realize in 2011 that I do not remember anything of what happened.

Fuck off.