Midnite Rendezvous

Pic: At my place, Someday
4.28 am by my watch. A bleary dark and cold Sunday morning. Let me finish this before I run out of brain. She would have been after my life if she had been here. But she isn't. And I ran off for the night.

I came back from office. The terror scenario had almost got the better of me. But I managed to survive. The high cost of newsprint has perhaps rocked ship. From when did The Economic Times start reporting about how Bollywood feels after a terrorist attack. But hey, cm'n I am being too short sighted here. People read this sort of stuff! No one is fuckin interested to read what Vijay Mallya ate for breakfast. That guy anyways needs a treadmill and some serious motivation.

She is like the rain on a sad Monday afternoon. She would go pitter patter on the tin roof, making you feel her presence, making you see her through the oh-so-far-away window, yet you would have to get wet if you really wanted to know her. But it didn't rain tonight.

I had three pegs of whisky to myself and a lot of melancholy. Friends were jokes during a crisis - meaningless. I missed talking. I got drunk. Don't know how.

The Haryana border is not too far from here. Tuglaqabad Fort takes 5 mins, then the dark and winding Surajkund Road another 10 mins, and then finally the police checkpost before you reach the booze shop. But tonite no amount of banging on the steel doors could wake up those bastards. I kicked started my motorcycle again and hit the highway with a debit card and 200 bucks.

It felt nice. The uncertainty. The thump from the engine felt warm. But no booze shop and I was running out of petrol.

Finally, I saw the comforting neons of a bunk. I cut the power and the sleeping attendants cut me in half. I took the risk. I was ready to wait out the night. It felt nice doing things that I had stopped doing. And I know that she would disagree.

Trucks whizzed by. I didn't feel scared. I felt close to them. Surprising, since I had become very cautious lately. And then I realized that I was lost.

It feels strange at first when you lose your reference point. Then you lose the panic as well. And a calm settles down. And you don't realise when you start enjoying, chewing your tension for breakfast. For me, it was love at first sight. Meeting an unknown piece of territory was like seeing a foreign land for the first time. Makes you feel excited. Makes you feel lovely. But she would never have understood.

Anyways, my back is aching now. Haven't changed yet. My hands are dirty and I feel like washing my face. I have reached home safely and had also stopped on the way for chai and cream roll. Sorry, couldn't get any for you. And by the way, I had managed to get petrol too. The bugger at the bunk first made me swipe my card to see whether it was working or not! Talk about brand equity.

On the road, it doesn't matter.

Where am I?

Photo: Didi's living room, Goa
I was going through a ‘sensational’ blog last night. It is maintained by a ‘self-proclaimed’ messiah/watchdog of the Indian media. Nothing wrong in that except that I found his preference of Sasha Grey a little strange. (She had a brief mention in one of his posts) :)
Unfortunately, a comment on one of his posts has a mention of me too. (I am being called a moron in it) and I will skip the smiley this time.
Sometimes, I feel like keeping a blog like that. There is a lot of juicy gossip out there that can make ordinary readers feel like Playboy voyeurs and the writer, Hefner’s son in law. But then again I think about how I want to be remembered after I die. Long shot this but I let the arrow fly nevertheless. When you die you don’t really care where the bull is, do you?
Call it laziness or call it what you will. I can’t just let morons inspire me.
The last line was important. Don’t worry about it though. You wouldn’t understand it anyways.

Observations (Part 1)

Photo by spirenas: Street of Calcutta

My teeth chattered rhythmically as the rickety old cycle-rickshaw snaked and shuddered through the narrow lane. Nothing had changed. The trees were still standing tall. The huge ponds still had enough water for young children to splash across. The scenes passed by me in slow motion and I didn’t realise that the rickshaw had slowed down in front of a big black iron gate. “My home,” I muttered to myself.
The rickshaw puller waited, as I put my bag on the ground and patted my pockets for my wallet. “How much is it,” I asked. He stood quietly, wiping the sweat off his temple with a dirty yellow ‘gamcha’. Then as if shy to ask, he looked the other way and mumbled: “Char taka.” (Four rupees) I settled it at ten and hurt, waited for ‘ma’ to open the door.
It was nice to be back.
Well, that was then. Lately, I suddenly realised how far I have come. The connection with my past is just a series of black and white photographs in my head. Sometimes, when I am alone on my balcony, smoking — thoughts of Calcutta come gushing back like a flash flood.

Wintry nights and racing rats

Pic: Delhi, November 2008

Winters always have had this habit. They change a lot of things. Every season, with the dropping leaves, an old chapter ends. Every year, during this time, I grow up.
Last year, Anand was here. This year, he isn’t.
Year before last, Crazy was here. This year, she isn’t.
Next year, something else will change.
Indra, do you remember those days? Dark green sweaters and gold striped ties. School went by slowly and winter by winter we all grew up. Or did we?
Each day passes by like a fleeting glimpse. I hear people complaining. I see them running, wrapping their dreams around the present — singing their own praises about whatever little they have — as if, they desperately need a word of acknowledgement to sleep well at night.
But isn’t acknowledgement like respect? You got to earn it, don’t you?
Thankfully, Neha is a refreshing change. She smiles and nags her way through the day, uncomplicated, unperturbed and lovely.
And what about me? I am still the same arrogant, insecure and proud bastard that you knew. And I still care a damn about the rats.