On the right kind of day, CCR is the only rock band worth listening to! Apocryphal, perhaps, but so true. There's something about how the deep bass lines, tinny-lilting lead riffs and the strained, gravelly vocals all come together that creates music that's quite unlike anything else.
Today's one of those days and all morning has been a long, unbroken chain of
SuziQFortunateSonHeardItThroughTheGrapevine
PutASpellOnYouBadMoonRisingLodiGreenRiver
DownOnTheCornerHeyTonightSweetHitchHiker
And, on the right kind of day, I shouldn't have to say any more than this. Do I hear the crowd say Aye? Do I?
So we went clubbing the other night.
Just the four of us- Aby, Om, Ben and me. Saturday nights are usually complete write-offs for stags in Delhi but there are times when you just have to get right down and jiggy with it. This was one of those times.
Earlier in the evening we'd done The Village Cafe- good place for metalheads and classic rock fans, and, one of the few places in Delhi where they'll still let you smoke away to glory, or death- as the case may be, and we'd slummed it out at Al Bake and stuffed our faces on some of the best schwarma this side of the Yamuna. The point being- we were four very satiated beings on the long drive back to Noida, looking forward to a night of Beer-ing and Weed-ing, until Meeoow happened! Meeoow being the sole reason we still, occasionally, tune in to FM in Delhi.
Methinks its hard not to sing along when the theme for the night is cheesy-singalong-songs-from-the-80s-and-90s. So sing along we did. All the way. From New Friends Colony to Southex and up and down the numerous flyovers and over the DND in to Noida. By the time we got off the DND we had this irresistible, almost primal, urge to go dancing to cheesy numbers all night!
So we went clubbing that night.
But, as I said, Saturday nights are usually complete write-offs for stags in Delhi. So mission one turned out to be hunting down a club that would let in four delirious stags singing cheesy 90s numbers at the top of their voices. We finally found one. It had a dance floor the size of an average Mumbai bathroom and a DJ called Harkirat-Singh-something-or-the-other. But, and these are the good bits, it was packed to the rafters (something like that, anyway) with nubile bodies of the female persuasion all writhing to the cheesiest, desiest dance numbers ever, and they threw in bottles of beer into the bargain!
So we went clubbing that night.
We got right down and jiggied with it. Just like that. Thanks to the Molotov Cocktail of 90s pop, writhing women and good old spontaneity the night turned out legen - wait for it - dary!
Just the four of us- Aby, Om, Ben and me. Saturday nights are usually complete write-offs for stags in Delhi but there are times when you just have to get right down and jiggy with it. This was one of those times.
Earlier in the evening we'd done The Village Cafe- good place for metalheads and classic rock fans, and, one of the few places in Delhi where they'll still let you smoke away to glory, or death- as the case may be, and we'd slummed it out at Al Bake and stuffed our faces on some of the best schwarma this side of the Yamuna. The point being- we were four very satiated beings on the long drive back to Noida, looking forward to a night of Beer-ing and Weed-ing, until Meeoow happened! Meeoow being the sole reason we still, occasionally, tune in to FM in Delhi.
Methinks its hard not to sing along when the theme for the night is cheesy-singalong-songs-from-the-80s-and-90s. So sing along we did. All the way. From New Friends Colony to Southex and up and down the numerous flyovers and over the DND in to Noida. By the time we got off the DND we had this irresistible, almost primal, urge to go dancing to cheesy numbers all night!
So we went clubbing that night.
But, as I said, Saturday nights are usually complete write-offs for stags in Delhi. So mission one turned out to be hunting down a club that would let in four delirious stags singing cheesy 90s numbers at the top of their voices. We finally found one. It had a dance floor the size of an average Mumbai bathroom and a DJ called Harkirat-Singh-something-or-the-other. But, and these are the good bits, it was packed to the rafters (something like that, anyway) with nubile bodies of the female persuasion all writhing to the cheesiest, desiest dance numbers ever, and they threw in bottles of beer into the bargain!
So we went clubbing that night.
We got right down and jiggied with it. Just like that. Thanks to the Molotov Cocktail of 90s pop, writhing women and good old spontaneity the night turned out legen - wait for it - dary!
A schoolboy crush on a 20 something film star, if it hits you when you're touching 30 and over a decade out of school, can be quite discomfiting!
I remember watching an extremely sanitised version of Blue Lagoon as a schoolkid and falling head-over-heels in love with the then nubile Brooke Shields (yeah well, we all have moments in our past that underscore our dodgy taste, don't we?). I had a huge poster of the love of my life (a rather flattering black and white affair from Archie's that I had to wait a month to receive after I had paid in full) put up in my room and wrote her mushy poems in a tattered, but lovingly maintained, diary that, happily, has not survived the ravages of the succeeding years. My parents were scandalised but rationalised it as a rebellious display of raging hormones and new found sexuality.
Now, of course, things are much easier. I don't have to wait a month for gratification. I have google images, imdb, facebook and orkut fan pages and scores of celebrity tracker websites- all vying for my time, and the opportunity to satiate my prurient longing (sic).
What I don't have, however, is rationale. My constant rebellion has found other, more fruitful avenues to express itself. My raging hormones have settled down into an efficient, harmonious rhythm and my sexuality is hardly new found anymore!
And yet, despite the hilarity of the situation, I find myself succumbing to this deep, urgent need to do a quick google. I haven't seen if she photographs well against white backgrounds or in swimsuits or in natural light or without cans and cans of matte effect make up. Perhaps I'll strike lucky this time? Maybe her phone number will turn up on the 69th page? There could be a contest, lurking somewhere on page 101, that gets me a dinner date with her? Sure it's a chance in a million, but with a billion people in this country alone those've got be great odds, right?
I will, probably, have to hit the gym and get my very own set of six packs, just in case the date thingie does happen (don't even think about saying it!). I'll have to hire a stylist. I'll have to get myself a PR person, just in case the date thingie doesn't happen, to get me to all the dos she frequents. A few dance lessons won't hurt either, methinks.
I'm told her current boyfriend has a substantial fan following in his own right so I'll probably need to start and fund a few fan clubs of my own (suitably financed through proxy off-shore accounts and untraceable, looped back wire transfers). Ah, what the hell, while I'm at it I may as well buy myself a couple of pre-emptive cosmetic enhancements courtesy the marvels of modern medical science and technology.
I wonder if my family will be as understanding this time around. I mean, its a sordid tale underneath all this hilarity. But love hurts, right?
Sigh...
I remember watching an extremely sanitised version of Blue Lagoon as a schoolkid and falling head-over-heels in love with the then nubile Brooke Shields (yeah well, we all have moments in our past that underscore our dodgy taste, don't we?). I had a huge poster of the love of my life (a rather flattering black and white affair from Archie's that I had to wait a month to receive after I had paid in full) put up in my room and wrote her mushy poems in a tattered, but lovingly maintained, diary that, happily, has not survived the ravages of the succeeding years. My parents were scandalised but rationalised it as a rebellious display of raging hormones and new found sexuality.
Now, of course, things are much easier. I don't have to wait a month for gratification. I have google images, imdb, facebook and orkut fan pages and scores of celebrity tracker websites- all vying for my time, and the opportunity to satiate my prurient longing (sic).
What I don't have, however, is rationale. My constant rebellion has found other, more fruitful avenues to express itself. My raging hormones have settled down into an efficient, harmonious rhythm and my sexuality is hardly new found anymore!
And yet, despite the hilarity of the situation, I find myself succumbing to this deep, urgent need to do a quick google. I haven't seen if she photographs well against white backgrounds or in swimsuits or in natural light or without cans and cans of matte effect make up. Perhaps I'll strike lucky this time? Maybe her phone number will turn up on the 69th page? There could be a contest, lurking somewhere on page 101, that gets me a dinner date with her? Sure it's a chance in a million, but with a billion people in this country alone those've got be great odds, right?
I will, probably, have to hit the gym and get my very own set of six packs, just in case the date thingie does happen (don't even think about saying it!). I'll have to hire a stylist. I'll have to get myself a PR person, just in case the date thingie doesn't happen, to get me to all the dos she frequents. A few dance lessons won't hurt either, methinks.
I'm told her current boyfriend has a substantial fan following in his own right so I'll probably need to start and fund a few fan clubs of my own (suitably financed through proxy off-shore accounts and untraceable, looped back wire transfers). Ah, what the hell, while I'm at it I may as well buy myself a couple of pre-emptive cosmetic enhancements courtesy the marvels of modern medical science and technology.
I wonder if my family will be as understanding this time around. I mean, its a sordid tale underneath all this hilarity. But love hurts, right?
Sigh...
"Sahil, you're such a nice guy!"
She delivered those words with all the vehemence of a well directed expletive. It's an art- to take a sunshine-sweet word like nice and turn it into a cuss word. And she's an artist.
The conversation started, like so many conversations between single friends of opposite genders do, with the fragile nature of relationships, touched upon sex, or the lack of it, off late, in our respective lives and ended, for her at least, on that slap-in-the-face note. She'd shot it out of her system the way I'd have shot out a frustrated Fuck! or a despondent Behenchod! and that was, as far as she was concerned, that.
And I was left alone with my thoughts, to ponder over what she had just said. Or rather, over what I thought I had just heard.
I think her outburst stemmed from what I said in response to her observation that I needed to get laid. I don't think she meant 'with her' because that would be quite unlike her. I think she meant it like she'd have meant 'You need a glass of water', not necessarily implying that I should drink from her glass, just that I should call for my own. And I said that perhaps this was true but I couldn't jump into bed with the first attractive and willing woman I found.
Sex is about physicality, yes. But sex without a certain emotional and intellectual connection is, for me, about as exciting, and appealing, as a cup of tepid chai. I mean, it's still chai but it's not CHAI!
She reckons sex is, at the end of the day, just sex. I reckon I know how to jack off, and that works fine when the physical release is all I need, but it's dashed impossible to make love to a hand! She reckons I'm being too nice about the whole deal, which is probably her way of saying I need to be more of a prick.
So here's the thing- Wham bam, thank you ma'am doesn't work for me. I've tried. I need sex to be everything that it can be, and has been, for me. Even one night stands need to be emotionally and intellectually more involving than glorified hand-jobs. I can't settle for less because it's not good enough.
How does that make me a nice guy? And, if it does, why is that such a bad thing?
Mau: One person is nothing. But two people, they can make a nation!
Pilu: And three people? What do three people make?
Mau: A bigger nation!
Currently reading Nation by Terry Pratchett and its turning out to be a wonderful read. As with every other Pratchett book I've read, it's funny in just the right way. And if you peel away the layers you end up with a story that shows amazing insights into the way people live their lives and deal with joy and sorrow. I'd recommend it to everyone.
Pilu: And three people? What do three people make?
Mau: A bigger nation!
Currently reading Nation by Terry Pratchett and its turning out to be a wonderful read. As with every other Pratchett book I've read, it's funny in just the right way. And if you peel away the layers you end up with a story that shows amazing insights into the way people live their lives and deal with joy and sorrow. I'd recommend it to everyone.
A song about having a dream to hold on to.
A song about the joy of making it come true.
Caralisa Monteiro's voice is haunting and seductive, both at once. This rendition is a fitting finale to a Bollywood flick that I actually enjoyed watching (and those have been few and far between). And I'm posting it here because it's been in my head for the last three days, and putting it out here is the only way I know of getting it out of my head. It's a beautiful song but I need my head for a couple of other things right now.
And if you like it as much as I do, buy the CD. It doesn't cost a lot of money. And it's worth it if only for this one song...
__________
aankhon mein jiske
koi toh khwaab hai
khush hai wohi jo
thoda betaab hai
zindagi mein koi
arzoo kijiye
phir dekhiye...
honthon pe jiske
koi toh geet hai
woh haare bhi toh
uski hi jeet hai
dil mein jo geet hai
gunguna lijiye
phir dekhiye...
yaadon mein jiski
kissi ka naam hai
sapnon ke jaisi
uski har shaam hai
koi toh ho jisse
apna dil dijiye
phir dekhiye...
khwaab buniye zaraa
geet suniye zaraa
phool chuniye zaraa
phir dekhiye...
A song about the joy of making it come true.
Caralisa Monteiro's voice is haunting and seductive, both at once. This rendition is a fitting finale to a Bollywood flick that I actually enjoyed watching (and those have been few and far between). And I'm posting it here because it's been in my head for the last three days, and putting it out here is the only way I know of getting it out of my head. It's a beautiful song but I need my head for a couple of other things right now.
And if you like it as much as I do, buy the CD. It doesn't cost a lot of money. And it's worth it if only for this one song...
__________
aankhon mein jiske
koi toh khwaab hai
khush hai wohi jo
thoda betaab hai
zindagi mein koi
arzoo kijiye
phir dekhiye...
honthon pe jiske
koi toh geet hai
woh haare bhi toh
uski hi jeet hai
dil mein jo geet hai
gunguna lijiye
phir dekhiye...
yaadon mein jiski
kissi ka naam hai
sapnon ke jaisi
uski har shaam hai
koi toh ho jisse
apna dil dijiye
phir dekhiye...
khwaab buniye zaraa
geet suniye zaraa
phool chuniye zaraa
phir dekhiye...
That's the answer. The full monty.
And it took all of 100 Rupees to find out.
Bye bye bright white number plate...
ek akshar lihaava
ek tap thaambaava
mag dusra akshar
anhi tithech mrutyu
Translated-
write one letter
and wait a lifetime
then the next letter
and then, there is death
__________
aayushya ovaalun taakaava
ashi ek kavitaa
na uchchaarlelyaa kaahi shabdaanchi
na rekhlelyaa don ek akshar maatraanchi
na korlelyaa ekhadyaa binduchi
bhalyaa pahaate lihili ekaa jhaadaana
gaaylich paahije malaa
urlelyaa aayushya bhar
Translated-
a poem worth a life
of a few words, unsaid
of two lines, unmarked
of a single dot, uncarved
written by a tree
at the crack of dawn
i will sing it
my remaining life
__________
These words were written by RK Joshi. Designer, calligraphist, typographer, linguist, poet, adman, educationist and one of the most inspirational people I have ever met. He passed away earlier this year and left a huge void that may never be filled again.
ek tap thaambaava
mag dusra akshar
anhi tithech mrutyu
Translated-
write one letter
and wait a lifetime
then the next letter
and then, there is death
__________
aayushya ovaalun taakaava
ashi ek kavitaa
na uchchaarlelyaa kaahi shabdaanchi
na rekhlelyaa don ek akshar maatraanchi
na korlelyaa ekhadyaa binduchi
bhalyaa pahaate lihili ekaa jhaadaana
gaaylich paahije malaa
urlelyaa aayushya bhar
Translated-
a poem worth a life
of a few words, unsaid
of two lines, unmarked
of a single dot, uncarved
written by a tree
at the crack of dawn
i will sing it
my remaining life
__________
These words were written by RK Joshi. Designer, calligraphist, typographer, linguist, poet, adman, educationist and one of the most inspirational people I have ever met. He passed away earlier this year and left a huge void that may never be filled again.
Very recently I changed my facebook status. Here's what it says-
I didn't realise what I had started with what I thought was a fairly innocuous statement.
For starters, I received a lot of questions in response. Questions like 'What are you inspired by?', and others with a similar drift. I received these questions as facebook comments, over the email, on the chat and, in one awakening instance, a concerned friend calling me late in the night from a different time zone! My answer was, a fairly anemic sounding 'The world, dude!'. Which did kind of sum it up nicely while completely failing to mention what it was that it was summing up.
So I thought an explanation was due. So I thought since I was going to be thinking anyway, and trying to articulate my thoughts through words anyway, I may as well do it here and make a post of it. It may turn out to be a completely meaningless post for the most part, but it will be a post nonetheless. Another little box ticked for today.
So here's what inspired me to announce I was inspired-
Life is inspiring. If you have it in you to be inspired by it. Every problem is also an opportunity. All you need is to be able to look at it with hope rather than despair. Sahil loves to talk in cliches!
But you don't have to take my word for it. A lot of people seem to think so. Believe so. People who've made it their life's mission to be inspired by life and change the world. Go take a look. Perhaps you'll come away inspired...
"Sahil is inspired!"
I didn't realise what I had started with what I thought was a fairly innocuous statement.
For starters, I received a lot of questions in response. Questions like 'What are you inspired by?', and others with a similar drift. I received these questions as facebook comments, over the email, on the chat and, in one awakening instance, a concerned friend calling me late in the night from a different time zone! My answer was, a fairly anemic sounding 'The world, dude!'. Which did kind of sum it up nicely while completely failing to mention what it was that it was summing up.
So I thought an explanation was due. So I thought since I was going to be thinking anyway, and trying to articulate my thoughts through words anyway, I may as well do it here and make a post of it. It may turn out to be a completely meaningless post for the most part, but it will be a post nonetheless. Another little box ticked for today.
So here's what inspired me to announce I was inspired-
- The fact that I quit my job. Really. Just like that. More or less. If you knew me you'd know, also, that its not something I've been known to do. But I did it. I did it because something had been gnawing me from the inside for a long time now. A thought. It made me very dissatisfied with my work and my life, and what I had made it. Don't get me wrong- there's nothing quite wrong about what I do for a living. But it wasn't bringing any meaning to my life. It wasn't defining who I am. And now I see a life of possibilities ahead of me. I begin to see myself as separate from the work I do. And that means I can see myself in a completely new light. I know I might fail. But if I do I'm going to make a celebration of it. And that is inspirng.
- The fact that a lot of my colleagues, friends and professional acquaintances have approached me since I've quit and expressed their solidarity with what I'm planning to do. Everyone has been congratulatory. Most have been supportive. My closest friends, and my parents, have been believing. And many have offered their unconditional help. There are people who want to be a part of what I am going to start. People who share the same vision for this world we live in. That is inspiring.
- The fact that I don't have to see my work as a job anymore. Work is whatever I want to make of it. If I can make money out of what I enjoy doing, that's work enough for me. I can travel. I can write. I can make pictures. I can design. I can do a hundred other things that I've had a mind to do. And it won't be a job. It will be a life. And that is inspiring.
- The fact that I will be moving out of Ahmedabad soon. Five years in one place can dull your senses somewhat. Living in a comfort zone is nice. But its a tad dangerous for someone who makes a living forging order out of chaos. Life is out there in the boundary regions- that fuzzy zone between confusion and knowing. And I will be moving there. That is inspiring.
- The fact that a friend wrote me this. I will be moving to a city that I've never much fancied. Never much liked. It feels empowering to know that there's at least one person in that place that looks forward to my being there. It feels great to be wanted. It feels great to be loved. And that is inspiring.
Life is inspiring. If you have it in you to be inspired by it. Every problem is also an opportunity. All you need is to be able to look at it with hope rather than despair. Sahil loves to talk in cliches!
But you don't have to take my word for it. A lot of people seem to think so. Believe so. People who've made it their life's mission to be inspired by life and change the world. Go take a look. Perhaps you'll come away inspired...
There was a dream once.
Of white picket fences
and chubby faced children
and much joy and happiness.
Of love
and you.
A dream I'd quite forgotten all these years.
A dream that came back to me today.
It was a happy dream.
It is a sad dream.
Of white picket fences
and chubby faced children
and much joy and happiness.
Of love
and you.
A dream I'd quite forgotten all these years.
A dream that came back to me today.
It was a happy dream.
It is a sad dream.
A musty melancholy settles on me
like days old cigarette smoke.
A dog-end lingers between my fingers
and a coffee cup, unattended, festers.
I miss you friend, for it was never about the coffee
but the bond we shared-
a meeting of minds
a celebration
of kindred spirits.
like days old cigarette smoke.
A dog-end lingers between my fingers
and a coffee cup, unattended, festers.
I miss you friend, for it was never about the coffee
but the bond we shared-
a meeting of minds
a celebration
of kindred spirits.
Something struck me with the violence of a serial killer wielding a jackhammer as I read Mallu's blog a few minutes back. His post about drawing ever shrinking chalk circles around ourselves struck a chord and reminded me of circles of a different kind, yet no less sinister. Ever expanding circles. Without end. And without god.
Here's that thought. The one I was reminded of. Neatly encapsulated in one of the most poignant poems I've ever read. Perhaps its casual, almost conversational tone renders it all the more poignant. You decide-
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
Here's that thought. The one I was reminded of. Neatly encapsulated in one of the most poignant poems I've ever read. Perhaps its casual, almost conversational tone renders it all the more poignant. You decide-
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
I've realised that a lot of breakfasts, and lunches and dinners, have gone by since the last post. None of them seem to have provided the necessary mental fortification to conjure up a deep and meaningful sequel to the Wall.E entry. Instead, what we have is an obituary. Right here. This one.
This is the post that tells you it ain't happening. The sequel, that is. This is also the post that tells you that it (again, the sequel) seems to have died a foetal death.
May its soul rest in peace. Amen.
It is 4.37 in the ay-em. And I am, uncharacteristically, awake. Part of it has to do with a very fucked up sleep cycle on account of just having been through an extended weekend.
The other, larger part has to do with Wall.E
Yeah. The animated Disney-Pixar film. The one that I've been watching for the last couple of hours (almost). Its funny how a story about robots can leave one awake and pondering about life, love and other mushy bits in the wee hours of the morning!
This one's going to turn into a rant about 'directives'. I know that. I can see it coming. Or, as someone I once knew would've put it- I can feel it in my water. But perhaps that is a post for another time. For after breakfast, maybe. Some things need to be reviewed in the light of a full stomach.
nine to five jobs
feeling dead
not paid enough
it's all in my head
old love
life stopped mid-tread
being shut out
it's all in my head
possibilities
playing hard to get
running around
it's all in my head
it's all in my head
feeling dead
not paid enough
it's all in my head
old love
life stopped mid-tread
being shut out
it's all in my head
possibilities
playing hard to get
running around
it's all in my head
it's all in my head
Pretensions
Of happyness
Of love
Chemical highs
Just chemicals
And pretensions
Of being
Of meaning
Pseudo-intellectual illusions
Just illusions
And pretensions
Everyone's leaping
To a programmed death
And pretending
To own
A life
Of happyness
Of love
Chemical highs
Just chemicals
And pretensions
Of being
Of meaning
Pseudo-intellectual illusions
Just illusions
And pretensions
Everyone's leaping
To a programmed death
And pretending
To own
A life
A lean-to tree
leaning against
the late evening sky.
A scraggy skeleton
sillhouette
holding up the heavens
in it's fragile
burden-weary arms.
A bustling city
of life.
Ants and beetles and bees
Thrushes and caracals and wrens.
And one solitary
human.
Leaning against the
lean-to.
leaning against
the late evening sky.
A scraggy skeleton
sillhouette
holding up the heavens
in it's fragile
burden-weary arms.
A bustling city
of life.
Ants and beetles and bees
Thrushes and caracals and wrens.
And one solitary
human.
Leaning against the
lean-to.
Closeted in the redundant safety
of a concrete shell,
looking out.
I see the curtain descend;
shimmering, iridescent sheet,
each drop blurring into the next.
I watch the grass drink up the elixir;
I watch it glow, with life.
I listen to the sound the roof makes;
pitter-pattering in ecstasy
from the teasing, playing rain.
I think of every single time I've felt rain on my body;
the touch, little rivulets flowing down my face,
drenched clothes clinging, clinging for dear warmth.
I remember the pleasure of being out in the rain
and i know-
even within this concrete shell,
the rain still falls down on me.
of a concrete shell,
looking out.
I see the curtain descend;
shimmering, iridescent sheet,
each drop blurring into the next.
I watch the grass drink up the elixir;
I watch it glow, with life.
I listen to the sound the roof makes;
pitter-pattering in ecstasy
from the teasing, playing rain.
I think of every single time I've felt rain on my body;
the touch, little rivulets flowing down my face,
drenched clothes clinging, clinging for dear warmth.
I remember the pleasure of being out in the rain
and i know-
even within this concrete shell,
the rain still falls down on me.
You remember that garishly painted whore?
The one we laughed at, that mad night in Bombay?
That is you.
A halftone ad in a two-bit tabloid.
Too bright, too loud, too obvious.
The very epitome of crass.
And perversely, an object of my fantasy.
A nadir- to own and violate
and derive a kind of sick pleasure from.
It feels, a little, like biting back that gag reflex
and feeling sick but good
that I've conquered an animal part of me.
The one we laughed at, that mad night in Bombay?
That is you.
A halftone ad in a two-bit tabloid.
Too bright, too loud, too obvious.
The very epitome of crass.
And perversely, an object of my fantasy.
A nadir- to own and violate
and derive a kind of sick pleasure from.
It feels, a little, like biting back that gag reflex
and feeling sick but good
that I've conquered an animal part of me.
New-made friends are nice
Like new-bought books;
Covers a-gleaming
Shiny spotless
Smelling freshness.
Waiting to be read.
Like new-bought books;
Covers a-gleaming
Shiny spotless
Smelling freshness.
Waiting to be read.
I always love reading through the little teasers on the back of books. Somehow they seem to capture the essence and personality of the book beautifully. It's a strange career to imagine, though, writing book teasers...
Here's what the teaser at the back of Thief of Time says-
I'm loving it!
Here's what the teaser at the back of Thief of Time says-
Time is a resource. Everyone knows it has to be managed. And on Discworld that is the job of the Monks of History, who store it and pump it from places where it's wasted (like underwater - how much time does a codfish need?) to places like cities where there's never enough time.
Thief of Time comes complete with a full supporting cast of heroes and villains, yetis, martial artists and Ronnie, the fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse (who left before they became famous).
I'm loving it!
I'm a lazy git. Let's face it. I think this whole business started as that- me being me.
A shiny new bike it was. I'd just picked it up. Paid a king's ransom for it too. A 'true blue thumper' my friend calls it. I refer to it as the cantankerous old lady. But I'm digressing, and I do that a lot. So, as I said, a shiny new bike it was. And what with drooling over it (NOT literally, sheesh!) and spending all my spare time tinkering with it and keeping it shiny and new, there never seemed to be any time left for all the legal niceties. Or so I kept telling myself. You know what I mean- getting the 'lady' registered with the local authorities, obtaining a registration number and defacing the spanking white licence plate with old world serif versions of said number. Things like that. But mostly, I think, it was the fact that I am, and I've admitted as much before, a lazy git.
And so, time passed. Sizeable chunks of it, in fact. And the bike remained 'illegal'. Not that that stopped me from riding it around town. Or out of it, for that matter. There's something about owning and riding a 'true blue thumper' that massages your ego and makes you feel like twice the man that you are. Though I've never quite figured out what that's supposed to mean. Perhaps that I have two of... Ummm... Never mind.
The more I rode, the more the theory seemed to make sense- the law doesn't seem to be too keen to mess about with thumper riders. Perhaps the fact that the bike weighs a quarter of a ton leads them to believe that the owner must weigh at least as much, if not more. Not quite the kind of person that the law (insert picture of friendly neighbourhood pot bellied, balding, middle aged, khaki clad official) wants to be messing with, ne?
And so a seed was planted. And it sparked to life, nourished itself and, sometime later, sprouted an idea. Not very bright, or even unique, as ideas go but an idea nevertheless. The idea was this-
And more time passed. Huge swathes of it. And with the passing of time, my confidence grew. Hitherto, no cop had ever cared to examine the bareness of my license plate. None had ever stopped me or asked me to pull over to the side of the road for a 'friendly chat'. In fact, it seemed to me, the law went out of its way to pretend I did not exist. In an Adamsian world me, and my bike, would've been the proverbial SEP- Someone Else's Problem.
My new found confidence, or bravado if you will, has led me to do strange things indeed, to see if the law could be persuaded to brush with me. Well, not brush with me, per se, if you know what I mean. Purely in the spirit of scientific inquiry, and all that, of course. There's a theory to be proved, after all. So I have left my bike illegally parked. Often unlocked and unprotected. Twice in front of a police station. I have impudently ridden it up to the friendly neighbourhood guardian of the law to innocently ask for directions to a place I didn't need to go to. I have ridden across states. And back.
The law, however, seems resolute in its stand against my continued, and increasingly annoying, existence. Or that of my bike, at the very least.
9000kms, at last count, of a bright white number plate. 9000kms of flaunting the law.
And now I'm curious. Does this happen elsewhere? Is it really about owning the right kind of bike? Or is there a deeper, more sinister game afoot? More crucially, however, what will The Full Monty be?
A shiny new bike it was. I'd just picked it up. Paid a king's ransom for it too. A 'true blue thumper' my friend calls it. I refer to it as the cantankerous old lady. But I'm digressing, and I do that a lot. So, as I said, a shiny new bike it was. And what with drooling over it (NOT literally, sheesh!) and spending all my spare time tinkering with it and keeping it shiny and new, there never seemed to be any time left for all the legal niceties. Or so I kept telling myself. You know what I mean- getting the 'lady' registered with the local authorities, obtaining a registration number and defacing the spanking white licence plate with old world serif versions of said number. Things like that. But mostly, I think, it was the fact that I am, and I've admitted as much before, a lazy git.
And so, time passed. Sizeable chunks of it, in fact. And the bike remained 'illegal'. Not that that stopped me from riding it around town. Or out of it, for that matter. There's something about owning and riding a 'true blue thumper' that massages your ego and makes you feel like twice the man that you are. Though I've never quite figured out what that's supposed to mean. Perhaps that I have two of... Ummm... Never mind.
The more I rode, the more the theory seemed to make sense- the law doesn't seem to be too keen to mess about with thumper riders. Perhaps the fact that the bike weighs a quarter of a ton leads them to believe that the owner must weigh at least as much, if not more. Not quite the kind of person that the law (insert picture of friendly neighbourhood pot bellied, balding, middle aged, khaki clad official) wants to be messing with, ne?
And so a seed was planted. And it sparked to life, nourished itself and, sometime later, sprouted an idea. Not very bright, or even unique, as ideas go but an idea nevertheless. The idea was this-
"How far can I take this whole business? What would be the 'illegal bike riding' equivalent of The Full Monty?"
And more time passed. Huge swathes of it. And with the passing of time, my confidence grew. Hitherto, no cop had ever cared to examine the bareness of my license plate. None had ever stopped me or asked me to pull over to the side of the road for a 'friendly chat'. In fact, it seemed to me, the law went out of its way to pretend I did not exist. In an Adamsian world me, and my bike, would've been the proverbial SEP- Someone Else's Problem.
My new found confidence, or bravado if you will, has led me to do strange things indeed, to see if the law could be persuaded to brush with me. Well, not brush with me, per se, if you know what I mean. Purely in the spirit of scientific inquiry, and all that, of course. There's a theory to be proved, after all. So I have left my bike illegally parked. Often unlocked and unprotected. Twice in front of a police station. I have impudently ridden it up to the friendly neighbourhood guardian of the law to innocently ask for directions to a place I didn't need to go to. I have ridden across states. And back.
The law, however, seems resolute in its stand against my continued, and increasingly annoying, existence. Or that of my bike, at the very least.
9000kms, at last count, of a bright white number plate. 9000kms of flaunting the law.
And now I'm curious. Does this happen elsewhere? Is it really about owning the right kind of bike? Or is there a deeper, more sinister game afoot? More crucially, however, what will The Full Monty be?
Once, in bright white battles in my mind
You were my constant companions
Through joy and sorrow, you held my hand
And spoke to me; for me
Now, years later, visiting again
Ghosts of your former selves; almost unrecognisable
We learn to know one another, again
Like unaccustomed friends
You were my constant companions
Through joy and sorrow, you held my hand
And spoke to me; for me
Now, years later, visiting again
Ghosts of your former selves; almost unrecognisable
We learn to know one another, again
Like unaccustomed friends
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