30 October, 2010

hasty snatches

 Time, tide and deadlines wait for none. And I don't particularly want to do a Canute here.
    Where have all the bloggers gone? The neurotic, manic-depressive and oh-so-reassuring (magnificently fueling the 'if you're in shit hey look, there's someone shittier!' complex) ones.
   They became whole once more, existential angst were outgrown along with teenage braces and half-formed ideals and pakami. Leading whole lives in the fullness of time, with no reason to whine. Tradition be damned!
   What remains is a handful of brittle leaves of yesteryears. Thake shudhu ondhokar, mukhomukhi boshibaar...
   Read a few good books after a long time. Kerouac's On the road. And all the jazz associated with why i wanted to read it in the first place. Then Lust for life on van Gogh. And yes, my ears are still intact though it prodded me into picking up palette and paint - resulting in a brilliantly horrendous canvas. Skimmed through Arthur Haley's Hotel. After the uncompromising reality of Irving Stone it didn't quite cut the mark.
 Now back to Eliot's evenings spread out against the sky. Early in the morning too!
 Finally classified myself into an obsessive-compulsive nostalgic. The whole looking back and 'how green was my valley' thing. Every time.  Oh no, never vocal. College spurts on like paste from a tube and I remain ensconced in my Dylan and Cohen and the sudden Beethoven.
 We are nostalgics to the hilt - taru, myself and a few others. It has always been the Beatles and Dylan, Sinatra and
  This blog has withstood many a fevered tirade against nothing in particular.


 There was a time when this place was all about swift dusks, solitary evenings and half-known pangs of longing. Of evenings that become nights with always the damn it's already dark. Long walks, longer talks with dark eyes.
   The one that begins from park circus (near the church, where the tram stops and I check out others), past Zeeshan's aroma of kebabs (gentle ribbing at my apetite for mughlai. I retort: "tui toh na kheyeo ekta mutki!") onwards down the gentle curve of the divider, thinking of all that could've been and talking of queen jane. approximately. and at Gariahat it ends, too soon as always.
   There was a time when I would have cabbed from there all the way, dropping you off safely outside the gate and then sit back savoring the cab's now-empty interiors. Like a knight-errant after some completed quest.

 Not so now. Too much water flowing under too rickety a bridge. This bill's not mine to pay anymore.

Wishing for winter

Never really went for the winters in this city. There too little of the chill, a tame breeze while the mind is borne on gusty gales. Whatever. Yes that remains my second favourite word. Right after the f word. My my, how like a sodding choir boy, all doe-eyed innocence. Blah!
 It's still warm, the breathe doesn't rise in clouds yet. I'm waiting for the bite in the morning breeze. There's plans for a trip to Spiti and beyond during the summer breaks. With my brother-in-law who works with snow leopards. That distant thought -along with others- is sustaining me now. The mountains again!

 Tried to make a film. Did not work. On the same note: college canceled the film show. Is this a message of sorts? Like ... stick to your subjects dude, write some half-decent code for a change and leave the more rigorous creative pursuits to the mandarins who smoke up outside arts departments of renowned universities (unlike my own).

 Exams round the corner. Work work. Played warcraft after ages - Insane undead and all that.

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