Something of Myself

The glass was not empty yet.
Happy hour was on.
1+1
Ironical (1+1 does not always make 2).

At times, 1+1 = 1. Or 3.
I know,
It's a mathematical fallacy.

It was so dark, I could not make out what I was drinking.

It was something.
A burning sensation ran down my throat.
Swirling it inside my mouth, I could feel close to the purpose.

Our purpose is to remember and forget.
Simultaneously.

This is not verse, neither is it prose, so why are you thinking about it?

The music was too loud.
So was the crowd.
The face, familiar.
Motions unclear.
I was looking at myself.
I clearly needed help.
How much 'change' a man can be?
I have shocked myself.
I do not need help.

From good to great? Naah! Just being myself. From JD, Malts, Black Label, Teachers to Royal Challenge, and Royal Stag. It's running all over me. Everyday.

The morning is the toughest.
'Dozer through my head.
Just can't get out of the bed.
Sluggish limbs.
Half-baked recollections.
Words floating around.

I want it to be like this. For some more time. Need some more of it inside me. It does me good - helps me to unpack. Look closer. Deeper. Helps me feel things...

Today,
It is not that dark...
The face is changing everyday.
The lines are appearing.
Life's becoming.
Each passing day brings me closer to the final one.

I am waiting. For the final call. So that I can drink up, real smooth and real fast.
We all know, nothing is going to last.

Bottoms up!

He was never the brightest during his school times. In fact, many labelled him as a loser. I met him 7 years back - he was no different, except that thanks to a bank loan, he had got himself to the land of Her Royal Majesty. He was still struggling. Britishness was a thing that he aspired for, and being the odd fellow that he was, integration, or inclusion was not his cuppa.

I met him yesterday. In a digital space. He is working with one of the giant corporations of the world. He has a flat in London. He owns a BMW. He has, as they would say, 'made it.'

------------------------

This babe from the backward region of India had only one thing on her mind when she was 21: get married. Everywhere she went, from Bristol to Bath, from Sussex to Lancaster, from Birmingham to Wales, she was always looking for a 'suitable boy.' Trouble was, she was not very charming, could not speak English, was too dark for any sense of exotica, and most importantly, was a kind of girl you would just try to avoid (even in a 2 hour flight).

She appeared on FHM's cover page, six months ago. She is being hailed with the ranks of a certain Shilpa Poppadum who gave Britain a race for their pounds. She has white men slurping on her feet. She is a British citizen. She is getting married to a guy who works with a leading investment bank (read earns in millions). Boob jobs and plastic surgery does help, but what captures people who know her from age 21 is her transformation in character, and more importantly, her determination to make it big. She has, as they would say, 'made it.'

-------------------------

I, like most individuals, find it extremely convenient to justify my defeats and setbacks by handing all of it onto the hands of unseen idea called Destiny. I wish I could break through this urge to sit back, and blame my circumstances for where I stand today. In some ways, I have begun to respect the above individuals because they took their destiny in their hands, played along the tunes of life, fell, lift themselves up, went against everyone around them, got into trouble, but then single-handedly morphed their destiny to their own tune. Today they sing what they please, and I am confident that their music is going to last as long as they will. People like these truly make a mark. It's not about earning money, or owning a car, or securing a citizenship of a developed country - life's more than that. It's about their struggle and in turn their indomitable spirit. The spirit to look beyond immediate shortcomings, to move on, to listen to their own hearts, to weep but never saying never!

I know none of them are going to read this, but if ever they do, they should know this post stands as a silent testimonial to the way they have 'made it' in life. I wish I had half the steam left in me. I wish I could summon the drive.

There is nothing tragic (or is it comic?) about this: just that a man in his twenties has lost touch with his core being. That said, knowing myself, I know someone, someday, will touch a certain chord in my being that will shake me up - that will wake me from my slumber. For this is nothing else but that: an extended slumber. Life awaits, and I do not need you to tell me that: I am just waiting for the right moment.

We'll celebrate when they speak of me and say - he has 'made it.' Until then, let the Malt age, keep it handy!

I remembered this extract today, I had written it for a friend when I gifted her a copy of the Native Son:

Ship's at a distance have every man's wish on board. For some they come in with the tide. For others, they sail forever on the horizon, never out of sight, never landing until the Watcher turns his eyes away in resignation, his dreams mocked to death by Time. That is the life of men.

Now, women forget all those things they do not want to remember, and remember everything they don't want to forget. The dream is the truth. Then they act and do things accordingly.

Zora Neale Hurston - Their Eyes Were Watching God.

The mind is an amazing place. Here now, in the middle of papers, write-ups, research, copy, edits, and now, among the lush greenery of the Devon countryside, the beaches of Goa; now searching for a sanctum, an old temple, a long-lost friend...

It's amazing how much we travel everyday within a span of seconds. Yet our body clock never gives up. Work takes me inside the boardrooms of CEOs; cricket takes me to Lords, fashion takes me to the streets of Paris, love takes me to my hometown, desire takes me to a convocation ceremony, death takes me to the morgue, novels take me to an unknown land, longing takes me to the mountain tops, advertising takes me inside the minds of the teeming millions, maths takes me to hell, internet takes me to uncharted digital territories (separated by clicks), regret takes me to the old library, the need for self-deception takes me to the old pub...times gone and lost...

I want to break free. Will you be my companion? We will tread softly, avoiding dreams and all. We will not set out to reach anywhere. We will rise, from one point to the other, free-flowing, touch the waters, dip our toes, smell the air, and then when you are tired, we will begin our journey all over again, pretending that we haven't been here before. Yes, T.S.Eliot. If I could only be...

Many Happy Returns of the Day.

You know
I won't forget.
Neither will I forgive.

Pele ekhuno manush hote parlo na. Aaj o taar kaane tomar kotha baaje.

A whiff of dust
I can see nothing.
I can smell the ruins
The leftovers
You just left
Like that
And left me
Alone.

Nothing else to say
Except that I wish
You were around
Life would have piled on Life
I could show you
The difference
In quality.

What strikes me about Calcutta, New Delhi, and London is that each of these cities leave an indelible and everlasting mark on anyone that has lived in these places for some years. Yet, this mark is not a stamp - unfixed and changing, the impressions are, at best, personal.

There is something about cities which moves me. In Calcutta, it's the warmth - food, places, people, taxis, trams, metros, hawkers, tea-shops, tubewells, and even the bureaucratic system that pervades the city, is at some point warm to the one who settles here and makes it his own home. Delhi presents history, and presently displays the logic behind the changing face of India. Delhi's history is evident in its people, its roads, signages, lanes, mosques, debris, monuments, and of course its politics. However, unlike Calcutta, Delhi is caught between two worlds - the old and the wanting-to-be-new-and-fresh-and-all-that! London leaves me confused. At times, the buildings remind me of Calcutta (You got to compare West Minister with Writer's, albeit forgetting the scale and maintenance), the people remind me of Delhi (cold, untouched, reclusive, only unwinding on designated days meant for binge drinking), and the general smell of the air, somehow takes me back to the Empire. These cities speak. And I am sure, so does all the others that I have never had the fortune to live in.

Whenever I have played with the idea of writing a book (unashamedly), I have considered two subjects of interest; and one of them have clearly been the idea of cities, and what it does/means to different people living (perhaps even) in the same neighbourhood. I guess this is the reason why I can so easily fit into any city that I visit. Hostile, cold, unwelcoming, sweet, sultry, hot, tempting, inviting...whatever it might be, I tend to think of it not as a 'place' but as a living being. I have often wondered if cities would remain the same, and retain their characteristics if her people moved out. If I were to put the entire population of Calcutta onto Mumbai, would the latter still remain the same? I wonder.

As I was driving in the morning, and stopped by the crossroad, I saw the gushing of auto-rickshaws, cars, buses, bicycles, motorbikes, vans, trucks, and police cars. That fine moment, when the lights turned green and these vehicles made for their destination, something happened. I felt this sudden gush (which is seemingly the same all over the world) was so different. In Delhi, the point is to go ahead and reach fastest, giving a damn about traffic rules, driving etiquettes or anything related to all that. In Calcutta, it's about the honking - the lights turn green and the honks go off! In London, everyone times their journey so well that the change from red to green really does not make much difference - the stiff upper lips do not twitch, no rush of adrenalin, just a steady, programmed movement (yeah, you can call it discipline).

After having lived across three major cities of the world, my heart still craves for Calcutta, closely followed by London...but I am beginning to like Delhi - for I am not the kind who will turn his back towards the future. I understand Delhi's dilemma, its struggle to bring together two worlds, to cease illiteracy, to eradicate poverty, to buy foreign cars, to wear branded clothes, to use fish knives, to go global, to be international...but, trouble is, we are what we are, and Delhi's biggest tryst begins with just this: attempting to being something that she is not. Personally, I think I'd rather that she be the embodiment of history that she is, that she retains the value that brought independence to this country, that she holds on to the culture that at one time, brought down the Empire. It's powerful and does not need a UN stamp of approval. Therein lies the success of Kolkata - although the communists renamed her, she still retains the value and rewrites the rules.