Something of Myself

Dont expect any structure today.

Dont expect seamlessness. Today is not the day.

I read that time = a moment in which things happen. But how do we explain memory? If my memory is a thing of the past then how come it confronts me in the present and stands between the future and myself?

I feel miserable today. A dear one is leaving the country. Going far far away. Leaving a void. Haven't felt this sad for quite some time now. Some fucker is playing 'I am leaving on a jet plane.'

Signs.

I wonder why people are irreplaceable? What is it that they leave behind for you to crave? Why is 'distance' and time and space matters of such importance? Isn't everything about energy and matter? Quantum physics? If they have cracked all the formulas of being why are questions still unanswered?

"Ami baadi. Ami bibadi. Kothao udhao aporadhi..."

Let's raise a toast. To the hours and hours of sheer indulgence. To consumption and absorption. To sharing. To knowledge. To your unmatched skills.

To the halo that I see behind you.

It was a Volvo bus. The ones that I had never seen before in my life. The night was cold and I was waiting at the bus stop with another 3-4 people to start my journey...

The bus came on time. We boarded and I sat by the window seat (I always loved to, not anymore). I had a spanking new SONY walkman. Pure white with the logo in blue. The sound quality was amazing. I had only one cassette on me (a deliberate move for me to absorb everything that the songs had to offer). The singer was Lucky Ali.

I listened to it as I was heading back home after 2 years. From the land of the unknown to a place where everything was familiar. Dad called once and asked if the bus came on time and if the flight was on time...

I re-discovered Lucky Ali today and the same album that got me goosebumps. Aks. I find it difficult to articulate the experience. Everyone was sleeping in the bus. It was around 2 in the morning. We were on the motorway. It was chilly outside. And of course, the perpetual rain. And in my two ears, a portion of India. My culture. My own. My language. My music. Reaching out to me. 'Dil ka kaina sun...'

I use to shut myself out while travelling back to India. It was, on hindsight, perhaps my way of 'preparing' myself to head home. I always feared that India, on return would shock me. That I would feel out of place. That I had integrated myself with British culture and that I would end up belonging to no-where. I was later told by Ma that Dad feared the same thing about me...but alas the last time we met, he was happy that I still had India in the core of my being. That I was still his son. And not some sorry half-firang with a pseudo accent...

I am feeling all those emotions today. As I head towards home the parallel belies irony. There is only person to meet now. No anticipation. No excitement. Just the quiet sense of comfort of getting back home. Of seeing a few familiar faces. That's all.

Yet, the bus ride, the rainy dawn, the gleaming tail lights of the cars, the speed of my anticipation, the smell of culture and the need to go back to one's dear ones eclipses all thoughts. Some memories never die. Some moments remain trapped, frozen, forever. Thank God, nobody can take it away from us. The ones that really create the tingle inside you are almost always inexplicable. They just remain. They are and will be.