In Transit

Someone said this about another’s writing; (loyal reader(s) please note my recent neglect of the ‘-‘) he writes in the only manner in which one should write, ecstatically.

Is that the only way one should write? Is it? No tell me, I absolutely demand an answer. Okay I am going to say whatever it is I want to say, since I presume this is already n t b ng re d n ore...

Hmm –

I think one should write if they have something interesting to say; not try and say anything in an interesting manner. But then that what are blogs for? Huh?

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I am in transit, not just today as I wait in the unbearable heat of this slow yet chaotic city, coming from a lazier place going to a crazier one.

I am in transit in general. It is not something I put tremendous thought into, as much as something that I am constantly aware of. The longer I stay here, the closer I am to the new. This might appear to be almost a mathematical fact, but in realms not entirely ruled by the exactness of numbers, it is quite a discovery.

What does one do with an awkward amount of time in a new place? One might eat a Spanish open sandwich with ham scattered all over it, search for elegant lamps for one’s own room, look for music and literature, sip on a variety of iced liquids, fill the atmosphere with a gallon of dead smoke, and so on; but one might find that all this, even if pursued rather elaborately, can be done in a fraction of the time one has on one’s hand.

A traveler with legs as solid as pig iron; reads a yellow scroll which contains the daily state of the economy of a land he doesn’t belong to, he seems happy that the country expects a normal monsoon. Three sets of lovers; one is engaged in a passionate discussion – I hear, she-could-told me-no-no-bitch. There is irritation but not directed at one another. Another sits quietly, reading, enveloped in the comfort of knowing completely. And the third, the shiest, unsure, the newest and most awkward; the one that almost crawled in, holding onto one another, buys a tiny pastry, then proceeds to avoid the many empty tables below and seeks privacy upstairs. Three lonely women, sit together, yawning, crushing plastic glasses, forming ugly shapes with dirty water, staring into their tables, playing with their hair; they talk and giggle and give advice to one another. Almost four groups of office runaways, each of them share details of the one thing that binds them, work. They exchange the stories of politics, love, and treachery that fill their lives, a life made grand by their own pettiness.

I am reminded of my own glass house; my reckless commentary needs to be reigned in.

“The powers of a man’s mind are directly proportioned to the quantity of coffee he drinks.”

This has been plastered on the walls, surely with the intention of boosting the intake of caffeine by the sheep that enter this place. Fancy, textured paint and lamps with colored frosted glass, both of utmost ugliness, graphic renditions of the young and restless, details on the nature of the coffee beans used to make the brew, have also been unleashed on the world. I retaliate with what I found today on the back of a matchbox, “The difference between genius and stupidity is that stupidity has no limits.” At least this was positioned appropriately.

Are you done, Sir?

Umm?

Will you need anything else, Sir?

No, no thanks, not really…

Then may I request you to vacate this for… I apologize…

Oh? No, no problem, certainly.

And so I say a silent farewell to this eclectic bunch of people sitting in that room of hideous appearance. They remain convinced that they are drinking coffee made only from the finest handpicked Arabica beans, which amongst other things, are selected from exactly four legendary estates, and roasted separately under constant surveillance. If even a fraction of this were true their lives are probably grander than they know.

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Unbearable heat, monstrous crowds, the smell of Goldflake, fish and sweat, yellow taxis, blue buses with wooden insides, trams that only slow down the city, the sweetest tongue, tea, groups of idle men playing carom, sipping tea and discussing politics, the worst most rash drivers I have seen in any city, women with the largest prettiest eyes. I have come to this city so often, but I have either been in transit or just attended long meetings inside the hotels and gone back. To discover a city you need to be excited about it, to be excited about a city it needs to be new to you or you need to live there for a while. This city is lost to me.

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Some movies are intended to change your life, if not forever, at least for a while. Trouble is I watched two such films today, Into the Wild and An Inconvenient Truth. Hmm. Guess I have grown too old and lost too much innocence to allow a movie to truly move me. It hasn’t happened for a long time. There was a time when I’d allow anything to have a lasting impact on my life. Unfortunately, I didn’t watch enough movies back then, nor was I much into books.

So I guess if you do not have a cell phone or a wallet in your pockets, falling into a river is only a slight inconvenience, It seems to me that sometimes when we hear the stories of the lives of people we try extra hard to believe them. We tend to glorify and exaggerate. I am not saying this is true for Into the Wild, but it could be. When they show Christopher’s self portrait at the Magic Bus I couldn’t help but wonder, what if he was just a bum? Hmm also how did the parents ever agree to the movie? I don’t know at one point I did toy with the idea of leaving home like Chris did, but then I have no major grouse against anyone worthwhile, I mean I do hate a few people but they aren’t important, like my driver – he is truly evil. But imagine leaving a plum job and everything because you have a stupid driver, no one is going to make a movie on that! Plus where would I go to in India? It’s too hot, people do not give lifts, the railways are already full of ticketless travelers, and the countryside is full of Maoists, Naxals, cows, cow dung, and dacoits in general. And there are no cool hippies hanging around in small settlements with evenings where the prettiest young girls play the guitar and sing while the crowds get thoroughly sloshed. Tracy was pretty! Idiot, he should have just stayed there instead of going all the way to Alaska.

If an electoral process can result in Al Gore losing to George Bush then someone needs to think twice about the process. Bush once said he didn’t exactly know how many internets were out there. Al Gore on the other hand gave us An Inconvenient truth. It scares you to think that in 50 years all of this could end; the internets, you, me, and everything else. But somehow it seems inevitable that the situation will worsen till there is a sudden catastrophe as the documentary predicts. If we somehow survive that catastrophe then maybe we’ll be more serious about Global Warming. Till then brace yourself for some weird and wild weather.

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Things are looking great now with some fine recent developments.