A Day in the Life of THE Procastinator

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flâneur extraordinaire

You might notice that this blog has been recently redecorated. HTML code and me don't get along too well; in trying to execute my revolutionary design ideas onto this blog I almost deleted all the posts and nearly lost my dear old jukebox. Where would I be without the Wurlitzer, what would I do at work?

However, I am not one to give in easily; the search for the perfect layout shall continue. If nothing else, my pageview count shall rise to hitherto unknown levels.

The other day I was traveling more than six hundred kilometers through Naxal infested areas which were called names like Gandu (seriously!!), Kodarma and Tilaiya. To make my strange life even stranger I was listening to Yann Tiersen's album, Les Retrouvailles. The song was A Ceux Qui Sont Malades Par Mer Calme; don't even ask me what it means. It's instrumental, and I only have the guy's entire collection because he gave the score for Amelie. Hmm... It's at times like that when I stop to look for the meaning of life and start to search for some in mine. It's funny actually.

I was thinking, and I have often thought of this while traveling across Bihar - maybe I am the first and last person to bring Monsieur Tiersen to Motihari or take Messrs Floyd to Begusarai. I like to think of it as a great honour and a matter of responsibility. I often think like this. As a kid I'd throw stones right into the middle of a pond or river and be satisfied with knowing that the poor pebble would never again see the light of day.

Of course, immediately I returned to a pursuit far more intellectual. To the ignorant onlooker I might be seen nodding my head, in a bizarre fashion, every now and then while sitting in the car. Of course nothing can be further from the truth. What I am actually doing, is playing "Mo-Dot." (Copyright)

Now you will notice that windows in the car are full of spots. Pick one. Preferably a darker shade. You will find that moving your head will "move" the dot. Now the true beauty of this elite and sophisticated game is its flexibility. You can try to keep the dot between two parallel electricity wires for as long as possible. This is not as easy as it sounds, the wires have a mind of their own, they swoop and swing and sometimes the wretched things will even cross. You could try to "jump" the dot over every passing vehicle or "encirle" each one as it came. You could try to flatten the tires by "shooting" with the dot. Hell, you could even "cut" trees, people, poles and entire buildings with the dot. It's like being inside GTA Vice City, without any real damage.

Oh but my favourite variant is playable only from the front passenger seat. You need to swing your head to each side to move the dot between the gaps in the dotted white line painted on the roads. This one is certain to convince everyone else in the car of your madness.

Hah! What do they know? The joys of a simple game.

I have not watched a movie in so long! Even lost count of the ones I want to watch. Bond, and Oye Lucky! Lucky Oye!

But for now I am sleepy. So goodbye. And goodnight.

It was a great song by the way. The Yann Tiersen one. You could also try, Good Bye Lenin, La Pharmacie, La Boulange and the Amelie soundtrack of course. Actually most of his stuff is great. If I could I'd make movies and get him to give the music.

Really Jean Pierre Jeunet (dir. Amelie) and me think alike. I have thought SO OFTEN of the no. of people that would be having sex at any given point. But then to my sorrow, I saw this Amelie thread on IMDB once, apparently half the world is secretly fond of sex-statistics. Also everyone likes to put their hands into a bag full of grains, or has a favourite simple pleasure of a similar kind. I like playing Mo-Dot, and taking stairs two at a time, what are your little jollies?

When?

I don't know how to react to the recent terror attacks. It's been a week and every thing that could be said about the tragedy has already been said. You had statements that were dignified and full of remorse others that were burning with anger and some that came from insensitive and tactless assholes.

I guess like many more, as I watched the horror unfold, there was a nagging empty feeling that grew inside me, a certain helplessness of knowing that this heartbreak would repeat itself soon enough. And going by the recent past the next event would be even more audacious and deadly.

Nothing will really change, a few political heads will roll but will be replaced with similar idiots.

I guess as a society we have lost the individual gumption to do something that would lead to a larger change. We gave the world a man that shook the foundations of the British Empire simply because he was thrown out of a train. How many Gandhi's will emerge from the scores that were injured, or the hundreds that lost family or the millions that watched the tragedy on television?

As citizens we should stop concentrating only on demanding a government 'for' the people and realise that it must also be 'of and by' the people.

Life, One Egg At A Time

Eggs and me go a long way. As a kid I ate one half-boiled egg just before leaving for school. I still remember I'd sit outside on the verandah and sip it off a red cup. That was my favourite cup, red on the outside and white inside. I used it for egg, water, milk, and even watery noodles. On our trip to Kashmir, which my brother sort of bunked because it'd make him miss the annual play at his school, I lost the cup. After having milk or something I insisted on drying the cup by hanging it out of the train. Of course it went flying by.

Anyway, when you are a kid you get over cups easily. Over most things actually. Plus I was not drinking noodles anymore.

In school we got served eggs every morning. Fried eggs that were cold and insipid and covered in silvery bits of hardened oil, on Mondays and Fridays. I ate these without salt for some reason. Two boring boiled eggs on Thursday. Scrambled eggs on Wednesdays which were traded at the rate of three plates for one out of two pieces of Chicken on Special Dinner Night. Yeah, scrambled eggs were the 'in' thing back in the 90s. Or at least on the table I sat on in Class 6. On Saturdays, we got served these cold Omelettes that were 80% onion and holes.

Kashmir was great fun by the way. I got lost in Pehalgaon, slapped a kid 'smoking' a toffee-cigarette, ate a million apples, and called shikaras, chikaras.

Sundays - we got cheese toast and fries, with locally made sauce that was bright pink in colour and more pungent than anything I had ever had. Almost always I settled for the porridge and cheese toast and waited for the canteen to open.

In college, a cousin of mine thought he introduced me to scrambled eggs. He called it bhurji. I told him all about how it was worth one-third of a chicken's leg. Anyway, the eggs at college were mighty fine, plus there were the all-night canteen serving their traditional fare of alu paratha, egg bhurji, and Amul butter. But by then food had lost much of its romance, it was too easy to get, nobody was snatching it from you like in school, you couldn't be bothered about stealing it in the hostel or in bulk from the canteen itself , or with hoarding it under your bed. My parents stopped sending me parcels with dry fruits, coke cans and chips. All in all, food became, well just food. In school our lives revolved around food, and girls of course.

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So the other day I forgot lunch. Then I walked to the corner of the street to eat something. There was someone selling half-boiled eggs.

Innocuous memories are great fun too. You can watch them trickle down the snowy slope of time and grow in size. And when they slow down as they approach the present, bits of our lives stick out aimlessly from a lump of forgotten time.

I like remembering the past in minute and exact detail. However bland it might have been. It makes me feel like I have lived longer than just yesterday.

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I ate six half-boiled eggs in a row.

Bike

I've got a bike. You can ride it if you like.
It's got a basket, a bell that rings and
Things to make it look good.
I'd give it to you if I could, but I borrowed it.
You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world.
I'll give you anything, ev'rything if you want things.
I've got a cloak. It's a bit of a joke.
There's a tear up the front. It's red and black.
I've had it for months.
If you think it could look good, then I guess it should.
You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world.
I'll give you anything, ev'rything if you want things.
I know a mouse, and he hasn't got a house.
I don't know why. I call him Gerald.
He's getting rather old, but he's a good mouse.
You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world.
I'll give you anything, ev'rything if you want things.
I've got a clan of gingerbread men.
Here a man, there a man, lots of gingerbread men.
Take a couple if you wish. They're on the dish.
You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world.
I'll give you anything, ev'rything if you want things.
I know a room of musical tunes.
Some rhyme, some ching. Most of them are clockwork.
Let's go into the other room and make them work.

The other day I fell asleep, and this song was on repeat. Now I can't get it out of my head. Aaaaaaaaargh.

I was going to write a post, but this stupid song wont let me think!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Tobalotorium G

Not every insult hurled at us ends up hurting our feelings. Most come from severely wonky sources and bounce off, others are so veiled we never realize when they hit us and when they just passed through, still others are so feeble, either in intensity, foundation or in intent, that they turn impotent a fair distance away and just scatter themselves into thin air. But then there is that variety of slur that has not just perfect timing, but also an impeccable trajectory that renders it unavoidable, plus the tendency to target the most vulnerable spot with unforgiving viciousness and remarkable ruthlessness. It's almost like a cosmic miracle, various unrelated factors lining up in perfect symmetry. Such an even occurs rarely, once in a blue moon, often the insulter is unaware of the havoc that she just wrecked upon the life of the poor insultee, often the insult itself is not intended but the devastation is complete and long lasting!!!!!

No, dear reader, I haven't been at the receiving end of an insult as incisive as the one described above, at least not recently. I was only making a point. Things people say have a strange and unpredictable manner of getting to us.

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Moving on - a dear friend returned to this blog after a long time and then called up to say this - " Kya yaar!!! where has the fun in you gone? You are still writing about the same six or so things we would talk about last year! Acha listen I need to go right now, having dinner with girlfriend"

Useless fellow!! What does he know of the predicament of a young man twiddling his thumb at the height of his sexual peak and might I add, good looks, amidst the ghats, taals and traffic jams (more on this subject, later) of Bihar.

Oh well he does know a thing or two, he was here for long enough. And this place gave him amongst other things, suspected arthritis, two years without a single authentic idli or relationship (okay 1.5 years in the latter case), massive hair loss, and weight gain which was disputed by him to the end.

Gulpurtha Pulcharan. We belong together! But first, pay my AMEX bills, you Kul Kalanki, you!!!!!

******

Enough! This is a serious blog by an earnest man who aims to change the world using the online medium and the blogged word, as long as he is paid more than handsomely for it.

I am down with this horrible cold, I cough these really dry wobbly coughs that travel from my stomach up to my throat and my body jerks forward while the bones stay put. Yes, I think I'm dying and also that I should stop giving these stupid descriptions. Anyway, my mouth tastes like dried up dal and my eyes hurt and I have been in bed all day. I have taken this time out to worry about our generation. Gen Y or X or whatever is our current classification.

On my trips to Delhi/Mumbai I am stuck by the uniformity of the lives we lead. Most of us do these jobs that we are not completely fond of. We are all on facebook, and don't really know what we would do with either one or all of the following, our iPod, cell phone, laptop. We work through the week and those days are repetitions of the same getting up-getting ready-getting to work-getting bored-getting back-getting sleep(and/or sex) routine.

The weekends, however, are for all sorts of revelry, drinking, partying, smoking, smoking up, hiking, trips to nearby getaways, and so on and so forth, photographs of which duly find their way to Facebook and are carefully commented upon. Now, I am not one to be judgemental or eager to confirm our moral and cultural depravity as a generation. Nor am I jealous that Patna doesn't offer me the opportunity to indulge myself in even one of these pleasurable pursuits or envious that my Facebook profile boasts of a single photograph which is now more than a year old and has recieved no comment. And for the record, I do own an iPod, 30 GB of beautiful music, a laptop covered in a 2 mm thick layer of dust, oil, dandruff and general garbage, and a new N 85 that tragically has a wobbly slider. My points is, what will become of us when we are married to one another and have kids? Look at us, I fear we are going to make the worst parents and couples!

There was a certain beauty and security in the way we were brought up. I don't know - I wish I had the words to elaborate but I guess it's something to think of by ourselves. Maybe I just have a very messed up set of friends. Actually I don't. Messed up friends, that is, not friends in general.

My mother always lamented that the children of these distant relatives of ours in America were happy their parents got divorced and remarried, because, there were now four sets of grandparents to get Christmas gifts from. I think we will tend to that with time.

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Everyone associates the place they inhabit with the time it takes to get around from place to place. Oh, I hate Delhi, everything is just too far. Oh I absolutely hate Mumbai, I am stuck forever in traffic. In Malaysia we covered 400 kms in less than 5 hours. In outer space everything travels at the speed of light and so on and so forth.

In Bihar I covered 170 kms in 12.5 hours!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Really. It was a the kind of experience that made me question the purpose of life and the existence of The Supreme Being, and then seriously contemplate suicide, twice. My eyes almost escaped their bored sockets, my mind lost half a million grey cells, I wanted to just insanely run into the horizon yelling and tearing off my clothes, and my hair. It is the one thing that brings me down completely.

Just thinking of it right now has made me go numb again. This was slowly turning into a post that would permanently alter the life of anyone who read it. Guess you will all have to wait a little longer, till then pray for the improvement of infrastructure in Bihar, and that cows and truck drivers suddenly were endowed with three times their current levels of traffic sense.

Make that four times for the stupid truck driver.

SLOW-fumbling-LIFE

I am sitting at a café, waiting for a dear friend. She will take a while. Mostly I am comfortable being alone but I need to be moving, that way I presume people will not notice that I have nothing to do but wait.

It’s a scary thought, but one that rarely ever crosses my mind. Guess it’s not something any of us dwell upon very often. We have just one life; I will be 24 years old only once, I will be young just once and die some day. This is the kind of thinking that results in a things-to-do list for most people. In my case, there aren’t many things I’d want to do that I would really enjoy and that are practically doable. I mean I do want to make a movie but that’s a long way off. I use this atypical vein of thinking, instead, to make a few rules that I believe should shape my life, or shall I say things I do not want to do.

Today I realised I do not want to be able to predict the course of my life. I don’t want to be exactly aware of where I will be five years from now. If you have ever sat for one of those queer job-interviews, you will know this question. It’s the kind of question the interviewer congratulates himself for having asked, the kind she feels adds a hint of philosophy to her otherwise corporate existence.

So, tell me , where do you see yourself five years from now?

The first time I was asked this question I said, I don’t know, in , at a senior position. Then she went from five to seven, to ten to fifteen and I followed to seniorer, seniorest, seniorestest.

I never did get that job. Guess I should have just told her I don’t want to see where I will be five years from now. Frankly isn’t that a bit boring? I mean then you might as well just ask to be transported in time to the end of the five years. Don’t you need the twists and turns to really stretch out life, to really live?

******

Bihar has seen the worst flooding in fifty years. An entire river has shifted its course by a few hundred kilometres washing away countless villages, and lives. Some are calling it the worst human disaster India has ever witnessed. For two weeks the news channels were full of it, enterprising journalists went to the disaster zone, and brought to our living rooms stories and pictures of the devastation. And then the economy crashed and the stock markets fell by more than twenty percent all across the world. For two weeks now the news channels have been full of it. Enterprising journalists are travelling to the homes of the common man, whose life has been destroyed by the sudden and giant financial mess.

The last census tells us that 3.2 million people lived in the flood affected areas. Even the most generous estimates of those that are in relief camps or have been otherwise rescued peg the figure at 2 million. This means that more than a million human lives are still stranded, without food, water and shelter in the districts of Bihar. Of course their misery is no longer the stuff that moves channel viewership or national sentiment.

I won’t lie, apart from wishing that this hadn’t happened I didn’t really feel even slight inconvenience. I went about my life in a usual manner, hoped that my sales target would be reduced because of the flooding (it did not happen) and arranged for credit recovery from the severely affected areas.

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I intend to be involved, very soon, with an NGO in a project that would rehabilitate people in the most severely affected districts. This might require me to take a sabbatical from work, or even quit it altogether. It means I will no longer earn the huge amount of money I get paid every month. It means I need to once again, start worrying about the price of the food I eat, the clothes I wear, the trips I take, the alcohol I drink. It also means I might have to give up what would possibly have been a stellar career studded with recognition, money, challenges and consequently satisfaction.

I made this decision over a short conversation at lunch today. The motive is to embrace an erratic course for my life. I want to be in a situation of instability.

More importantly, and more specifically, I want to understand whether or not I have any form of humanity in me. I am not doing this because I feel for those people; I am doing it because I want to, or at least because I want to know whether I am capable of empathizing with them. I’ll be honest; this is not a sudden bout of saintliness or deep concern for human suffering. Mostly it’s just another way of earning respect, achieving things, earning a living, being challenged and consequently satisfied.

******

I wrote that a few days ago. Then it was just lying open on my desktop. Then I spilt some water on the keyboard and the laptop shutdown. I thought I had lost the file, and now it’s been recovered. Only I don’t feel the same way. In fact I am positively scared of change. I don’t even have the energy to read what I wrote. And I haven’t made the call I was supposed to make or sent the cv as I had promised. I want to make a statement now that will define this situation but my thoughts are too hollow.

How is it that something that made complete sense eventually doesn’t?