Depravity -2

I sit on the street mound at ten am on a warm Bangalore morning joint in hand. Three travelers carrying a couple of bags of luggage each give me puzzled glances. The stare at the hand holding the joint, pause for a second and then go their way. They wonder what I'm doing here on a Monday morning. They would be shocked by what I was holding. Or heck they might have thought I'm sitting here cigarette in hand, inhaling away to glory, relaxed, with all the time in the world to spare, to sit and stare at how everyone is rushing to work, always tense, always in a hurry.

What am I doing with my live they ask. And people have asked. You are young and you have your whole life in front of you . They talk about working hard, about achieving and about purpose in life. About how it makes life worth living. They scurry along rushing to whatever twenty story building houses their office, the stress showing on their faces. What if I'm late they think. Maybe the frown on their faces has to do with forcing yourself to work on a Monday morning. Maybe they worry about the next deadline to meet, the next person to answer to. Life gets easier as time goes by. Promotions, more power, a better salary. Worker bees of yet another colony, slaving away their lives. And they pity me.

That can't be my life.I can't live like that. I can't barter away my life and time . The trick is to minimise your wants. I've perfected the art. My needs boil down to just two things. Joints and books. Thankfully, both come cheap.

I stay at the place my parents left me. I subsist on their savings as workers. I have the company of people who care for my company, for the quality of conversations I bring to the table; People who would sponsor my dinner, buy me a pint of beer or share a joint. I have people who think what I scribble is worth something. And so I subsist on inherited pittance, the generosity of my company and what garbage I spew from my pen. I get to go to second hand book markets where I get to walk along narrow corridors with small stalls on either sides filled with brown battered dusty books with sellers ever willing to strike a bargain. My eyes roam through piles of books tracing the titles on their broken spines, my eyes glinting when I find a Tagore amidst the Barbara Bradfords. I take my time searching for gems among the dust, of reading titles on spines, sometimes picking a book to read the blurb, sometimes opening a random page and savouring the flow of words but always savouring the joy of looking at so many books and wondering what I would find.

I get to buy ten books at five hundred; fodder that will last me a couple of days. I get to wake up late grab the book next to me and read as long as I want. I get to roll a joint from my stash on a Monday morning and sit on the mound in front of my house and watch the people rush by . On really good days I get to do both.

The Women in your Life.

You may meet her at a mall, when you casually turn back to see her flipping through that one book that caught your eye in the shelf. She would seem the quiet type, lost in her own world, where only black ink on white pages exists. At first glance, nothing would strike you about her. A closer look will reveal more. A tastefully chosen earring, accentuating the soft curve of her earlobe; the colour of her lens frame; those carefully chosen sandals. The way she carries herself. Her confidence in standing in the middle of a store, not caring about the world around her,  focused on the words - the worlds within. And you would yearn to connect, to be allowed entry into her world.

You may meet her at a clothes store, dressed casually, nonchalantly even, in old shorts and a faded top. Your mouth would open slightly before you realise it. You would have not seen her face yet, but you are already drawn to her effortless elegance , her unassuming confidence.You strain to look at her face, but those tresses evade your mind. You sigh, wishing you could speak to her, the sigh conveying everything- the desire, the hope , the futility. You are afraid.  Afraid that by getting to know her, she may somehow fall short of the angelic vision in your head. You sigh and you walk on, the image never quite leaving you.

You may meet her on the warm sands, amidst the sun the waves and the euphoria- a solitary figure, sitting by herself, her legs crossed, her eyes open- seeing nothing and yet seeing everything. Her curls sway gently in the sea breeze. You are inexplicably drawn to her,. She calms you, detaches you, makes you pause for a minute and look at it all- not as you, but as a third person- looking at the world, your perception of the world through your eyes and the resultant thoughts, emotions and memories they evoke. You see it all. And it scares you. You snap out of it.You snap back in. And you see everything. You see her. Your world has changed.

You may meet her at a mall, on the waves; you may see her on the road as you pass her by. She may strike a chord in you. Touch you in a new way. A brush. A touch.  A word. A mood. An emotion. An experience. A memory.



This is  blog post number 100. A personal milestone for me. This blog has seen five years of my writing.  Thanks for the encouragement, the criticism and the motivation. Here is to a 100 more.

Turmoil

There are days, there are certain times within days when you feel so low that you cant bring yourself to get out of bed, when you don't have the will to pick up a ringing phone, when it gets so excruciatingly miserable that all you can do is to let yourself be engulfed in the swirling waters , wave after wave crashing into you, tossing, throwing you here and there. You hold your breath, you endure, you just wait. No point expending energy swimming against the tide. You surrender. And you wait. And you wait. Slowly, like someone pulled the plug in the bathtub, the waters swirl with every lessening intensity, every so slowly draining away. There you are, feet on land again, tired, battered. There you are. You. Are.