The 80s Mumbai Indian

He stared at the mirror and greeted himself to a lazy Sunday. Unshaven in his Rupa vest, he scratched his chest yawning away and moving his jaw, chewing the pan that wasn't there. The heat outside was growing by the minute, it was an afternoon in the month of June, 1983. But today he had to deal with the summer terror for today was his day at the races. Recollecting his previous memories of his days at the Mahalaxmi Race Course was a very passionate hobby of his. How the wives would always commend him on his well kept moustache and his dimpled cheeks and the husbands would make plans for lunch and dinner to come see India's cricket match at the World Cup or open a new bottle of Jack they brought from the states. It was a merry time to meet the big and the small of Bombay and increase your network.

He hadn't realised how long he had been staring at the mirror and scratching himself thinking of the races till he noticed a rash being formed. Snapping out of his daydream, he got himself ready for the day to come.

Stepping out of his seaside apartment, he looked a different person altogether. Doning his Ray Bans that had been gifted to him by his uncle on his birthday, his sidelocks perfectly trimmed to the centimetre, his bellbottoms hanging with the perfect cut and topping it all with his HMT Quartz watch. He was not a man of great wealth but his panache said otherwise. With an edition of the Times of India (After hearing G.D. Birla's untimely demise) to read through his train ride to Mahalaxmi, he stepped out into the sun ready to run wild through this concrete jungle of Bombay.

The broken leaves of my ashes

Surrounded in this concrte jungle of plastic trees and plastic smiles, I tend to forget the times when there was a thing called beauty. Its a pity one never realises i till it has long gone and turned into dust. Standing among these tall structures that looked so tantalizing once now cast a shadow of despair and uncertainty our our shallow lives. I sit back and remember the deep voids of space where I would sit on a star and count the ants on the ground, scurrying past the flames of the late night hours. Listening to the rustling of the leaves while he ever glowing sun beamed on our souls.

But today the sun burns with its wrath and anger as it makes us sweat in the heat and curse it for its presence, burning us till we lose faith in the forces of nature.

I may never leave the depths of this complex yet plain sea of turmoils and will probably be laid to rest in a field where the crows may swerve over my burning self. But one thing is for sure, that while I burn in this desert of miseries, my ashes will be blown away by the winds to the place where I once belonged, under the feet of the hills and wrapped in the blanket of the stars.

The death of the blogger

Why should one write a long paragraph when one can get noticed by one single tweet ? From scraps to statuses to tweets, the blogger has been watching them come and go and watch himself sitting in a corner in a heap of long forgotten muses and incomplete articles. Its a shame, its a shame. Words are getting shorter and lives are getting longer. But who shall have the time to read ? I for one was never in the habit of reading but typing the odd word or two would be never that much of a pain.

Today the secret is out, the secret to a successful life is not to waste time thinking about it. Just do it. So why write ? You could type once, you could text once and now you just touch and the impossible happens. The human mind's lack of thought has come down to 5 seconds, his mind diverts from one point to the other, there is too much information and too little time. Updates, deadlines, PINGs and all those superfast things.

Little did one know that while we were caught up in this rat race.

All the cheese had been left behind.

Happy 100 posts

Not so suddenly, I am not the man I used to be, theres a shadow hanging over me. But despite the difference in the light, I can still remember the joy of reading and writing. And I might find it apt to put this as my 100th post for this blog that may have been ignored so many times by my oh so lazy self, yet Its been with me since the days Justin Bieber was still not potty trained. Facing a mid-mid-life crisis is something that shouldnt really happen to men my age but do end up happening purely because of the fact that youre surrounded by those who seem to have given up on life already.

I choose to solemnly swear with my conscience as my witness, that I shall not be a man whose decisions are based on his peers or predecessors, I shall not fear the future or rue the past and nor shall I ignore the Gym anymore ! Its high time I got in shape :) And let the Ruskin Bond in me not be forgotten because despite facing the dreariest of deserts and the murkiest of swamps, there is always a leopard waiting, on the other side of that hill.

The drive

To work

Switching on the radio to hear the jockey predict the weather and give his philosophies on life, I bring myself to the zone, preparing myself for what lies ahead and who I must face while watching the clock tick to its doom. I stare at the nothingness of my future and pray for my phone to stop taking calls. Dreading the moment when I would be in a fix, I tear from the roads and curse the slow movers. Probably I too will become one of them, tired of themselves, old and rotten in a basket that is getting too filthy. And as I speak of filth, I park in the realms of dirt as my feet look for a solid space to land as I open the door to a narrow gap I must squeeze through.

To home

I shut off the radio and leave the top 8 @ 8 for the other billions to listen, I switch to trance and let my mind run in this river of traffic that staggers, stumbles, stops and then starts. I stare at those around me and pan out their miserable lives in my head. I run in their alleys and sit in their light bulbs among the mosquitoes and flies, I count their money and lie on their sorry reason for a bed and wait for the fear of tomorrow. The curses are louder for some wish to let their cars break down and talk on their phones. It is funny but I choose to clock myself back as well, probably a hobby to keep me ticking. The drug, its kicking, and the one in the car next to me seems to notice, I am super, I am the best, I am rich and famous and I am loved by all but alas, the light is green and I am no more eighteen.

The kill joy

I am a kill joy, I don't have parties to attend and I am in no mood of creating parties of my own. I shall sit with my glass of whiskey and ring in the new year watching my life pass by right in front of me. Maybe a light read of fiction by my side and some nice music in the cold stale air of this December. I will not ride the streets nor will I be driven around like a chaperaun.

I like my silence and I love my life, but to celebrate events that hold no meaning to my life I care not of. So let the bubbly pop and let the glasses clink and let them forget their worries for this one night so that they may wake up again with the same worries and a headache to top it all.

Don't forget to put up the photos on facebook where your girlfriend is too disinterested to pose and your couch has somehow changed its entire colour. Where your back yard has been watered by your guests and your wall has found new designs drawn on them.

So yes, please do remember the new year and its memories, each one as vague as the last one.

The workaholic

I have a job where I see lazy laid back officials, Ignorant fools who cant seem to get anything right and ass kissing idiots who just cant help sticking their nose in every matter.

And then there is my boss.

A big notice on the office board reads in bold, office hours shall now be from 930am to 610 pm, a wind brushes its corner up for a second and then passes a figure right past it. At 830 in the morning he walks up to his chair, opens up his laptop, places his left elbow on the table, resting his head on the hand of the same arm and strategically places his finger infront of his teeth. As the screen of his INBOX pops open...

His day has begun

Biting on his fingernails, staring at lines of gesture and urgency, his eyes widen and narrow at figures and deadlines. They look as if they are about to drop any second but that isnt sleep taking over, its just the way he looks, gives him the gentle yet cunning image. He sits there with his phone of a way beyond obsolete model kept at such a distance that the moment it rings, it is snatched from the outside world and taken into his own. His workaholic world

And as the day turns to night, he makes his calls, settles his bills, gives his reports and is up for more but alas there is one call that he cannot attend, his better half that keeps him sane. Its 8pm and his drug has not worn off, he can have more and still stand straight. With a few soft words and a tender touch he sends his last mail and heads back home.

But in his sleep too he settles his deals and has executive meals, staples his tenders and licks his envelopes. Waiting to see a new dawn of the day.

For he is all work and no play.