| Sunday, April 23, 2006 |
| Don't Let Go. |
When I was 7 or 8, I had a best friend in the building. His name was Rohit, and he lived on the 9th floor. Rohit and I were introverts, so we got along. He would come home, and I would go to his place, and we would play with our 'Masters of the Universe' kits and somesuch stuff.
Then one day, Rohit told me that his family was moving to Jaipur. He said he would be moving too, and I was too young to realise that at the time, it probably meant that the chances of me meeting Rohit again in my lifetime were bleak. It was one of those childish 'shrug and wonder for a moment and get on with life' situations. These were the days before email and mobile phones, and the notorious '180' long distance booking and astronomical STD costs. Rohit gave me his postal address, I kept it carefully. We even exchanged a couple of letters because that seemed the thing to do if one had someone's postal address, and then a couple of months after I saw a truck full of Rohit's family's stuff pull away, I completely forgot about him and moved on with life.
When I was 15 or 16, I thought of Rohit again after all those years. And everytime the elevator stopped on the 9th floor, I would look at the main door of what once used to be his home and I'd wonder how and where Rohit was.
People and events that have been so subliminally etched in my memory never cease to amaze me with their resilience. Of late I've reached that stage where sometimes I suddenly remember a situation regarding someone who was once very dear and I am amazed that I actually forgot that particular person momentarily. In seemingly nondescript happenings, I end up looking for something that may stir up a memory, an emotion, a lost and forgotten face. I look for it in the holding of hands, in greetings and goodbyes, the hurling of accusations, the laughter of lame jokes, the cuss words uttered in traffic, the parting hugs, the balancing of blame, the nervousness of hope, the faith of prayer, the smile of gifting, the bittersweet power of art, love, hate and tragedy, unanswered questions, excessive alcohol, childish games, silly smiles and meeting of eyes, rush of blood and the satisfaction of achievement, moments of immense unimaginable happiness that somehow make me think of times of unbearable pain, loneliness and heartbreak. When you feel so much love for someone that it seems like your heart won't be able to handle it and will explode under the overwhelming pressure.
It seems to be a search that on the one hand makes me crave for closure, yet I know that closure is the one thing it doesn't promise. I seem to be a willing nomad in mindfields of timespan.
And the more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that the day this innocuously innocent search ends will be the day I die.
khuli si chot lekar
badi se tees lekar
ahista
ahista
sawalon ki ungli
jawabon ki mutthi
sang lekar
khoon chala |
posted by n.g. at 01:33
(0) Peg(s) of Whisky
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| Tuesday, April 18, 2006 |
| India ke Superhero. |
He always runs in slow motion.
He has biceps the size of a street kid in Bombay.
He has a cleavage deeper than Sharon Stone's.
He has eyes. No wait, those are his father's eyes. So, he MAY have eyes.
He dances in village fields wearing dhotis made of jute.
He rescues village damsels in distress while jumping over cars down Singapore's Orchard Road wearing shiny black overcoats and glossy black airline eyepads with eye socket holes in them.
He and Neo have the same Costume Designer.
He is ...
... Jumpman.
He's always confused between two women.
His english makes me want to hit myself in the face with a brick.
His acting makes me want to shoot myself in the head repeatedly.
He cant decide whether he's worse at action or romance so he does both.
If he gets any closer to his leading lady he's going to get 24 phone calls from Salmanbhai.
He breaks into a song and dance everytime he's happy, sad, suicidal, morose, excited, constipated, circumsized, pregnant or short of ideas.
He was runner up in 'the longest nose hair competition'. Priyanka Chopra was winner.
He has this uncanny knack of bumping into Katrina Kaif in the most arbid of places.
He is ...
... Bumpman.
Jumpman and Bumpman. Saving the world before everyone realises that they don't need to be saved. |
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posted by n.g. at 09:44
(1) Peg(s) of Whisky
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Name: n. g.
Home: Bombay, India
About Me:
this fire is burning and its outta control its not a problem you can stop its rock and roll.
See my complete profile
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