Einmal ist Keinmal

Trips home, (ir)regular these days as drops from a leaky tap, are like riding the rollercoaster in your neighbourhood amusement park. They take you down a familiar path, yet leave little time for nostalgia.

As you will surely admit, your memories are little more than show-pieces of the past, exhibits in the museum of your mind, 'Look; Please don't touch.Thank you' ; and your life is merely the handiwork of some Grand Old Lady, knitting her giant patchwork quilt, a complex, eccentric tapestry defining the fate of every little drop in the ocean of humanity.

Home-coming is a time for reliving the old experiences, without feeling the deja-vu. Like getting drunk the second time. Or falling in love, again. Each time a little different, each time really the same.

It is a time for visiting the flea market, for hunting down the movies you never could find elsewhere. Ozu's Tokyo Story. After all these years .The elusive son of a gun. Discussions on Bergman, no less, with impassioned pirates, eager to unload their booty before you can say 'Wild Strawberries'.

It is a time for used bookshops, the swanky new malls, and all the particles of sand that slipped through your clenched, impatient fist.

It is a time for espying old flames, walking down the streets of your youth, hand in foriegn hand, each step a cold dagger piercing your broken-heart, each unrequited love a flag-bearer of your eternal defeat.

It is a time for your favourite at the restaurant, still crowded after all these years, and the chocolate chip sundae, and the long walk home.

But all in all, deep down, you know that it is a time for all the things money can't buy.Perspective, for one.

.

I sometimes wonder if full stops at the beginning of sentences are rather more apt than at their end.

Not that it makes a difference, of course. What's done is done.

waiting to exhale

As cities across the Islamic world continue to endure the spiteful bites of the Great Dane, I will simply paraphrase the words of Luis Bunuel, and say - ' I'm still an atheist, thank God. '

my bloody valentine

It seems that today, hands have officially been washed off me.

"I wish things could have been different
all i do is miss you and the way we used to be
nothing ventured nothing gained
I ventured all and still I failed.
The test , the mirage,the blue oasis,
I dont really know who fell more,
I hate myself and I hate you more."

Damning evidence, you would agree.

What else can i say?
I'll take all the blame.

And I look back over the past year, and wonder, has anything really changed at all?

Melon C

It is a wintry, cheerless Friday night. I sleep tumultously, tossing, turning, teetering on the brink of another introspective, infinite journey into nothingness.

Sadness, you will agree, is an intensely personal experience. Nobody shares it with you, no matter what they say. Ennui, loneliness and depression make for a heady mocktail. Lap it up while you can.

There is someone at the door.
I ignore, like I do the now incessantly vibrating cell.

The knocks intensify, to raps, rattles, thuds and culminate in a crescendo of thunderous booms, startling me out of my reverie.

I open.
It is A, dapper as ever, with K.

Nobody's ever visited me in my room before. Not for a year atleast. This calls for a minor celebration. I make a mental note.

"Get dressed. Collar shirt. And shoes. They don't let people in without shoes. And ID card, just in case."

The message is clear. I am to be initiated tonight. And I know that in this state, I simply don't have the strength of will to resist.

Orders followed, I trundle down to the car, where we are joined by B, and C. Do remind me to tell you about B sometime. Quite the character.

The place, I'm told later, is called 'Bikes and Barrels'. Whyever, I cannot fathom.

I walk in to the strains of 'Sweet Child of Mine'. As I remember telling B at the time, that is a great song to enter to. In many ways, like 'Summer of 69', 'Sweet Child' is the song of my misplaced, lost, wasted adolescence.

She's got a smile
that it seems to me
Reminds me of childhood memories
Where everything
Was as fresh as the bright blue sky

Nothing like a familiar song to get you relaxed. Especially a familiar guitar riff. I feel immediately at home, despite the decidedly alien environment.

There is plenty of smoke in the air, and my eyes begin watering. I leave the ordering to B, and let the atmosphere sink in. The music changes to hip-hop, and the wonderfully named Pussycat Dolls begin to pose their intriguing queries.

Don't ya wish your girlfriend was hot like me
Dont ya wish your girlfriend was a freak like me

I contemplate the lyrics, and dig into popcorn and salted peanuts.

The waiter arrives. A pitcher of Long Island Iced Tea is placed on the table. The glasses are filled, with a deep brown, translucent liquid.

I am toasted, and asked to go first.The first sip stops short of spectacular. For a cocktail of rum, gin and vodka, it takes quite a while to make its presence felt. A couple of glasses down the line, however, and I feel my legs separating from the rest of my body.

It feels lovely. The light-headedness, the lack of control, and after such a long time, the happiness. Nothing matters anymore. Not my summer unemployment. Not my rejection. Not how people trample all over you when you are down. Not how people you would have done anything for cannot spare a few minutes for you when you need them. Not the loneliness.

Tonight, I don't care.

I complete the night's bacchanalia with a gin and tonic, and we head back. The afterhours are spent drooling all over Kate Beckinsale in 'Serendipity'
As I walk back to my room, I look up, and see Cassiopeia.

And in my heart, I know I need to do this more often.

What can I say?
Happiness is a warm gun.