Bombay Blues

Excerpts from doodle book II at Cafe Samovar, Jehangir Art Gallery.

A cafe in an art gallery. A smoke and an apple pie. Alone, quite alone. At twenty two, is one expected to do such things? Is it ‘cool’ and ‘casual’ and ‘charming’? Or is it just sad and lonely? Would I rather  have my safe and happy solitude be interrupted by forced conversation and the same old…the same old…?
Or is it better to write pathetic stop motion prose and feel intellectual “as it were” (tribute Madhuja). Haha. At twenty-two, I’m the only one in this sad old cafe billowing smoke.
They got my order wrong. It figures.
It’s not that I try to feel rich and indulgent. It keeps happening to me. Aloo paratha instead of apple pie. Balanced delicately by a coffee. Black.
There’s humour in the saddest things. Like a lonely Parsi lady with hair like Cruella de Ville. Haha. Or my aloo paratha, easily meant for three. Or the empty chairs that surround me which look like they’ve been forced to wear these ugly moth-eaten maroon sweaters. Or waiters who have to be snooty, because it’s expected of them - but they don’t know why.
There. I just rounded up my sad existence. I called up long-distance heartache.

Bombay is wild and wonderful, with sprockets of sadness and void. When you’re at Jehangir, trying to seive out the pretentiousness, you might just find a moment for yourself. I almost did, but not at Jehangir. Maybe in that people packed 86 at 6.30. I don’t know. The more complicated I want to make it, the less appealing it is. Like, why can’t art be the rolling motion of a bus going down Pedder Rd. past the ancient-urban buildings? Longer and less confined… or maybe a sweaty armpit, which can tell you the story of an entire day? I hated the stupid “exhibition art” they had up there. I hated myself a little, sitting at the cafe. Like I was some kind of smart ass. I mean, it wasn’t bad - but I felt a little self conscious sometimes. Maybe I should do it one more time - to see whether sitting alone at an art cafe and writing makes me feel weird or not. It’s not a big deal - but I’m a complete “fattoo” (like my fellow intern A would describe herself). Yes, it’s a good word. “Fattoo”. Like air just whooshed out of a balloon. I feel like that a lot. I called up V (see, why Fattoo fits?) and he was also moving around Delhi like a Fattoo having Banana Milkshake completely stoned. I suddenly miss Heera’s. Like I missed Classic. I miss the anticipation of running into V there. Or just grabbing a coffee and a smoke and staring at the petrified forest (we had one, really) in front of us. I miss Cindy/Sunshine whatever she was called, that dog. I miss the stupidest things.

 

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Bombay’s been such a pain in the ass so far. My internship’s a fucking joke, my wallet got stolen, I feel fat - and pretty goddamn stupid because I’m not getting any work to do! I am so, so bored. And it’s hot.
And the bloody internship’s been extended. (sigh) I can take only ten days of Bombay at a time man. This is waaaay too much time in one place, doing very little. And I have 3 research papers to submit and no internet at home or office. Brilliant.
I hate life. It’s okay no, to whine on blog?

The dream’s over. Like the joint I just smoked in the loo. What a smoking kiss.

Bombay will be closer to the dust. I don’t miss. I don’t regret. Anything. Ami notun bari jabo. Subornorekhar bari.

The Yellow Cities One by One

Today while going down Chowringhee, I felt really sad. It was my last day at the NGO. I said goodbye to P, who has been an absolute doll, and I think I’m a little in love with him. I mean, he gave me an old book of poetry and he is kind of fabulous in every other way, so why not? Anyway, I felt blue. I love this city, I really do. It’s home. It’s not just my room anymore, it’s Cal - all of it. I was in college quite by chance the other day and I met up with the old profs.  I never really felt as though I left college to begin with, and was hanging around the staff room to collect my answer papers or something. It was funny. I went and sat in room no. 10 and room no. 19 and it felt so bloody natural, like I do it all the time. Had a coffee, had a joint and a cigarette at Classics, ate at Delights, walked down Park Street - same old, same old. It’s the same I suppose in Pune. After a while, you get used to any place. And as you grow older you cover the yellow cities one by one, till you aren’t able to tell one apart from another.

Today, I took out my old Sony Deck, which was my best friend in classes 11 and 12, and put in the truly worthy Nirvana Greatest Hits Cassette into it and switched on the play button. Oh it felt so good. Now I’m seriously contemplating dragging the deck back to Pune along with all the zillion tapes I have, which are all gathering dust and fungus anyway. I’ve put on Haldi and musorer dal, because I am tanned from all the sun and am listening to Pennyroyal Tea. I sent K a message, because he was my friend when we both used to listen to the deck, like only a couple of thousand times in the afternoon and talk like these farts and dance on the bed. Those afternoons of Nirvana and Maya and little scattered conversations - about the one with the Bharatnatyam Eyes - and chicken sausages - and prostitutes and pimps.  That is something I’ve never had again. I’ve had different - I’ve had fun - but not that kind of magic - that relaxed, happy magic of S7 and  good ol’ Kramer jams. I’m so proud of you today. I’m so happy you didn’t waste away. I’m happy you finally have a lovely girl. And I’m happy we can still talk like we did when we feel like it. Anyway, enough about you. I have work to go to.
Have you noticed, how afternoons can be so poetic? Like random Tuesdays?

pic, V

I love being woken up by your voice. Even if it’s temporary, even if it’s convenient. Even if the past few days have been nothing more than a dream. It’s okay. I don’t dare disturb the universe.

photo by nicgr1982 on flickr

I wrote on the old blog once that V doesn’t love his bike - and he was the first guy I ever met who didn’t. Well, he likes to lie, and turns out he loves that bird - a lot. He gave me a hastily written piece of travelogue to read about his bike ride from Pune to Bhopal. It’s messily written, a rough draft, with typographical errors of a six year olds’ - but it’s got these moments of sheer insight and beauty that just make you sit up and wonder. Just a boy and his bike. Dhabas, and dusty roads, chai and sudden rains, cows and caves - it was a lovely trip, written with a lot of feeling. I wish I could do something like that. Just leave one day on a bike, sleep in rickety motel, meditate in a lonely cave, meet strangers, hear stories, slither down winding roads on a full moon night…(sigh).
I told him about a Ladakh trip, and he thought it was over-rated. I think he’s full of shit, because he hasn’t done it yet. Oh well. Maybe when we’re both jobless and bored, I can convince him otherwise.

I have work which I don’t feel like doing right now. I’m bored and drifting and sleepy. I have to send in a magazine article and finish a script for tomorrow morning. And help my mum and my brother with some of their work. Blah. I just want to close my eyes and have long imaginary conversations with V (imaginary because, I can’t keep talking to him really really, or I’ll get bored - or he’ll get bored - and we’ll both have tremendous phone bills). I think I’ll sleep now and wake up early and finish some of the work.

Oh. I love Neruda, you know? I simply love his words. Love them.

I came back from the Sunderbans yesterday. It was tough, the trip, but totally worthwhile. It was hot and sticky, and the loo didn’t work - but I got to stay in villages, talk to the people living there, film and photograph (although the damn batteries ran out and I couldn’t recharge) and yes, this and that. I figured my stomach’s in pretty good shape, because I drank the tube well water and was alright, and I ate some random shit (and a little beer - my NGO’s nuts - but in a good way) and still survived. And yes, I’m burnt - but happy. Altogether, it was a great compensation (the way I see it) for all the dhoomchickdhoomchickdhoom. And I learnt stuff they don’t teach in schools. Isn’t that always the nicest way to learn? I started writing this out poetically - with words like urban thirst - and feature bullshit - but I figured - this is the one place I can be more or less honest - so I’ll fuck that crap. I love my NGO people. They love drinking and travelling and causing social changes. They totally love life, and kind of hate it too - which makes them real and lovable. They don’t go around waving their flags - look man, we’re changing the world - but yes, the do work VERY very hard. I’m glad I got to work with people like them. Relentless and beautiful.

I’ll leave you with some lines that made my day today:
“I wish I had some supersonic jet - so we could meet somewhere and smoke a joint. I would totally waste you if you were in my batch”.
Sigh. Kid, you did your bit. You’re still at it, it seems.

Loon in “duh” house

Shit. This is definitely turning out to be a year of firsts. I think discos are the lamest lamest places on earth. Whenever I’ve been dragged to one, I’ve survived it with lots of alcohol and my drowning in water dance. It keeps me sane - you know with all the dhoomchickdhoomchikcdhoom and hordes of dad dancers. Anyway, yesterday was weird. We went to Oly - and I didn’t know too many people at the table I was sitting at. And I was like where the fuck am I? There are like farmers dying in the country! (Yeah, I’m terrible inside my head when I’m partying). So we’re drinking and I’m talking to these weird people with weird accents which they acquired from god knows where and I really need a joint otherwise I’ll go mad. So I leave and go listen to Hip Pocket - and I think this is the first time I stood right in front and kinda sorta flirted with Sumeet Ramachandran (he didn’t seem to mind!). Then K and T turned up and I finally smoked that joint (well, why else would we be so determined to meet?) and well yes, I was in a good place. See, my idea of a “nightout” in Cal is Oly and SPE and thassit. Go home by 12. Sleep. But yesterday I was dragged to a DISCO. Underground, was it? And I was like, thanggodforthefuckenjoint - therearefarmersdyinginVidarbha - dhoomchickdhoomchickdhoom. So I sat on top of some god forsaken table and watched people doing their lame laserlight dad dances on the floor - and I was laughing so much that I was actually pointing. It was a fairly big group, the lot of us - and it included people I was meeting for the first time. They’re a mostly nice lot to go out partying with - you know  balanced - half cooks half sobers - all fun. So yes. I was happy in my little corner, when I was dragged onto the floor. So my emergency drowning dance and funny knee thing was executed with elan. Exit stage left. But no, it doesn’t end there. I was dragged again, the next few times by a dude I met for the first time(no no not at the disco - like I know him - haha). Well, he was kind of cute - and reminded me of a friend. And I was a little gone. So what the heck. I danced. I danced. And danced some more. And get this - I DIRTY danced. Haha. I’m just hoping he was too drunk to remember. But it was kind of fun. Like I was in control. Because well, he seemed to like it alright. So I think we danced the dance which was far from dad dancing thrice all through the night. I should just go die. There are like farmers dying. Sigh. Dhoomchick.

I think I’ll die if I listen to Bap Kennedy just one more time - but what the hell. There I looped Moonlight Kiss again. Work’s a’steady. I’ll be going to The Sunderbans in a couple of days, shoot the film and hopefully have some fun.

I’m kind of touched today. A colleague of mine flipped through my scribbles and scrawls and kept my book for some “further reading”. Well, he returned it today and gave me a book of Jeebanananda’s best poems and asked me to read “Bodh”. Sigh. Yor read well, my friend. Truly touched.