The Rationing of God

It’s 8 o’clock in the evening after a lovely Sunday in Delhi. The lark is on the wing, the snail is on the thorn, the Delhi sun has just set and SR and I are waiting at the airport, being a little the worse for wear (or however that phrase goes) after the conf in the morning and the 500ml of Strong that we drank, and what do we see but the TV, at the airport, blasting away about the antics of Abhi-ash.

It would appear that the celebrity couple, after their grand wedding, have risen in the eyes of God, and who deserves to dole out these visions of the Lord God, but our trusted Tirumala-Tirupati temple authorities, or TTT or something.

The whole thing disgusted us plenty and gave us considerable food for thought. I thought of the Thai statues we saw of the churning of the sea and remembered PJ.

Anyway, thoughts for the day are Texans shooting them Injuns and Pilots or should I say, Bhilots, of communication and paintings on walls which are held by four pillars.

It might also be prudent to remember the best way to get a recharge card for Tata sky is to run out on a Sunday in your best vest and underwear, shouting out “Who is the Tata sky operator? Who is the Tata sky operator?” Atleast, this is the advice you get from the call centre. Do you know that contact is an acronym? Just like CBD.

That was called a Helmetism. It consists of obscure references to insider jokes that only two or three people would understand. If you’re one of them and you read the post, you’re supposed to feel proud of yourself and make subtle references to the same. Makes the others feel like pariahs. Hmpf, low lives and all. Lets look down at them with our Italian noses. I can see H saying, “Sour grapes! Make some wine.”

H says we should start putting in words in our posts for our co-blogger to write about -thought starters, as such; I've decided that we should make it 3 every post; so here goes - manticore, shaving, playgrounds. H, do include these words in the labels section; gives our loyal readership something to search for in their days of indolence.

Pip pip,

T

Hakuna Matata

Thailand was like a mini-Saarang. Fun, tiring and totally worth it. Like a good job. No pun intended. I wish. But seriously, late nights, early mornings, hanging out with the people you like, beautiful beaches and of course, shiny Tesco balls. What else would one need. Want.

As much as Patong beach and the Bengali road and the pool basketball and the motorboat drive were amazing, (for the former two, T has brilliant stories I hear...pray share a few, brother - notice the colour of his face as V would say) I think the following week which I took off in Chennai was proverbial ignorance. (I have to make myself sound crass and contrived now and then - its a disease, genetic actually). Sorry, make that is(be) which was in past tense as was to is(be) in present as is. Rainy romantic raunchy risque. :)

So I met a prof, the hostel cat, the neighbour's daughter, some friends and some friend's friend. Day before I also got to enjoy another hostel night but I suddenly got vaccuumed in the gut. (now that's a cliche that's never going to stick)... I realized that I could not do this next year. Never again. I was now a dinosaur in the hostel which brought me up from a hapless fledgling to a not-as-hapless fledgling. And there was no turning back. Lame. Obvious and lame. But difficult to digest. Friends come and go, but for the precious few you should hold on to. Keep telling yourself that my children and if you're lucky like me, you'll find them early on in life. And for T, here goes, C'est la vie.

I've decided to be funny for the rest of this post and write about something funny. Like telephones. Ummm, no, like cats. Or cats with telephones. Or cats with telephones making prank calls to other cats with telephones. Something like:
Cat#1: Hello
Cat#2: Meow
Cat#1: Is your fridge running?
Cat#2: No
Cat#1: Oh, what about your fan?
Cat#2: No, I don't have a fan
Cat#1: Then what is running in your house?
Cat#2: A mouse
Cat#1: Why don't you go and catch it then?
Cat#2: Because I am full.
...
Something like that. Intended to be funny and after all, it's the thought that counts.

Digression is the better part of a blogger. That said, I urge all of you to take swimming lessons from a trained professional who will give you interesting pieces of information like "the rate at which you stroke your hands must be 1/8th as fast as the rate at which you beat your feet". And you can contact me for an exceptional swimmer who will be available during the month of July.

I think I've done my part in destroying the credibility of this blog. I was the last standing bastion of hope, the lone ranger in the corrupt Wild Wild West, the solitary ray of enlightenment meandering its way through the dilapidated streets of reason. Into that heaven my father led my country to sleep.

Amen,
H

What is life?

Whoa, been quite a while hasn't it? I just realised that the last post that H put was way back when we were learning about the power of pausing and how Mozart declared to the world that silence was better than all the music in the world. Knowing Mozart, (and there are few who know Mozart as badly as I do) he must have, umm... lost my train of thought.

As things stand, a lot of water has flown under the bridge since then and all that. H & I, in the meantime, have learnt how to chase happiness. It is apparently a little butterfly that flies about in front of your face every time you close your eyes. But seriously, loved the movie. Ten minutes of silence.

Post that, we beat the retreat. Or rather, we were beaten up by the retreat. Went to jolly old Thailand, where, of all places, the best area to hang out is some bengali road. Crazy, the kind of reach good old Buddhadeb Bhattacharya has. They call him Buddha there, as well. The best part of the whole matter is that a sign at the Thai airport reads - Taking out images of Buddha or any part thereof, from Thailand, is strictly prohibited. Or some such. I mean, I know they like Bengali babus and all that, but this is ridiculous. Heard that Cal is beautiful this time of year. Or rather, heard it has beautiful people. Thank god, no one but H reads this bullshit.

Was sitting quietly at my desk today, when I started going down these trips I usually take in my mind. A lame quizzer would call it a connect trip, or some such nonsense. However, it was a rather melancholic, nostalgic memory of some of the books I have read and how I've come to associate so many memories with them. It started off with me listening to some Floyd on the laptop - more specifically, listening to Obscured by clouds, when I heard this line - the memories of a man in his old age, are the deeds of the man in his prime. And while I listened to this, I thought to myself, "How much more obvious than that can one get?"

However, it got me thinking. I remembered this short story I read, called Creation by Jeffrey Ford. Beautiful stuff, about how one can have too much love. One should read it to figure out why I am feeling so sentimental about it. This guy Ford, also wrote this other great short story about a pixie - the annals of someone. Another very beautiful, "How great is life?" piece. One should read it, as well.

From there, I went along dreaming about Jordan and what a profound influence it has probably had in my thinking and the way I shape my world. Then a trip down Arnold Layne and dragonmount.com. Remember Kate and a night connecting Eco to Azeleas. Back to Thailand for no apparent reason and a dream of dancing.

All in all, a good day. And a good night. By the way, for S and H, it would appear that the Bingo Little phenomenon continues. H, now is the time you say that you're impressed. V, I don't know whether you would be impressed or not, though I doubt you would read this. As H say, C'est la vie. Me? I would rather say, C'est la fille (hope that came out right).

Au revoir, eh?
T