October 19, 2003


It has been a collage of psychedelic colours, staccato images and ambient voices set to the background of the predictable arpeggio of a round trip of 34 kilometres. To coax oneself out of the detachedness takes an effort, only to shudder, shrink and coil up like a scared reptile, when it gives in finally. Sensitivity is tricky game of hide and seek. It is a game I will never understand. It is a game i will never win.

Sometimes you wish that you could reach deep inside and listen to that voice not heard in ages, to try and grasp at those faint flashes of feelings not polished to levels of slippery smoothness by time and see if it still feels the same. It does. But it feels alien. It feels like baby skin, tender and very unlike mine. To endure and celebrate the joy in mourning the loss of yourself is the prize.

Is it just total blindness or a vision that is too perfect? Why is it that you wind up alone with those very thoughts and feelings after years and years of running away from it? Why is it that for you there is no peace, be it in purity or at the impurest? Why is it that everything is perfect and beautiful, like a flock of pigeons in a park, till you reach out for it? Why can't I just give up?

As a new routine settles in, I strive the most to recreate the old. I go in way too early, so that I do not have to look rude, high-brow and sophisticated by default. The flooring creaks under my step as I work up the courage to face the day with a renewed lease of fake ambition. This is unfamiliar territory and I change roles by the dozen during the course of the day. At the end of which I wonder: Who am I trying to kid?

Orange Gerberas do not look half as good as the bright yellow ones that I usually buy. They have become five rupees more expensive by the bunch. If you feel for it, the traffic here has its own pulse too, like how crowded localities seem to breathe and sigh together if you look at them from a point of height in the night. At times it is nasty, at times it considerate. Most times I am just glad to make it home. Or am I?

As usual I lie to you about things personal. It does not really bother me much since I am past caring what happens on that count. I just wish the numbness would be more consistent and constant, so that I could concentrate on having just one kind of problem than two that are at loggerheads with each other. But I have not yet mastered the art of lying to myself. I am trying hard though.