October 13, 2005


Watching two seasons of Sex and the City on the trot can have weird effects on your thought process. Your association with normal brands is quietly replaced by names like Jimmy Choo, Manolo Blahnik and Prada. And yes, I am a complete footwear freak, even if I don't own or wear much else other than my really cheap and really shabby collection. Of course, you could argue that such a situation would make me anything but a shoe freak, but I do beg to differ. And then flares up the latent desire to redo your place on the lines of Bill's hacienda in Kill Bill vol. 2, ably assisted by my fondness for minimalistic furniture and stucco walls. Fantasy, obviously, has no limits.

We all love to identify with characters. Otherwise, there would really be scant importance for fiction in our lives. In fact, importance in itself is such a contextual concept. Still, we deem it important at times to to step away from what we are for various reasons. We extend ourselves over time, mutate and morph into shades and shapes we have seen in others, read in books and dictated by shrinks. And one day, quite unexpectedly, you come across a piece of paper or an old favourite poem and all the layers acquired through the years strip away, exposing a face in the mirror you could never mutilate. The old feelings come back and you reacquaint yourself with your oldest friend - fate.