In your love my salvation lies

"Are we fuckups?" she asked him.

"We aren't fuckups" he kept repeating.

I hope we aren't either.

I don't know why I waited so long to watch Away We Go. Anyway, I miss home in that terrible, too late its dead, kind of way.

Mon lagche na ekhane. Mon lagche na karor shathe.

Please come take me away somewhere. I don't want to play this game.

Harder than Easy

I think I'd be better off gay. But I just can't wish it.

I wish I hadn't wasted so much time on you. I'm not wiser. I'm just sadder. The only thing I wish for from that time, was the complete fearlessness I felt. I could make a fool of myself over and over again and not feel a thing.

I discovered a song called Harder than Easy, which is nothing special really, but it's kind of nice when you think of it Grey's Anatomically. It has these lines which attracted me -

At the end of the day when you're lonely

After begging to be left alone

- because it reminded me of me. I am like my grandfather I think sometimes.

I don't feel like putting in the effort anymore. I just want to be on painkillers for the rest of my life.

I have also realised I can't draw you beautiful anymore. You come out all wrong, and kind of Chinese.

It's weird. It's not angst anymore. It's not loneliness. Maybe this is what K talks about sometimes. You're not rebelling. You're not angry. You're just in this deep deep well of inexplicable sadness where you're thrust back in the moment you step out. And by the time you pull yourself out, fake smile spent and semi-enthusiastic, you're back in it again. What's the point? I'll be like Toru. I'll live there.

This blog is my deep well I think.

Things I would do if I were Bono or someone cool

Okay, so this was totally brought on by a quick glimpse viewing of Beautiful Day on VH1 - you know the part where Bono's like lying on the baggage conveyor? I mean, that, is my fantasy. Which got me to thinking - what are the other things I'd do if I were cool like Bono? So here's my list -

1) The conveyor belt thing to begin with. Number wunn priority boss.

2) Also, in the same video, the dude is singing on the runway, while planes take off over his head - I mean, who wouldn't want that?

3) Sit in the school staff room. I mean, for some reason, thanks to my school or whatever, the staff room was this super sacred place which was kept veiled from the prying eyes of a student with this shabby fluttering curtain. We kept catching glimpses of this fantastic little world inside (I once saw Mrs. Basu smoking and heard a lot of commotion when Mrs. Mitra fainted) - but never enough to know enough. I almost walked in once, when I was helping Mrs. Sen carry some books to the staff room - but the minute I stepped inside, she let out a banshee-like scream - "You're not allowed inside! You're not allowed inside! " I almost saw the light. Bitch.

4) Sit next to the pilot in the cockpit. Ask him why they call it a cockpit. Especially now that there are women pilots. And I'd also take over for two minutes, giving everyone a ride of their lives. A brief, horrible ride. Muahahahaha.

5) Go to Mecca and Medina - and all those places where I'm forbidden to go. Like ever. Like Charlie Kaufman's mind.

Okay, I have to think too much now. So later.

Kid

I found an old diary - 2005ish. Not much has changed, I can see. Some of the things seemed silly and childish - like the poetry for instance - and the ramblings about my dream lover, when half the world I knew were banging their real lovers in their garage or attic or whatever. But yeah, the apprehensions about growing old and lonely, sick and spiritless, all of that is still thick in my brains. I have mellowed with regard to my parents. I don't get mad at them as easily. I get them.

It's weird. I always thought 2005 was one of the best years in my life. But when I was reading this silly old diary, I had such anger jumping out of the pages, I could barely believe it. I kept thinking, you stupid kid, it's okay, these are such little things. But I'll give that kid her knack for intuition. She had predicted something like this happening to me. Whatever it is that is happening to me. I should write carefully.

I should go back to Bombay. I'm scared of going back to something I cannot control, but I should go back anyway. I'm still fucking paying rent.

You know what? I'm quite okay. I may not be the peachiest of plum, but I'm okay. Like Peppermint Patty said one day after looking at the mirror - "Not so bad". Then she walks out with Marcie and says "You know Marcie, that's always been my ambition...to be not so bad after all". So if 30 year old me reads this - kid, you're not so bad after all.

You Belong to Me

Let’s get this straight. Calcutta is an acquired taste. You either love it or you don’t. You might hate it sometimes with a vengeance so severe that, you will promise never to return, never to love again. But if you have loved it once, chances are you will crawl back to it like a broken lover, begging her to take you back. Ah yes, Calcutta, this charming old seductress, will stab and twist and make you bleed. But eventually, she will reclaim you.

I was recently reclaimed, when a friend of mine decided to pop over to my hometown for a few weeks. I knew she must have had some expectations having read, seen and heard so much, so I was a little apprehensive. The perception of my city isn’t always a flattering one. Or it is always riddled with annoying clichés. Trams and Tagore, roshogolla and mishti doi, Durga Pujo and shindoor khala – yeah yeah yeah, whatever. It upsets me. Cal is either Parineeta or Lapierre’s City of Joy with the poor, hungry rickshaw pullers. I mean it is - I’m not entirely denying it. But a dumb sepia coloured postcard it is not. It isn’t a one night stand. It isn’t some chick you pick up at a bar. You have to give Cal some time and some thought - which presumably narrows down the Cal loving population to a fairly feeble percentage.

Fortunately, my friend was one of them feeble percentages. I could see it when she was leaving. The city had claimed another victim. Like Mary Anne Aunty from Scotland, who ate too little and often broke her bones and said “Oh dear” a lot. Mary Anne lived at the Grand Hotel on Chowringhee for many months before moving to an apartment in New Alipore. She was about 65, quite the Brit, very proper, liked her tea and all of that. Her husband, Uncle John, was a slightly younger, sprightly, ruddy faced Scotsman who worked with my father. He was here on a transfer, and was shacking up with his wife at one of the oldest, quaintest hotels in Calcutta. We were bang in the middle of our summer holidays, seriously excited, because having a guest at the Grand meant free swimming sessions. So everyday, under the pretext of making Mary Anne feel more at home, my mother, my brother and I would hop over to the Grand, swim (or attempt to – because I really couldn’t) and eat like we’ve never eaten before at the coffee shop over there. By “we”, I really mean my brother and I, because my mother is a very gracious sort and wouldn’t really behave like that. Mary Anne, I really don’t know what she thought of us, was really upset about being in Calcutta. It was dirty, backward, poor and chaotic. It wasn’t the right thing for her frail little British nerves. She hated it, and my brother and I would make it worse by telling her horror stories about the ‘dhapa maath’ (a dumping ground literally – where the ITC Sonar -Bangla now stands), and many more cringe-worthy tales just to make her say “Oh dear” even more. We spent that whole summer saying “Oh dear” at the littlest things and laughed till our sides hurt. But despite our sincerest efforts at creating little monsters in her head, Mary Anne, fell in love with this filthy, chaotic city after three years of living here. Not with its structures or buildings or food or anything – but with its soul I suppose. She went back to Scotland with a heavy heart, and also, I suspect, better immunity.

There is no plausible explanation for it. It’s difficult for me to be objective about Calcutta. My parents live here, I’ve grown up here, have gone to school and college here – my life has formed around this city. We’re fused together in a manner so complicated that I dare not attempt to untangle it.
I was standing at the Calcutta airport seeing off my friend and thinking this is not the kind of airport you would expect a metro to have. It’s seriously screwed up. And all this led to further thought. I pictured myself in Bangalore Airport, Bombay Airport, Dehli Airport – and none of the me’s seemed to fit in any of those airports. I considered my life in Bombay – independent, casual, scattered – and felt as though I was living someone else’s life over there.
I was incomplete. I missed my city. I fought to get away from it, but I knew I was only getting into a very complex long distance relationship with my love.

Calcutta is my Egdon Heath. I just know it.

I was listening to Michael Buble's version of You Belong to Me. I think it brought this on.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N88pp39DdS8

Sip Carefully

Obviously, I'm over-doing it - this Calcutta thing - this not working thing. To be fair (to me that is), I have (am) working on a film here - something to do with smoking awareness. And yes, all this smoking business has made me give up my pledge to quit. Yeah, I have absolutely no staying power - literally and figuratively. I can almost see the solemn eyes of my well-wishers going - told you so - and maybe a little tut tut.

So yeah. That's that. So far, I've enjoyed my new year thoroughly - mostly re-discovering Calcutta, working for myself, eating a lot and listening to and watching things I like. I've been supremely selfish and sometimes not very cool, but I think I should stop feeling bad about all that. I spent all of last year feeling used and spent - and not in a good way. I don't want that anymore. I don't want to be lonely and brooding and fake smiling. I can feel this happy juice slowly recede. And I realise it during moments of absolute bliss. What a typical, cheesy urban nutjob I am. Anyway, I'm going to make it last while it does.

I do know, more often than not, happiness is kind of isolating. Most of the time, you are happy just on your own, sticking out like a sore thumb - sounding too loud, too shiny. I've been the other guy too long to know this. But I like this cake. Let me eat it for now. We'll have plenty of time to be sad together, okay?

Next

Nouvelle Vague's "Ever Fallen in Love" will always remind me of VPV and our second ad together. Come to think of it, there was a tiny bit of flirting going on, I'll admit it DG. Entirely harmless though. I really get my kicks from difficult people.

2010, more than any year, has been a year of false starts. I had a feeling, I was poised for so many things wonderful, but I think I just let them all go. Easy come. Easy go.

I keep bumping into people in Calcutta I think I know. I've seen them somewhere, like maybe when I was in college, or in Facebook Albums of popular kids. And I'm certain they wouldn't remember - even though we may have spoken a couple of times. Isn't that horrible? They either think I'm a huge snob, or a little weird in any case. I hate being that way.

I'm planning to spend my new year's eve in a way I used to when I was a kid. Watching TV. Maybe add a couple of movies and alcohol in for good measure. Confession: it totally sucks being the only single person in a room full of not single people. I mean, I'm okay with the way it is - but I hate the post 12 o'clock kiss awkwardness. I'd really, really rather watch a movie.

I think I miss someone, a little more than I thought I would. I didn't think my moment of epiphany would happen in the can, with an Archie comic in my hand. Actually no. That's exactly how it should have happened, and it did. Either way, fuck. It's too tragic. I'll start becoming like Supriya debi in Meghe Dhaka Tara, screaming "Dada ami baachte chai!" with the camera swish panning around insanely around the mountains. I don't want to get TB and become a martyr. Please, please no.

I have some nice new clothes now, a watch, fake but cute sunglasses, lots of books and a shit load of films. If I only lost some weight, I think I'd be fairly happy. And I just had a beach vacation. With swimming. That's always good. The winter's been nice so far, although I strangely long for a bit of the Delhi cold. I have Body Shop Body Butter - strawberry at that - which is something I've wanted forever. I have been smoke free for 9 days and counting. I wake up late. I'm not working. Life's okay, no?

Have a happy new year everyone. It might just work out okay.

New York is cold, but I like where I'm living, there's music on Clinton Street all through the evening

Today I had my last cigarette in a cold alley in Park Street by myself. I don't why, but it bothered me. The day started out well enough. I woke up early, was unusually chirpy. But as the day wore on, I started feeling this slight dread at the pit of my stomach. I kept thinking of myself in the pictures taken during my brother's wedding and wondered who that strange, ridiculously happy person was. She looked nothing like how I felt - which was, and is, something exactly the opposite.

Cohen's Famous Blue Raincoat played on loop inside my head all through the day. Even in the morning when the light looked fantastic and it was cold and beautiful. Then in the evening, when I walked down from Xavier's to the other side of Park Street, it was like someone cranked the volume way, way up.

I took out my guitar after ages today. I played the same old tunes I always play on any guitar, because I think, that's all I know, and that's all I'll ever be able to play. I feel sorry for the guitar. It should have belonged to someone else. Someone who wanted to be a rockstar. Or someone with a little more enthusiasm.

God, what a bloody waste of a day. What a waste of a life.

God Bless the Pretty Things

I like this album. I really do. Not because I want to like it, but I like it. It's electro-poppy and not in a bad 80s way. Okay, maybe it's a little reminiscent of the Pet Shop Boys and David Bowie, but they're cool, right? Sometimes? Anyway, how does it matter?

The lads broke all sales records in the UK, yet again. Second fastest selling album of all time in the UK (don't believe me, Google it). And they'd do that even if the album was crap. Which most TT loyalists say it is. It's not ballad-y and sweet and grand - which is typically Take That. It's edgy and raw, experimental and kind of angry but without really being pretentious, which I like. It has a lot of Robbie (who doesn't really sound as good as he once did), and Mark (who has a scary voice, quite honestly), but when they come together, they kind of make it work. Gary, surprisingly has taken a backseat - but I think he's too smart to really become a wallflower. I was watching the documentary, Look Back don't Stare (which I recommend very very strongly), and you know this album wouldn't have happened without the genius of Gary Barlow and Stuart Price. The dude made the album happen, and his leadership skills have certainly improved from the last time Robbie was around.

Their hitmaker is probably going to be The Flood, the first single that they chose to release. The video is cheesy and weird - but the song is pretty epic. Great dance beats and I dare you not to hum neurotically days after you hear it. The chorus nails it - the rest of it is well, meh. Mark and Robbie get to vent a lot - political, personal turmoil all spews out in SOS and Kidz - both pretty intense, catchy tracks. You'll never believe you are listening to Take That if you hear Happy Now or even Pretty Things for that matter. Raspy, trippy, Scissor Sister-ish even. Fucking wow. But the best song is undoubtedly Eight Letters, a ballad sung by Gary (who else?) and written by Robbie - probably the best track in the album. It's clearly autobiographical, very poignant - and the fact that Gary sings it (and he sings it very very well) makes it even more special. I'll admit I've missed Gary's voice in the album, because he is a stronger singer - and can hold a tune better - but still, it's good to see the group pulling their own weights for a change. The result is a quirky, original album, not dominated by one theme or mood or voice. It's deliciously unpredictable and has Fuck You written all over it. They don't care - these five are making music after a long time, and actually enjoying it for a change.

The house is empty, like after a robbery. There’s some random, melancholy music playing on my laptop. I’m figuring out i-tunes finally.

I’m thinking about what a genius you were at 20, the same time I was 20, and not quite all there.

I guess I am a little jealous.

I am stuck here, with my borrowed wisdom and mediocre talents. And double fucking chin.

And you…you are not.

Calcutta is getting wintry. It’ll soon be time for Nivea and oranges. And more tea and cigarettes.

I am afraid of sticking to memories like cling film. And becoming fungusy and smelly. I am afraid of getting stuck. To people, to places, to a conversation, to a fantasy, to a deeply saddening thought, to the A minor chord.

What are you doing now? Do I pop up sometimes in your memories? Do I say hello? Do you remember my name?

I miss being funny. Maybe it’s the music I listen to now.

OH MY GOD, I am not filmy enough.

Halfway through the sangeet script I was thinking of character development and consistency. Furk.

But I have seen a LOT of Hindi movies in my time. And a whole lot of crappy ones as well. I mean, summer holidays duh. I should be able to do better right? Sigh.

I haven't had a cigarette since I landed in Cal (and those milds just don't count).

There's a really cheesy song I love listening to now - She's only happy in the sun. It's so pretty.

This beer bottle design is so perfect.

My god I am FAT. These clothes used to be so loose. Fuckfuckfuck. FUCK. I just don't say it enough. FUCK.

Don't Bogart that joint

Hendrix, Roger McGuinn, discovering new songs, long distance phone calls, clambering nephews, strange new light fixes, new mirrors, AC, kitchen smells, old test papers, internet for free.

I want to have a hot affair in Cal. I cannot have not loved in my own city, right?

I wish I had some company for the Film Fest.

Today I was in my brother’s room (in Cal) and I suddenly saw that the wall which had this poster of a 60s pin up babe leaning against a convertible, was bare. His computer, which seemed very state of the art three or four years ago, seemed a little lonely. Not a whole lot had changed in his room actually. Bits of him were still there. I imagined that boy in his Bermudas and faded T-shirts, watching football on TV and playing games on the comp, reading his crime thrillers and obsessing about cars. I really don’t think a whole lot has changed, but that missing poster – it bothered me for some reason. Like the time he walked in late for a World Cup match because his fiancé took too much time at a store buying grocery. I saw a side of him I never knew. He bit the bullet, he behaved extremely maturely. A part of me was happy for his new found grown upness, but for most part I was scared. I was losing my loopy, short tempered best friend to a girl who was nothing like us and my brother was losing all the things that made him, him.

He’s happy though, I think. And it’s just me, who’s somehow stuck at 16 - in awe of her older, much cooler brother - refusing to let go of an image of a person who’s just moved on, naturally. I’m losing my partner in crime, and it seems to be happening at a time, when all these little partnerships I have reveled in, are slowly, but surely crumbling or fading. Maybe they just morph into a different kind of partnership, a different kind of love. You probably never stop being close. But you also probably never get to be the same. And I miss that. I’m just sentimental I suppose.

I watched a wonderful episode of Glee today. I am a sucker for underdogs.

Khair Chhodo

So yesterday I had work and it was fine when I was working, not so fine when I wasn't. I have realized over time that I am not much of a lover of festivals. I mean, look at it - this Diwali thing - people making noise, people littering, people wasting energy - somehow, I'm not cool with it. I just don't like it. I don't like most of these celebrations, and I don't know, maybe I'm being a Scrooge or something, but if you think about it, you'll know what I mean.

Maybe it's a once in a year thing, but it's so wasteful and pointless! And I don't know. I think that attack on Ravan and the Lankans was kind of racially motivated. It's like America vs any small oil rich country.

Anyway. I was in a mood yesterday. I don't quite know why. I wish I could stay back at the studio all night instead of going back home.

My editor is a man-child-khoo-kid. Let me elaborate - and I'm sure you've seen this kind a lot:

30 something, unmarried.

Long hair, maybe a beard.

Wears quarter pants, expensive sneakers and rocker/black Tees.

Smokes a lot of pot

Listens to electronica

Collects toys

Talks a lot. About drugs, music, parties, gambling, women - all the things which make him cool.

Has an opinion on everything

Is friends with anyone who matters

Drops names

Loves the sound of his own voice

Sarcastic, talks down to his assistants

Says "fuck" and its derivatives a lot

Gives a rat ass about clients/agencies - people in positions of authority

Always has a party to go to

Probably loves comic books

Probably watches a lot of indie films

Does that Bappi Lahiri talk with friends on the phone

Was/is in a band

I can't help it. He's such a type. But he was generous with his stash, so I don't care. He's late though for his booking. Not that I have anywhere to go. Khair chhodo.

I love that phrase. "Khair chhodo". What does "khair" mean? Anyway? I am in love with it.

When P told me about Professor Lal, we both know what popped into our heads. That song. That silly little song we made up. How sadly ironic. Then I remembered this brilliant lecture on Ode to a Nightingale - which somehow stuck. I remember so little of the recent past. So it's nice. He left me with something nice to remember. Anyway, this isn't an eulogy or anything. It's just, I don't know - a mixture of regret and sadness. Rest in peace Professor.

Today it's Diwali here in Bombay, Kali Pujo back home. I lit fourteen diyas at home yesterday and did all the things Ma would have liked me to do. I bought some flowers and made a little alpona of sorts in front of the door. Then there was a terrific storm, but none of the diyas died, which was sort of miraculous. There was no-one at home, so I did all this mostly for myself. Then I smoked a j and watched Lie to Me. At 12.30 they called me in for some edit job, which I was relieved to go to, because I wanted to be alone. I like travelling through the empty streets at night. I quite like watching the night folk - homeless people, construction workers, prostitutes - I don't know why exactly though. I just enjoy the wind in my face, and thinking.

I think I'm slowly but surely morphing into a strange old city bird. Sometimes, when I wake up in the morning and see some booze lying around in the kitchen, I feel like having it with my oat bites. Sometimes I do. Okay, not with the oats, but just. In the evenings I like sitting with a smoke and some Coke Studio or How I Met Your Mother (depending on my mood and internet connectivity) and just being there in the dim lights and quiet space. I don't like talking anymore. I like listening sometimes, but mostly not. I'm a selfish and happy. Or sad. Either way, it's my thing.

Contradictory to whatever I am saying, this has been a long garrulous post. Okbye.

Meanwhile...

I have decided to recreate 2005/2007. I loved 19/21.

I also love David Bowie and The Rolling Stones all over again.

I have rejoined Postcrossing. Now I need stamps.

I wish Someplace Else wasn't an yuppie filled blechfest now, because if it's 2005, I need to go.

I want to go for a film festival and a live concert.

I want to go to Goa too.

I want to jam again. Did you know I rocked a mike at a karaoke bar recently? Honest to god. I was awesome.

I have a new antivirus one day before the old one expires. Tookul.

I need new jeans.

I am going to start dressing like a sexy plus sized woman. There's no use pretending being normal and dowdy anymore.

I wish I had more gay guy friends. They are generally great to hang with. I like all the ones I have.

I went to Toto's last night with a friend and had some lovely gin and tonic (can I buy a Schweppes factory?) and did some mutual eye flirting with some cute dude. I am not as old as I think I am sometimes.

Today I walked in half an hour late to work and they didn't tell me anything, because we've mutually decided not to give a fuck anymore. Woohoo.

Okay now I am hungry. Need coffee.

WP: following is a primordial action

me: nah

WP: esp, if its for a pair of ass

me: haha

WP: oh cummon

you know you re gonna meet hi,

him

dont make it heavy by thinking you wont see him again

fucken hell you will

and cut the hell and there you go

Dude. You have to come back and get on my time again. It's just not fucken fair.

I am a poor wayfaring stranger

While journeying through this world of woe;
And there's no sickness, toil nor danger
In that bright land to which I go.

Or so I think. Anyway. I've been feeling a winter, as good as you can feel a winter here in Bombay, lurking around somewhere. The leaves are browning, the dogs are dusty and the mosquitoes have declared war. It'll be weird not coming back to this office again. But honestly, it doesn't matter. It's just another goodbye in a whole list of goodbyes.

Anyway. I have a cold that has been with me since the 15th of October. It should seriously go now. Also, I haven't been doing much for the wedding. I think I should get to it now.

Does anyone even read this anymore?

You know what? I have come to realise that, I like my job very much. I like the running around, the long sweaty shoots, the long nights of putting it all together..... I like it. I like it very, very much and I'm stronger for it. It's just the waiting I don't like. The rest, I can deal with.

But for now, I am pretty excited about going home. Doing a rediscovery thing et al. Travel. Be a little more health conscious. Listen to more electronica, which I am slowly really starting to like. Gate crash the Scorsese thing next door. Finish all the books and films I've been hoarding. Find new people to hang with in Cal. Shoot a short. Find a nice boy to make out with. Haha. And the wedding. Oh yes, the wedding.

Okay now I must enjoy my free Sunday. Bye.

Bejeche Gache Kokhon, sheh telephone

I didn’t go to work today. Partly because I was sick, partly because I didn’t give a damn. Anyway, I am alone at home in skimpy clothes listening to Bhindeshi Tara and Ferari Mon and Mon Re in loop.

This has been a bluesy Pujo. I don’t really miss anything, feel anything. Maybe I miss being a kid, but that’s about it. I know being in Calcutta wouldn’t change anything. If anything, it would make me sadder, because I’d think of how wonderful it all used to be. I also have a horrible cold which doesn’t allow me to taste anything or smoke anything. What a complete waste.
I miss the language. When I listen to Anindyo Chattapadhya’s lyrics, I remember the language and it’s comforting and also depressing.

Amar raat jaga tara

(My star, who lies awake at night)

Tomar akaash chhoya bari

(Your home touches the skies)

Aami payi na chhute tomaye

(I cannot reach up to you)

Amar akla lage bhari

(And I feel very lonely)

Okay that was a horrible translation. So much is lost. Sigh.

Doesn't sneezing give you a high?

So I am randomly sneezing now and listening to Paban Das Baul - only this one awesome song, which somehow, I get the feeling, nobody else likes.

I forgot to mention it here, but I sort of put in my papers (again!) - and it was scary but liberating. And not in a way where I wash my hands off all responsibility, but in a way where I really take a leap of faith and do wonderful things. I'm excited. But who knows these things, right?

I came home early today and watched two completely differently movies. Before that I saw HWIM, and I loved this episode because it was about New York, and to me, New York is like Bombay. But never mind all that.

The first one was 17 Again and the second one A Serious Man.

17 Again reminded me of Never Been Kissed (which for some reason is a cult favourite - okay, our cult). I always thought I'd be irritated by Zac Efron because he just seems like the sort who'd do back flips if you asked him to do his homework, but he wasn't. He was quite nice and he danced only twice I think. And I love Matthew Perry, so I thought what the heck. I really liked it. It was goofy and warm and quite watchable.

The Coen brothers are awesome. I've loved all their movies. But I'm not sure what exactly to make of A Serious Man. I couldn't help wondering if they were really being clever or pretending to be. It was engaging. It was dark. It was funny. The acting was superb. The cinematography, production design - all of it awesome. But...you know...I'm just. not. sure. Maybe that's the point. Who knows?

shob diye jar

shob kere nao

Tar to prane shoy na

Tomar dil ki doya hoy na?

Today is Mahalaya. I heard it on Youtube. Wow.

I miss being a kid during this time. Somehow, Pujo always reminds me of the best of times as a kid. Even though I know nostalgia distorts everything. Let it.

I'm listening to Hey There Delilah on loop, and I can't help thinking - I wish I had heard this when I was younger, in college. It's so full of hope.

Today I'm walking around with a fake gold medal. Today I'm happy you remember me. Today I'm thinking of pushing all boundaries. Today I am in denial like all the rest.

A thousand miles seems pretty far

But they've got planes and trains and cars
I'd walk to you if I had no other way

Good Morning

It's nice this morning. My plant Georgina is getting a bit of sun, I've just finished the papers and coffee. I had a lovely dinner last night with Baba, B, N, S and D and that's all I want really. Nice dinner, nice company, a little bit of wine. I am not the working sort. Unless...

A told me to write a script in two days and give it to him. Which is kind of much, because a) he's already written his own script for the same film and b) my brain, despite being happy of late, still writes from a dark, dark place. So, I don't know, but I will give it a shot. This kind of work is happy.

My baby film is demanding. I love it to bits, but fuck, it's a screamer. I need it to go to sleep now. I need the fizz to settle.

It feels weird to say this, but I finally feel settled in. Like I did in Bangalore. I know it's temporary, and this feeling will be shattered with the next missed deadline or fuckup at work, but I feel calmer about being here. Maybe it has to do with the fact that quit plans are ahead. Maybe its because I finally worked on something where I felt I needed. Maybe its because D's in town and we cook together more often and have re-done up our home. For what it's worth, I'm happy. Even if it isn't all there tomorrow.

I'm looking forward to travel. Loads of it. Soonly.

Are you worried about the verdict today?

So today was a generally awesome day. In fact, the past few days have been just that.

I had a wonderful shoot after ages, and I think a lot of that had to do with hormones. This was such an eye candy shoot. Then post has been surprisingly lenient. I've hardly had to go, and that's cool. D and I have been re-doing up our house, listening to a lot of music all day, and spending money we cannot afford to spend. Chinese bulbs, funky book shelves, a plant and a trunk which we just spray painted red - our house is an art project. I love our house. I do. I do. It's our child.

Now it's 2, I am drinking some old rum, I'm not exactly sure why and am still happy. Oh and I also have Return of the Dark Knight to read. Sigh. Please don't be a shitty day tomorrow.

I don't feel like blogging anymore, because I have a notebook. It allows me to be as sentimental, as stupid as I want to be. Besides, I lose my train of thought these days. I think when I'm sitting in an auto or climbing stairs. But apart from that, I don't think much.

Today, I was standing in the stairwell thinking, how all this seems like a part of some lazy story I once wrote. The Chinese bulbs were going crazy outside, fuchsia, yellow, blue and green. Drums. Chants. Noise. I wasn't celebrating anything. I didn't have a single story to tell, to sell, to chew upon. I felt so terribly boring and unattractive for five really long seconds. And then I climbed the rest of the floors and let the yellow warmth of my house take care of me.

I'll talk to you later. When I have a story to tell.