The truth is that I'm a bad person. But, that's gonna change - I'm going to change. This is the last of that sort of thing. Now I'm cleaning up and I'm moving on, going straight and choosing life. I'm looking forward to it already. I'm gonna be just like you. The job, the family, the fucking big television. The washing machine, the car, the compact disc and electric tin opener, good health, low cholesterol, dental insurance, mortgage, starter home, leisure wear, luggage, three piece suite, DIY, game shows, junk food, children, walks in the park, nine to five, good at golf, washing the car, choice of sweaters, family Christmas, indexed pension, tax exemption clearing gutters, getting by, looking ahead, the day you die.

PH 670- Einsteinium

The seconds crawl along inexorably. You wouldn't have thought one second is such a huge interval of time. It is funny when you try to quantify time... by time. You're staring fixedly at your watch, and you're thinking, It's taking hours for that seconds-hand to move. And then you smile, realising the impossiblity of the thought that just crossed your mind. Of course, that doesn't stop you from boring through the watch with your eyes, willing those second, minute and hour hands to move at ultra-sonic speed. But after a while, you stop bothering about the minute-hand, being resigned to its inexplicable immobility, its stubborn defiance to move over from the current minute to the next. It gives the minutest(pun unintended) flicker of motion when the seconds-hand trundles around the dial to complete one full circle, in about as much time as it would take you to go to the moon and back... twice. And this tortorous crawl around the circle continues, the minute-hand obliging with a barely perciptible motion after approximately an eon. These eons drag by, painfully, brutally, until 50 eons complete their life-time... and the class ends. Nirvana.

There's no one around, you are just walking across the ground, and the ball is in your way. The goal is inviting, mocking even, as it gapes open, challenging you to put that sphere of 8-inch diameter inside it. You kick it, making perfect contact between ball and foot (you just KNOW when a perfect strike happens). And the ball speeds towards the huge, open area between the goal-posts... and hits the post! As always... ALWAYS. The ball rolls over to someone else, who promptly puts it it, just to show how it's done. Nothing's been said, but the challenge has been thrown. You can't wait to put on the shoes, the socks, the dirty T-shirt. Six others have got wind of the proposed battle and have, with miliary precision, been didvided into two sides and are standing in perfect formation. As you run out of the room, you steal a quick glance at the clock, and for some reason, the time registers in your mind... barely, but it registers. Out on the field, the first kick is taken, and it's Game On. At the end of it all, when you trudge back to the room, wiping your sweat off, you glance at the clock again. Three hours??? THREE hours??? Three hours which had flown past at Mach 4. You shake your head as you remove the socks...

Relativity Explained.

For the Love of God

I don't know why I have this addiction to titling blog posts after song titles. Maybe because it saves me the effort of thinking up a title and because I can build up something that will justify the title anyway. Because unlike most bloggers, I don't blog with a point in mind... mostly. Sometimes I do, but for that, something must have left a REALLY deep impression on me, which doesn't happen often. Otherwise I just take things as they come, going with the flow, hoping things will work out for the best. I mean, the method works for me in real life, surely it would work for the blog!

I had the humbling realisation today that I do nothing in life. I've been having quite a few humbling realisations about my life over the past week... or two. Like the one I had two weeks ago. That I couldn't talk seriously. I was in a Debate, an inter-hostel one and we were given this high-intellect, serious-thinking topic to talk about. All the while I'm thinking, How many jokes can we get in here. The round was based on The Big Fight, where there are three people shouting themselves hoarse and going nowhere in the end. So I decided to reduce the participation to two, and kept my mouth shut. Unfortunately, we were seated such that I was in the middle. So there were these two guys having an extremely heated discussion about something I had no opinion about, and there was me, in the middle, waiting for the appropriate moment to deliver my wisecrack. As Chandler would have said, I felt like- Rock. Hard place. Me. Needless to say, I placed 5th... out of 6 (there was another round of 3 people). And realised that I could provide only comic relief... not the main show.

And now I've realised, I do nothing in life. Like if I have 6 hours of free time in the evening, and my laptop is not with me, there's nothing I can do. There is no football till later in the night, so that's out. I am in the middle of "The Monk Who Sold his Ferrari" but I am not feeling too philosophical right now, so I'm afraid I'll miss the full import of what the book hopes to deliver to me and hence hurt Robin Sharma's sentiments in the process. (ok ,THAT'S one thing I can do... write long sentences). There is April's Reader's Digest... not in the mood. There is MA 204- Statistics... DUH!!!!!!!! And then, there were none.

I mean, if I could play the Guitar or something, I would take my six-string, go up to the terrace and strum away, all the while looking up and thinking what Chris Martin was thinking when he wrote Yellow- Look at the stars, Look how they shine for you... Or if I had Music on my computer at home, I would turn up Pink Floyd and just feel Comfortably Numb. Or if I had any bit of interest in electronics and gadgets and stuff, I'd take apart something in the house and put it back together again (My cousin did it... a LOT!). Or atleast read about some such thing on howstuffworks. Or go clean the car and the Kinetic. The Kinetic has a front-tyre puncture! Ok, good time to remember that, 10:37 P.M. Ok, so that's something to do for tomorrow, but today's gone. Or rearrange the bookshelf (yeeeah, with about 234 books... like THAT will take a lot of time).

Ok, I have Broadband at home and a 100-MBPS LAN in the hostel. Someone tell me what to do with so much free internet! I feel extremely guilty about wasting all these god-given resources n what I usually do... Bumperball!!! HEY, I've never played Bumperball at home! Ok then... catch ya later, people...

Mostly Thoughtless

The dry grass crackled underfoot as he walked down the driveway of his mansion. It was set farther up than the rest of the houses in that hill-station. Understandably too. He owned half the hill. The tea estates stretching away till as far as his eye could see were all his, as were all those tiny dots which would move around picking out the leaves and dropping them nonchalantly into the bags on their back once the sun came out. All his. He felt extremely satisfied at this, that he had achieved something. Not pride. Or joy. Or greatness. Just satisfaction. I've done my job. Like a painter would feel, stepping back to survey his masterpiece.

He had wanted the driveway swept yesterday. It was getting very difficult to find good help these days. They were all becoming lazy. Or maybe it was because it was 4 A.M on a winter morning in the hills, and that he was the only lunatic to get up at such an hour and venture into the biting cold. They'll probably do it later. They'd better. He hadn't achieved what he had by allowing room for complacency.

He had a single shawl around him. The cold demanded two layers of sweaters and a shawl over that, but he had only a single shawl. He was a native. He didn't have to be afraid of the cold. The cold was his friend. He had been brought up with it, brought down by it, thrilled by it, chilled by it... and now, he hoped, killed by it.

He walked down from his house to the old burial ground. It was about 2 kms away. That was where she was buried. They had had no children in the first ten years of their marriage. No one knew why. And then God blessed them with a pretty, little baby girl... and took the mother away. It was as if he was destined to have only one woman in his life at a time. He had left the baby at the mansion and then come down to these grounds to bury her. And after everyone had left, he had cried. He had cried like he had never cried before, he had cried like he would die because he was not breathing in at all, he had cried like his face would get eroded by the tears streaming down. And then he stopped crying. Forever.

He stood by where she was buried. The cold was beginning to make its presence felt. His hands had gone numb, he could feel his body starting to tremble to keep itself warm. And yet, he stood there, unmoving. It is done, dear. I've driven myself like there was no tomorrow. Our child has everything she'll ever need. She has her nanny, she has the best tutor for miles around, she has wonderful friends and their parents who love her as their own. She turns 18 today and is officially capable of taking care of herself. Don't you think it's time I joined you?

The cold peirced through his body, sending his spine shivering into convulsions. His breath tightened as the cold pressed his chest in. He thought of letting the shawl go... quicken the process. A gust of wind blew across his face... and he smelt something. He knew that smell, he knew it from 28 years ago. He could still smell it on her neck, her favourite talcum powder, the only cosmetic she used. The wind blew again, and he instinctively drew his shawl closer. He immediately felt warmer, warmer than what a mere shawl could offer against that wind. The warmth spread through his body. He was brething freely, normally. He cocked his head to one side, as if listening to something. Then he turned and started walking back to his Mansion, drawing the shawl closer to him all the time.

As the first dry leaf crackled on the driveway, he saw a tall, slim figure react to the sound at the other end of the driveway. He watched her as she sprinted down the drive, making enough noise to wake up an army. She flew into his arms as he barely managed to get out "Happy Birthday, Dear", before she squeezed his breath out of him with a tight embrace. Really, she must realize she's grown now, I can't hold her weight so easily. She let him go and looked inquiringly at him. Where had he been? He looked into her eyes and nodded. They stayed silent for a while, then she took his hand and led him back into the house.

The dry leaves crackled underfoot as they walked back into the house. He remembered the last gust of wind that had blown at the burial ground, the one that had caused him to draw his shawl closer. He remembered her smell, and remembered her voice, as if she had been right there, telling him. She can have everything, but she needs a father. He squeezed his daughter's arm and drew her closer as they climbed up the steps into the Mansion.