Perhaps it’s the color of the sun cut flat
And covering
The crossroads I’m standing at
Or maybe it’s the weather,
Or something like that,
But mama, you been on my mind

I don’t mean trouble, please don’t put me down or get upset,
I am not pleading
Or sayin’, “I can’t forget”
I do not pace the floor
Bowed down and bent,
But yet
Mama, you're just on my mind

Even though my eyes are hazy
And my thoughts, they might have been narrow
Where you been don’t bother me
Or bring me down in sorrow
I don’t even mind who you'll be
Waking with tomorrow
But mama, you’re still on my mind

I am not asking you to say words like “yes” and “no”
Please understand me,
I have no place I'm calling you to go
I’m just whispering to myself
So I can't pretend that I don’t know
That mama, you are on my mind

When you wake up in the morning,
Baby, look inside your mirror
You wouldn't want me next to you,
And you know I won’t be near
I’d just be curious to know
If you can see yourself as clear
As someone,
Who has had you,
On his mind.

Sometime last year, and I have only a vague idea when, I felt a razor's edge inside my mouth, that sliced the side of my tongue. As I tasted blood, out of apparently nowhere, I felt around to understand what had nicked me. And I found out- I had a chipped tooth. The inside of my first bicuspid on the left side, studded in the side of the roof. I had no clue how it happened. I have heard of teeth being chipped in nasty car accidents or sports collisions. But its not often that you hear, much less experience, a chipped tooth from seemingly nothing. I didn't mention this to anyone because I didn't want to make a big deal. And, like the idiot I was, I thought this somehow take care of itself! But anyway, one day, out of nowhere, I had to reign in my tongue. For if I let it wag callously anymore, I would bleed. At times, even otherwise. I suspected the edge would blunt out in a few weeks time. But every now and then, since that evening, my tooth nicks my tongue and I can taste the fresh saltiness of my own blood. Its like when you accidentally bite your tongue and you run out of expletives to express yourself, only about 100 times more frequent.

Today, several months later, as I tasted blood again, I noticed that the edge had not blunted at all. Call me crazy, but it actually felt like it had somehow gotten sharper! And I think I have learned to maneuver my tongue to avoid that edge. It has led me to talking a little slowly, but no one is complaining about that. Apart from that, sometimes, when I am in the middle of a word-for-word rally, schooling someone idle enough to talk to me, I suddenly take a step back and realize that if I don't let go, soon, I am going to bleed. I wonder if a chipped tooth is sometimes possible from excessive speech...Hmmm...

Also, I have picked up a sort of a bad habit, where I keep running my now ulcered tongue, idly, over the chipped edge, skirting it lightly, trying to push my limits to see how far I can go. Before I begin to bleed again, and hate myself for doing what I have done.

Supposedly scientific fact:

If the first tear you cry, comes out of the left eye, you are crying tears of pain. Right eye, its tears of joy.

Ok.

Actual Conversation:

Perpetual Wonderer (humming, rather braying, to himself):...so tell me, did you sail across the Sun...did you make it to the Milky Way...


Sweet Girl: Hey PW, you sing quite well. You should really try singing at the karaoke event.


PW: Ok. Is that a different way to ask me to shut up now, and sing at the event instead?


SG: No no! I am serious.


PW: Aww. Thats awfully sweet of you. But I am only doing karaoke if there is a like a booth covered by black curtains from all sides, and has a secret entry and exit, so no one knows who just sang! Either that or you have to buy out the crowd and make them be as sweet as you are.


Girl # 1: Well, actually thats not a bad idea. If that were the case, I would love to sing too.


Girl # 2: Hey, you know what, one of my friends in school had a karaoke machine at home, one that shows you your score and all. I tried singing for hours, but it just never gave me any score!


SG: Yea, sometimes when you sing too close into the mic, it acts funny.


Girl # 2: No yea, I think I was just actually that bad! (makes lame sad face)


PW: You know what Girl # 2, if you were really really bad at it, like horrible, then you would have gotten a score of 800.


Girl # 2: Huh! (wins award for dumbest face ever)


Girl # 1: Why a score of 800?


PW (ready to receive award for best joke of the century): You know, it would look like 800 to you, but the machine would be actually saying BOO! (Looks around expecting garlands and hot chicks trying to rush to get a piece of the awesome joke cracker)


Long....long silence instead!


PW (making eyes to SG, telepathically forcing her to laugh her guts out): Well, SG? 800, BOO, get it?


SG: Umm, not really. Anyway, so I hear the desserts here are really good.


PW: Wait wait wait...lets not turn a blind eye to what has happened right now.


Girl # 2: So explain the joke na! (pips previous face in dumbest face ever competition)


PW: Explain the joke? Really? No no no...we don't do that.


Guy friend who has been happily sniggering, getting drunk across from me, whispers in a hushed tone: PW, let it go. I got it, it was a funny joke. Just not here.


PW, in equally hushed tones (casts one final look at all three ladies to see if the joke had eventually landed with either): Yea I guess, but if such an obvious joke didn't land, what about the bigger problem of hangoutworthiness of these chicks!

Hanging out with the wrong people has clinical implications, I realized later.

Early one mornin’ the sun was shinin',
He was layin' in bed
Wond'rin' if she'd changed at all
If her hair was still red.
Her folks they said their lives together
Sure was gonna be rough
They never did like mama's homemade dress
Papa's bankbook wasn't big enough.
And he was standin' on the side of the road
Rain fallin' on his shoes
Heading out for the East Coast
Radio blastin' the news
Straight on through,
Tangled up in blue.

She was married when they first met,
Soon to be divorced.
He helped her out of a jam, I guess,
But he used a little too much force.
They drove that car as far as they could,
Abandoned it out west.
Splitting up on a dark, sad night,
Her believing it was best.
And she turned around to look at him
As he was walking away.
She said I wish I could tell you all the things
That I never learned how to say
He said that’s alright babe
I love you too,
But we were tangled up in blue.

He had a steady job and a pretty face,
And everything seemed to fit.
But one day he could just feel the waste,
So he put it all down and split.
And he headed down to New Orleans,
Where they treated him like a boy.
He nearly went mad in Baton Rouge,
He nearly drowned in Delacroix
And all the time he was alone,
The past was close behind.
He felt he'd had one too many lovers,
And none of them were too refined,
All except for you,
But you were tangled up in blue.

She was sitting in the blinding light,
When I stopped in for a drink.
I just kept looking at the side of her face
I didn't know what to think.
Later on as the crowd thinned out,
I was about to do the same
She was standing there, beside my chair,
Saying "Don't tell me, let me guess your name"
I muttered something underneath my breath
She studied the lines on my face.
I could feel the heat and the pulse of her
As she bent down to tie the laces
Of my shoe,
Tangled up in blue.

She lit a burner on the stove
And offered me a pipe
"I thought you'd never say hello," she said
"You look like the silent type."
Then she opened up a book of poems
And handed it to me
Written by an Italian poet
From the thirteenth century.
Every one of them words rang true
And glowed like burnin' coal
Pouring off of every page
Like it was written in my soul
From me to you,
Tangled up in blue.

He was always in a hurry,
Too busy or too stoned
And everything she ever planned
Just had to be postponed
She thought they were successful
She thought they were blessed
With objects and material things,
He never was impressed
But when it all came crashing down,
I was already south.
I didn't know whether the world was flat or round,
I had the worst taste in my mouth,
That I ever knew,
Tangled up in blue.

Now I'm going back again,
Maybe tomorrow, maybe next year.
I've got to find someone among the women and men
Whose destiny too is unclear
Some are ministers of illusion,
Some are masters of the trade.
All under strong delusion,
All of their beds unmade.
Me I'm heading toward the sun,
Trying to stay out of the joint
We always did love the very same one
We just saw her from a different point
Of view,
Tangled up in blue.

Am I sick, if I enjoy being sick? I am actually trying to understand this, so please don't dismiss this as a stupid question that tries to invoke some circular logic and plays on different meanings of a word. I am really wondering, if it means I am sick. Whichever meaning of the word you take. Because, my dear well wishers and others, I have fallen sick. I don't fall sick that often, meaning I must have been bed ridden for about 10 days in the last 10 years or so. So far, I have not had to take a single day off from work because I was sick. Same about college, and school before that, for as far as I can remember.

But this last week, we fell sick. Being the leave hoarders that we are, we still turned up at work, a pretty awful mess, with the awwws and ooohs, pouring in. But thats a separate story. So, I have this insane, uneducated philosophy, that if I act like I am well, then I get well. Sooner than I would have otherwise. That means I scoff at medicine, diagnosis, and its application to society, pop a pill that I have prescribed myself (Go Robin Cook, go Google docs!), and I get on with life. But this time, we must have caught something we haven't read about in a Robin Cook or a Michael Palmer, for ordinary OTC pills didn't cut it. So when I got home one day from work, crabby and irritable, with joint pain and fever and stuff, I just dove into bed. And believe it or not, I enjoyed the whole deal. Lying in bed with shivers and chills running up my body, moaning loudly releasing some anger, looking at the ceiling with the white light appearing a sick, dull, jaundice yellow, and crying tears and feeling the strange comfort of the warm liquid trickling down my throbbing temples. The ache in my eyelids offered me a sense of freedom from the mundane fears and worries that plague me all day. I could almost see why someone who is sick, might want to die. The traditional reasoning of getting liberated from the misery apart, I am sure there must be some people who are tempted to push the pleasure as far as they can, and so they beg to die.

I had almost forgotten how it feels to be sick. Mind you, I had no one to take care of me and to get me soup and stuff. But still, or perhaps hence, that somehow heightened the pleasure of it all. Like I knew I had to take care of myself, because no one else cared to. And thankfully, that has egged me to take this frikkin virus head-on. And for some sick reason (oh the irony of it!) I am enjoying the fight and that ended up in me enjoying my sickness.

But could it be? Can you miss being a different and particular kind of miserable so much, that when the time actually comes, you enjoy that misery? At least for a little while? Isn't this like some weird paradox or something? Not that I was ever one to care, but I don't mind considering throwing all health related caution to the wind and falling sick, till I get sick of it. Or die.

What good are those leaves and compensatory offs anyway!

She’s got everything she needs
She’s an artist, she don’t look back
She’s got everything she needs
She’s an artist, she don’t look back
She can take the dark out of the nighttime
And paint the daytime black

You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees
You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees
But you will wind up peeking through her keyhole
Down upon your knees

She never stumbles
She’s got no place to fall
She never stumbles
She’s got no place to fall
She’s nobody’s child
The Law can’t touch her at all

She wears an Egyptian ring
That sparkles before she speaks
She wears an Egyptian ring
That sparkles before she speaks
She’s a hypnotist collector
You are a walking antique

Bow down to her on Sunday
Salute her when her birthday comes
Bow down to her on Sunday
Salute her when her birthday comes
For Halloween give her a trumpet
And for Christmas, buy her a drum

Hawww!!! What heights hypocrisy can scale! Run! Hide! Avoid! Escape!

A month ago there was some shitty Green Day celebration in office, for no reason whatsoever. There was no occasion, but the HR suddenly had this brainwave that we needed to acknowledge nature and everything it has given us. So we were asked to come in green. A few token potted plants were gotten and placed around office. There were some sorry green card-sheet hoardings screaming “Go Green” in cheap faint sketch pens from the walls. The air conditioners were switched off and the windows were opened. Honestly, I hate this tokenism and Green Day and shit. But I didn’t want to throw the spanner that was my cynicism in the wheel that was the celebration. “Perhaps”, I thought, “I am just being too critical of everything. These guys could be serious. And it is a good cause after all. Who knows. They might even mean it, and may in fact do something real in this regard.” So quietly, I turned up in green. And the day was panning like any other. In the middle of the day, the ‘celebrations’ began. The team was called in one of the rooms with a potted plan kept on a table, in the middle of the room. It was supposed to be some bamboo thing- Chinese symbol for luck or something. Then, we were asked to make a circle around the table, hold hands and scream “Go Green” in unison. Thrice. That’s lame ass- thrice. Then, each of us were asked to describe in a few lines/minutes, what we were doing or planning to do to save the earth. No one wanted to come forth, but the HR had to force the issue. So then, people who would otherwise have loved to turn a blind eye to these issues were forced to think of lies that would further put them at discomfort at night. I heard stuff like “I will plant several trees this year”, “I will use a bicycle instead of a motorcycle”, “I will tell others to plant more trees!” (that one was my favorite). Anyway. I too said something, but was proud of myself that I didn’t have to lie. Then there were some speeches types from the bosses. Honestly, it all reeked of compulsion and obligation. But I guess they made some sense with what they were saying, and also talked of some grand plans and commitments towards the cause. All this while, I was still trying to not be cynical and to be supportive of the whole shebang. So the day ended afterwards, with a few more token gestures. I said whatever, and got on with my life, trying to believe some people had at least made a start.

Fast forward to a month later. Mind you. That’s it! A month. 30 days. I walk up to the tea place thing we have in office and look for a cup to pour my tea into. I notice there are no cups. Instead, there is a whole stack of disposable plastic shit in a corner. Now I might be particularly hard on those things because I hate everything about them. They are tacky, cheap, too light, weightless, and formless. But more than everything, they are plastic. I can’t stand that one material somehow. With these disposable cups, I just lose it. I think they are a commentary of sorts on people who use them and don’t feel like something is drastically wrong with the world. So I look at these cups and feel disgusted. But I also felt pissed off with everyone who was nonchalantly using those cups like nothing had changed. I storm to the HR and ask her to explain how this development agreed with the Green Day charade. I get a pathetic “er ahem, you know, actually, well, ta ta pa pa” types response from the super dimwitted lady there. I make it clear that I want an explanation from her or I (and my whole team) are boycotting every celebration in office. She uttered the standard loser’s-last-resort-response and told me that the directive had come from one of the bosses. I ask her to come with me right then and force the boss to do the right thing, the same way she had acted all evangelisty asking us to scream “Go Green” a month ago. Devoid of any sort of mettle as she is, she tries to weasel out. I literally drag her to the boss’ cabin, mainly to make her uncomfortable about being a hypocrite. I knew she was not going to be able to say anything to the boss, because she had no guts. But more because I was making her pretend like she believed in a cause that she absolutely didn’t care about, beyond it being a “theme” for a “day”. But the argument with the boss takes the cake today:

“Hey, I just noticed someone has put out crappy disposable cups there. What was wrong with our clay mugs?”

“Yea, actually I asked them to use those. We will be using those from now.”

“Oh, ok. Why again?”

“The clay cups are a bit too much to clean actually. They have to be washed like thrice daily. These cups are better, don’t you think?”

“Since you ask me what I think, I think this is a really bad decision. I think you can hire an additional guy to wash them or buy more cups so they have to be washed only once a day.”

“Yea well, that would work out to be quite expensive. Plus, since we are growing, we need to think of a permanent solution. How many mugs can you wash in a day if we grow to say 200 people tomorrow”

“So ok. We can decide to go in for these plastic cups when we grow to that size. Its not like people need to get used to drinking tea in shitty cups so we need to train them from now, is it?”

“Look, I understand what you are saying. But its just not possible.”

“Ok. And the whole commitment to environment thing you said the other day…that was just for kicks then?”

“See, you need to view it practically. Sure, we are not doing the best thing by using these plastic cups. But we can make up elsewhere. Say by switching off air conditioners for one day every week.”

“Yea, that would be good. But I don’t see how that has to come at the cost of not using clay mugs? Plus, as I am seeing it, the theme really is sounding like cost cutting, rather than go green. Plus, are you seriously suggesting that the amount of garbage we’ll be causing by using several hundred plastic cups each week can be undone by switching of air conditioning for a day? Really?”

“Look, some decisions have to be taken even if they look painful. Still, let me consider what we can do.”

“Yea. I understand that. I understand it bigtime. But why ask me to make a fool of myself by holding hands and shouting and giving heartwarming speeches and stuff? If you want to use plastic cups, go ahead, use them. But at least let’s not make a mockery out of the cause by celebrating and expecting me to celebrate these crappy days in office? Are you getting what I am saying?”

“I understand. But it was all in good spirit. Like I said, we’ll see what can be done.”

“Ok. Thanks”

And thus the search for a less hypocritical employer begins.

It had to be this month. The rain had to come again, falling from the stars. It had to feel like a different season needs to begin. I had to be feeling down, like I could sleep through life. And I had to be here. Everything, just fucking, had to be.

If you can sense any beauty at all, you will know what I am going to talk about. There is just something about a relationship that a nine year old girl has with a big ferocious masculine dog. It is something to be studied I feel. I tried to make some sense of it from the bench I was sitting on. But about a minute into it, I gave up and just started admiring what I was seeing.

Now this is a big, super aggressive dog I am talking about. He is a cross breed between a mongrel and a german shepherd, I think. Off-white in color. People absolutely fear him. And with good reason. His barks are deep and full. His growling could easily be that of a wolf’s. The look in his eyes makes it double clear that there is no love lost there. Quite honestly, unless you are a thorough bred dog lover, this dog has nothing you could love him for. I am yet to see a person he is friendly with, leave alone playful. I also hear he has quite a few dog bite victim feathers in his hat. I, somehow, have some sort of an equation with this guy and he deals with me with a little more civility than others. Like he will only stare at me suspiciously but not growl. Or he will allow me to pet him for 10 seconds before he starts barking madly. I don’t know why he is so tender with me. Could be just because I am not as afraid of him. Whatever. And yet, I can safely say that I have never felt at ease with him. He flies off the handle and gets jumpy and growly in no time. I try and put on a façade like I have seen it all, but I am sure he can sense my fear. Anyway, I digress. That’s about the dog.

Now the girl. She is a huge brat herself. Knows she can get whatever she wants from whoever she is talking to. Throws tantrums like it’s a bodily function. I suspect she doesn’t have too many close friends at school. Has a nasty habit of never talking straight. She’ll keep saying the most inappropriate things all the time, assuming she is going to get away with it. I have heard her ask a dark person why he is so ‘dirty black’ and laugh. She is everything the word annoying has ever meant. Cute, but annoying. Now I have some equation with her too. I don’t talk as much to her anymore, because I know sooner or later she is going say something extremely inappropriate and I am not going to be able to ask her to shove it. But apart from that, she is quite fond of me and usually comes up to me and indulges me in some idle chit chat.

So there, an incorrigible young girl and a nasty big dog. But put them together and you’ll know why I don’t hate either of them as much as someone would. The dog never utters so much as a semblance of growl when he is with her. She will run towards him and jump on him and pull him by his tail. He will only be mildly amused by it. She will pull him with his snout and his ears. And he will pretend like he doesn’t have the strength to fight her. He will pretend to try to get away because he sees some stranger needing to be barked at. But she will not let him get away and will jump on his back and close his eyes with her tiny palms. She will walk around her house with his collar in her fist and the sweet guy will follow her everywhere, pretending like he is being dragged. He is her dog, in every way. Then, there will be times when the dog will come and jump on her little body, begging her to come play with him. When she is with him, she will not care about anything in the world. He clearly means more to her than her bicycle, her sister, her tennis racquet, her hairpins, everything. I have heard her mom get wild and yell at her asking her to leave the dog be and come in for dinner at 10 o clock in the night. I suspect she also talks to the dog and he listens. I have seen this. But I couldn’t tell if she was talking to him, or if she was just humming a song while she was with him.

So there is something there that I can’t put my finger on. There is a girl that I don’t particularly like. Hardly actually. I can see her grow into a brat who will think the world is her private bathroom where she can do as she pleases. And the dog too is hardly my favorite, as far as dogs go. Now, the dog doesn’t do anything that he shouldn’t do. But even so, he’s not particularly endearing, is all. Yet, I love the chemistry they have. He acts so protective of her when she is talking to someone else. I think the only reason he grants me some latitude is because he has seen me interact with his girl and has detected a somewhat non-negative vibe between us. So I made the cut, so to say. But other random people dare not go and start talking to her and playing with her while he is not on the leash. I find that sweet. She too, is a little less of a rascal with me, because she sees some similarity between us (being fond of the dog). I always thought I would love to have that sort of an equation with someone. Anyone. A person. Or a dog. Where I don’t care what the whole world thinks about me, as long as the ones that matter understand.

I feel all girls should have a dog.

My composition - An hour in a grown up office

It was like I was 14 all over again. I was asked to explain why I had turned up at work in my usual ripped jeans and t-shirt when it was supposed to be Traditional Day. The problem was not so much about me and my attire, but that because of some weird stroke of misfortune, all the guys in my team had come in regular clothes, and all the girls in an astonishingly elaborate, super-ethnic attire. Somehow, apparently, that "makes us guys look like losers". And I was asked to explain.

The boss kept saying, "Come on guys, its just one day and there have been posters and emails and everything for quite a while now. The girls have shown so much interest and look at us. Is it that hard to not wear jeans and tees for one day?"

But I kept hearing, "You, roll no. 7, why is your uniform not ironed, and why is your hair so shaggy?"

And so, like a real fourteen year old, I honestly answered, "All that hype was last week. I totally forgot about it over the weekend. And so did all the other guys, apparently". Though I have weaseled my way out of such slimy jams in school all the time, I must have lost my edge. Because I couldn't sell the "I forgot" reason with reasonable credibility. Or maybe I just didn't care enough anymore.

Now the fact that the boss himself was wearing something that could not be more untraditional, is besides the point. He accounted for his own gaffe with smooth usage of the words "us" and "we" when reprimanding yours truly. The point is that it somehow appeared that the "rot" in the team came from me. Like somehow, I had secretly arranged an attire-coup of sorts to sabotage celebrations. I could not help control my laughter at how ridiculous the whole thing was sounding. I even thought that this was a perfect occasion to get mad and throw a tantrum and stand up for myself (seriously, someday I am going to do that). But the whole thing was too kiddish, so I just couldn't get mad! I got a vibe that things would still have been alright had only I been in trad clothes. What that the rest of the team had worn wouldn't look so bad then. I also suspected slightly that the boss and the woman in HR had some weird fetish to see me dressed in ethnic clothes, because that was the only sense I could make off their insistence.

Now I am not saying that anything the HR does is complete baloney. It is no more or less pointless than what I do, and what I think everyone else does, in every other office, in an existential sense. So I don't intend to trivialize their feeble endeavor to spice up our dreary, workaday lives. Its actually quite sweet of them. But I somehow don't see the sense of forcing a particular template of happiness or positivity on everyone. Not just in office, but generally. I have done that in the past myself. So I know it rarely works. Unfortunately, there is no known middle ground here. So we walk the line, the best we can. And sometimes, when we fall short, we need to step up our game. Whatever. And to be fair, the way this whole thing was unfolding, it actually was quite fun and amusing. Definitely better than a regular Monday morning. So, well...

Anyway, I had to "step up" and decide how things could be made right. I had to decide to either postpone the celebrations to another day (not feasible, not desirable, would imply delaying the inevitable) or to somehow ensure that the team made it home and back in ethnics in the least time possible. Kinda annoyed with the whole thing, we decided that everyone would leave and rush back in "proper" clothing. Basically, get over with it. There we were, a bunch of grown ups, being sent home from school in the middle of the day, essentially because the principal had objected to the properness of our uniforms. Just to get my kicks out of it, and also because the whole thing was kind of amusing, I did my bit to act the 14 year old. "Actually, I don't mind going home and putting on some nice clothes. But you see, I don't have the keys to my place with me. So I don't know when I will be able to come back." There! As lame an excuse as any 14 year old has ever given. (I have actually given the exact same excuse 13 years ago when I was asked to go home and get a haircut. The excuse had worked then. Full circle.) Obviously, no one bought it this time and I just had to figure something out.

I always have to. I always do.

Patterns

Mathematically, there is a pattern, even in randomness. Is there really? Let's experiment and check if anything can be established.

20 odd lines quoted from page 181 (randomly chosen number) from the first book I find next to my bed. Lets see what we get:

Now the tears did not run down his cheeks, but fell from his eyes to the ground. Let me see you cry, I said. I did not feel that he owed it to me. And I did not feel I owed it to him. We owed it to each other, which is something different.

He raised his head and looked at me.

I am not angry with you, I told him.

You must be.

I am the one who broke the rule.

But I am the one who made the rule you couldn't live with.

My thoughts are wandering, Oskar. They are going to Dresden to my mother's pearls, damp with the sweat of her neck. My thoughts are going up the sleeve of my father's overcoat. His arm was so thick and strong. I was sure it would protect me for as long as I lived. And it did. Even after I lost him. The memory of his arm wraps around me as his arm used to. Each day has been chained to a previous one. But the weeks have had wings. Anyone who believes that a second is faster than a decade did not live my life.

Why are you leaving me?

He wrote. I do not know how to live.

I do not know either, but I'm trying.

I do not know how to try.

There were things I wanted to tell him. But I knew they would hurt him. So I buried them. And let them hurt me.

I put my hand on him. Touching him was always so important to me. It was something I lived for. I never could explain why. Little, nothing touches. My finger against his shoulder. The outside of our thighs touching as we squeezed together on the bus. I couldn't explain it, but I needed it. Sometimes I imagined stitching all of our little touches together.

Now, 5 lines from a random piece of news from randomly selected newspaper page:

In a democratic age, bandhs have lost their pre-independence aura and have outlived their purpose. They violate fundamental freedoms and reek of the old style of doing politics, leading to Supreme Court strictures against them. With rising literacy and growing economic activity, modern societies search for moderate political methods such as debate, discussions or protests that do not involve public disruption. Today, bandhs evoke cynicism rather than promote any solution to the problems they invoke.


Last words someone said to me just before this post was published:

"I think yesterday evening was actually quite fun. Was it?"

Pattern anyone? Hmmm? Guess we'll need a supercomputer to decode if there is one...