Rain Romance and lost Hopes.

Watching Thoovanathumbikal. How beautiful it would be if it starts raining when you start thinking about somebody! Rain, romance and lost hopes.

Fantasy.

Do you know what could be more fantastic than saying that you are familiar to all the nook and cranny of this city, but a stranger to most other?  It is to tell that you are neither familiar with nor a stranger to this city and many many other cities.

Free.

Sometimes you gotta let go of things. Sometimes you gotta leave small comforts of life. These somethings might be a permanent roof, the comfort of a salary; even that lovely meal in a cozy restaurant. I remember a whole month when I used to go absolute mad for a few Parle G biscuits; for a simple thing as a fried banana; an evening movie in a cinema hall; some nice sleep! But now when I retrospect, those thirty days make one hell of a beautiful month!

The best slice of the mango.

There is something strangely mystic about mango trees. Before you completely laugh me off, let me tell you that it is totally a personal feeling. For me, the tree which should be in my backyard should be a mango tree. The tree which should cast a shadow on my balcony should be a mango tree. And after a rain, when I occasionally clean my terrace, the leaves I should sweep out should be of a mango tree. It has nothing to do with the heavenly fruits that grow on them. It has nothing to do with the sweet smell a mango tree in full bloom evokes. Mango trees for me has nothing to do with sweet and shine. It has to do with the shade, the shadows and the feeling of lost love and lovers who ignored me and the lovers I have ignored. It has to do with loss, it has to do with nostalgia, it has to do with Hemingway, it has to do with the alleys that are always dark even in the noon sun, it has to do with all that is there to be taken and yet not taken.

Think damp.

Rain makes you think. And I have been thinking, for thinking's sake. What is it that would make me happy? Like, really happy? That would be one for a list, of course; and the list changes with time. There has always been one thing which has featured prominently and almost perpetually in that list - travel. Recently, I read an article which threw an idea in to me - Think hard, what was it that I wanted to do when I was 12 or 13 years of age? How much of it is feasible/legal now? Maybe I should wrack my brain and find an answer to that question; maybe that would answer most of my other questions.

Of forks in the road and not finding them.

They say everything comes with a price; they say everything happens for a reason - that everything is relative. But, is it really so? The choices exist only in the minds of the confused. For the ones who truly know what they want, everything is absolute. There are no choices. There is no need for a choice. The fork in the road does not exist for them. For, when they pounce upon the road, they never see any forks; they move ahead through the one and only path that exists before them. A vagabond seldom needs a map; neither does he bother about the signboards.

I started reading this book 'Chasing the monsoon' by Alexander Frater. The author travels with and along the path of the monsoon, in the Indian sub-continent; sometimes ahead, sometimes with and sometimes behind it. To embark on such a journey one must not just love the rains, one must truly belong to the rains.

As long as I remain confused, I will never be able to find the path. I will have to look for signboards. I will have to read the maps. I will have to follow. I shall never tread the absolute. I shall never be complete.

A Man, must not do what he must do; rather a Man must do what he wants to do.

Crash and Burn

There was a tall and fit one. There was another tall and fat one. And then there was a lean mean and obscene one. It was friday and they were coming back home after the school. They were pedalling hard, their bicycles and talking about some exam which they have to come and write on Saturday.The exam was not a compulsory one, yet somehow most of the students are writing it.

There is this small downhill path, then a valley and then an uphill on their way back home. The three of them decide to race without pedalling, balancing their weight forward, in the downhill route. One would think that the tall and fat one would easily be the first, given his weight. But when you are racing without pedalling, in a downhill path, it's the position of the rider that is most important; and also late braking. The latter being very tricky, since the downhill path curves down a bit and the braking has to be perfectly timed or else; well, that's what comes next in the story.

So the lean, mean and obscene one was waiting for the right moment to brake and little did he know that the right moment has already past. It didn't take him much to know that though. Crash and burn is what reminded him swiftly of the mistake.

He fell down the hill, like the stupid Jack and his bike came tumbling behind, like the stupid Jill. What happened next was all hazy. All the lean, mean and obscene one could remember was that he went to the house next to the valley to wash his face. His bike was in need of some serious repair. The three of them started pushing their bikes back home.

The next memory he has is being almost near his home. Whatever pushing shoving talking swearing has all been lost to him. And he tells his friends that 'Hey, I think I have lost my memory temporarily.' To which his friends respond that - 'Dude, you are telling this for the umpteenth time and we hope you get back what you have temporarily lost.'

It's been almost twelve years and he hasn't got back what he had lost temporarily. He still tries to remember (and fails inevitably) what had happened or the scenes in between the crash site and his home.

P.S.:- His friends also say that he recited all their phone-numbers, his registration number for the next day's exam, his date of birth and all kind of stuff in his attempt to prove that he hasn't had a total amnesia. But he denies all of that, still.