Songs of the not-so innocent

Posts

Skylark

Dear reader, Are you are surprised to see this post? So am I. Paragliding in Kamshet Every new year, more so over the past few, I wonder if the blog will finally receive a dignified funeral. January whizzed by and I did not have the slightest hankering to write. Is there a point to inflicting drab, unoriginal observations upon you? After all, we likely don't lead radically different lives. You can thank (or curse) the weekend for triggering my first post of 2024. I went paragliding in Kamshet. It was a chance conversation, an "ah fuck it, let's do this" moment, which led to me being strapped to the sail (in tandem with the instructor) for a 20-minute flight on Saturday evening. Yes, people eagerly swapped ghastly stories about previous flying experiences right up to the actual jump, but I did my best to ignore it all. If we listen to and believe everything we hear, we'd never go anywhere, somewhat like those poor sods living in anodized, monolithic apartment c...

Glow

Dear reader, The festival of lights is upon us. If you still visit this blog, stay blessed and have a wonderful year. Last year, I wrote Wir Werden Sehen blissfully unaware of how normal life would exit, stage left, a week later. More than a year has passed and we're limping towards a new kind of normalcy. My first Diwali without any parents is a strange one. On one hand, I am slightly nonplussed. It's akin to putting a 1000-piece puzzle together, only to find a piece missing. On the other hand, I am coming around to the idea of playing from the music sheet of life with insouciance if not aplomb. I spent the days leading up to Diwali reminiscing about years past. Waking up frightfully early, the dreaded oil bath, the anticipation of sweets & savouries and of course, the camaraderie of lighting firecrackers with friends and family. That excitement, those pure emotions, is the past, like the afterglow of fancy rockets. Even if your Diwali veers diametrically away from the...

The Sails of Charon

It is 6.45 am as I type these words. At this time last year, my father was taking his last, ragged, ventilator-aided breaths in an ICU hospital bed. Outside, a few well-wishers held vigil, lost in their own thoughts, murmuring to each other, or stealing occasional, anxious glances at me as I paced the corridors, taking phone calls, making arrangements, my demeanour waxing and waning between stupefaction and frenzy. Life goes on. Maybe it’s the first, hardest fact to accept; that nothing dramatic actually happens to commemorate the moment. The sun rises, vendors slowly set out their early-morning stalls, vehicles crawl out of narrow by-lanes or wide society gates and everywhere, strangers go about their day. But my father’s days were done. Never again would he taste the bittersweet first filter coffee, crack a fresh fold of the newspaper, check his messages or plan for the day ahead. His passing left an astonishing number of plans incomplete. Truth be told, I should not have been surpri...

Song to a seagull

I typed this with the frenzied drums of Ganesha’s goodbye thumping in the distance. They have become steadily louder, not only tonight but over several years. The chorus in a song by Bob Dylan goes: People are crazy and times are strange I’m locked in tight, I’m out of range I used to care, but things have changed The din is as good a harbinger of change as any. My neighbourhood’s identity is altering quickly. Where once the housing complex I live in was something of a quiet, last outpost before the Bombay highway, it is now a residential society under siege, assaulted by dazzling lights and rapacious appetites, served up at and by a shopping mall that’s too close for comfort and so close it’s convenient. Our city’s vehicular attitude has metamorphosed and taken on an edge of ugly aggression. In part it is because of the skyline snaking its way upward, in part thanks to the metro tracks slithering steadily sideways. Where once we’d look up to trees and open sky, the canvas is now ...

The baying of the hounds

Dear reader, The past few months have been punctuated by sound and fury on account of the renovations around the house. The incessant noise, rubble and dust have often led to frayed tempers and the standard indignant inquiries about the point of this whole exercise. But there's a long way to go, so we must persevere... with gritted teeth. Speaking of dust, the Lenovo laptop running Manjaro OS has been quietly gathering sackfuls of the stuff. Unfortunately (but understandably), my Macbook has become the default instrument of distraction, with the Lenovo coming into play whenever I miss USB ports. All sarcasm aside, the Mac is convenient to use and the apps 'just' work. I've praised the Linux ecosystem for years on this blog, so there's no question of indicting them now. But hear me out. I use a VPN service. In this gilded age of freedom and tolerance, I think everyone should opt for a reliable, paid service. It does not have to matter that the things you do on the in...

Wicked Games

This weekend is a new low from my sporting perspective. The '115-rules-breached' team have been allowed to complete the English football treble and the Indian cricket team are poised to lose another World Test Championship final. I use the word 'allowed' deliberately; last week, Man United did not stop Team 115 in the F.A Cup final. The result was easier to accept since T-115 were better on every metric - team on pitch, fewer mistakes and players on bench. But the Premier League and Champions League? If the authorities knew FFP rules may have been breached, why not take some/any action earlier? Why wait till the season is over and everything is won, when any decision will only create further controversy? Maybe ChatGPT will know. Meanwhile, Man United have a long way to go, a journey made infinitely harder by the ball-n-chain that is the Glazers ownership and the long-drawn-out sale of the club. Who cares if these delays completely fuck up the planning for next season...