Songs of the not-so innocent

A bend in the road I've said this before , but it bears repetition. A proclamation regarding motorbike trips invariably will be greeted by the furrowed brow & the questioning look. The correct answer (to avoid painful & pointless inquisitions, arguments, drama etc.) is to nod earnestly with an equally saintly grin. And then carry on with the trip. On my most recent outing I discovered that while the destination is not terribly important, it would be nice if said destination did some brisk business in the beer-serving line. Harihareshwar-Srivardhan is nothing to write home about. The MTDC resort restaurant is passable at best. But those seconds; unfolding into minutes & hours as you meander through the countryside. Seeing a lot, thinking of a whole lot more & remembering what you choose to. When you are outside of yourself and dimly aware of the brake, accelerator, gears & the road ahead while the rest of you is soaring through a different land altoget

A Sunday morning. I am awake a lot earlier than is usual, even on a weekday. From my bed, swaddled as I am in my quilt, I turn on my side toward the window. Even without drawing open the curtain, I catch snatches of birdsong. And silence, if you can understand that. The steady, dull roar of traffic is absent but not for long. Parting the corner just a bit, I am granted a framed view of the world. The sky is still silver with the plant in the window-sill darkly dominating everything else. I discover that I can see the exact same scene in b/w, if I close my eyelids a fraction and peer. I proceed to do so till the reverie is broken by the cuckoo clock cooing on the half hour. Compare that to the phone alarm that wakes me on most mornings. Sigh... and snuggle into the quilt even further for a fraction, then get out of bed. Although against the idea, I start my trusty laptop to check on the football scores. Man U wins - hooray. Liverpool & Man C draw - chuckle, guffaw, etc. I see a mai

When you have nothing to write about, it is slightly irritating but nothing a spoonful of patience & a weather eye cannot resolve eventually. When you do not want to write at all, there is a problem. I am in the throes of both & do not expect to be cured of either any time soon. This fact does not bother me either. Imagine trying to run in a pool of tar. Or swimming in quicksand. The feeling of existing so slowly that everything else seems to be on fast-forward. Song for the moment: Boat Behind - Kings of Convenience