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Cold Shot

Unable to stitch two coherent sentences together and shape a narrative (what a horrible word that has become thanks to the internet) I shamelessly resort to writing in points.

So, either bear with me (sounds like we're doing unmentionable things to an animal) or stop reading.

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Beer and rock feels like an 20s thing. Kiddish and earnest in a silly grin sort of way. To appreciate that ride, I need friends (of my age) around me, fuelled by our collective nostalgia and desperation to cling on to the last decade.

Whisky and rock fits way better now. Snug, is the word.

And, while a cigarette has an endless, dangerously cool appeal, there are still enough neurons firing to chastise you that the warm, acrid taste of tobacco heated by fire, flowing like mist into your mouth, kissing your insides and making your neck lean back of its own accord is... a bad, bad idea. 

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Waiting for the train today, I stood surrounded by guys in formal attire (minus the coat. This is Bombay, for crissakes.). Couldn't help but notice that each of them had a sizeable gut oozing out of their pants and hanging on for dear life somewhere near the belt line. I am in the same age bracket and though I dress like I'm in college (one of the supposed perks of my job) and kind of, sort of look like it too, I feel it too. This struggle against fat which attacks unannounced and transforms every morsel of food into a part of your own personal Krang (if you don't know who that is youngling, look it up.)

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People are quitting the place I work at more hastily than rats off a sinking ship. Oddly enough, this ship isn't sinking financially. Quite robust, in fact. On the other hand, it is a creative quicksand and getting an idea through the various levels of nincompoops is tougher than breaking down the great wall of China. With a toothpick. Anyway, with blokes rapidly exiting the scene, I'm starting to feel the pinch. After all, there's only so many ideas in the box on any given day and things outside the box aren't appreciated much.

However, when one's resume looks busier than a Bedouin's travel schedule, one has to pause and er, appreciate the cacti? Not sure this alleged oasis has much water left for me.

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Much as I abhor train travel in Bombay, I've come to the conclusion that it's far healthier than taking the road. In this city, there are no roads less travelled. A few days ago, a colleague gave me a ride to Santacruz. And, rather than be happy about not having to cram myself like a sardine on the train, I was left hypnotised by how dusty, hazy and downright polluted the air is. Fascinated horror. If Delhi is the most polluted place in India, surely Bombay can't be far behind?

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If you're Indian, in your 30s and single, you are basically the third wheel ALL THE TIME. And it is a bloody fierce struggle struggle to avoid situations where you're staring idly at the damp spot on the ceiling while your friends are making gooey eyes at each other and having moments or talking about stuff that just feels couply. A social limbo dance, where the bar keeps falling till you get: married, a hobby, an infectious disease or enough books, music and the stuff that cheers/inebriates to survive the infinite winter of this social siege.

Or, find friends as socially inept as you are and hang out with them all the time.

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The danger of writing under the influence is becoming maudlin and hankering after the supposed "good old days". I've said this before but booze (or whatever floats your boat) does help grease the rusty writing fingers and, more importantly, lowers inhibitions about whether it's "good enough".

Either way, this piece got written with a little grease so if you've read this far, "Cheers".

Song for the moment - No Rain - Blind Melon

Comments

G said…
Good to know you're reading, Shepa. And thank you.

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