Songs of the not-so innocent

We follow the old laws. An eye for an eye. In his case, a life for a life. Only, he was special. Different. There had always been something about him. A smell. A look. The shape of his face. We follow the old ways. We recognise the signs. He was born to make trouble. To be trouble. I was present at his birth, like I was present at the others'. He was not like the others. He did not cry. He would not make a sound. He just stared. Even I, who had seen so many children, shuddered. That night, I made the blood sacrifice to our gods. I looked into the fire to see his fate. What I saw, I could not comprehend. That is when I knew. He would be the end of us. 18 years later, I looked into those eyes. Black. Blank. Cold. Lifeless , even in life. He had killed. That in itself was not unusual for us. We follow the old rules. Death was part of life. And killing was the instrument of death. But. He had not killed an equal. He had not killed in a fight...

On a recent evening, I found myself outside a house in one of Pune's older, fancier and leafier (mercifully) suburbs. Winter meant that it was well and truly dark by the time I reached the place accompanied by an old schoolmate, who complained incessantly about the cold weather. We had come to visit (hang out with, in our jolly modern lexicon) one of his close friends, a very tenuous connection for me. Another old school friend was already there. As is usual in these situations, I kept to myself, happy to sip at some rum and water and listen in to the humorous bantering that still marked the conversations in this group. At some point, one of these guys, all of whom freelance, run their own companies or work with their fathers, pointed out how unusual it was for me to be in town on a weekday, which is when I told them about quitting. Their reactions were worth noting. The guy who didn't know me so well was lackadaisical about it but my 2 school friends, who have known me, in ...

For the chronically nostalgic, there may be nothing more shocking than being able to say "goodbye" and meaning it. Walking away without wistfully looking back. Yet, that's probably what is happening to me. Yesterday, I visited my old workplace for an interview in the mainline department. Yes, the same place I once had a passing interest in a colleague and only later realised that she wasn't about to reciprocate. Considering the maelstrom of feelings at the time and, to be honest, for a long time after, I worried about seeing her again. So imagine the amazement when I found I felt nothing. It feels strange even as I write these words. Sure, I didn't need any butterflies dancing an energetic salsa in my tummy while the heart did a drum solo and mind stepped out to a long lunch. But there wasn't even the weakest hint of my pulse quickening. When I walked out of there, it was with the knowledge that not only was the chapter closed, the book had been returned ...

The previous post was not titled in a moment of premonition. But there has been a gap. A long pause between posts. And my life. January 2nd, 2014. Will I remember that day for the rest of my life? Probably not. I've suffered my fair share of traumas and forgotten when they occurred, instead holding on to how they made me feel. I'll probably remember the last 9 months as a benchmark for how I don't ever want to feel again. It's a crazy world and people put themselves through crazy things for money. I don't want to anymore. Throughout the stress-filled days, empty nights and every frustration & rage-rich moment, I wondered when I'd say "Enough". I did not reach breaking point. This job, this place is not worth me even trying to push myself to that limit. I simply chose to respect myself. And quit. Song for the moment: Satisfaction - The Rolling Stones

So what happened this time? Don't know... it seemed to be going... I suppose 'well' is too strong a word... decent, by his standards, shall we say? Hmm... was he being himself again? That's not exactly appealing, you know. Hey, c'mon, that's a bit harsh. He's okay... maybe too melancholic at first glance, but we know better... he's a nice guy... funny as hell. Exactly the problem, idiot. We know him well... that's taken time, not to mention a lot of effort on our part... he doesn't really make a great first impression. Or the second, come to that. Perhaps... but, he tried this time... really, he did. Did he? Seems to me, he could have done better... if he'd made that decision... booked that ticket.... Fuck that! It was a bloody good thing he didn't and you know it. Imagine landing up there and finding out. Puhlease!! He should have done it... it would have shown intent . Guys, the way I see it, intent wouldn't have ...

In conversation with a recent acquaintance last week, I realised my contribution to the exchange was gradually becoming one-dimensional. After the easy  hors d'oeuvres , the main course was a well-plated dish of almost nothing. In that, I could only talk about work-related stuff, which (even to me) suggests that I am a very boring guy, with no real interests or hobbies. No life, basically. Admittedly, talking to new people is difficult, and gets more challenging as we grow older. If you are lucky enough to meet them early in life, then there's no pressure to come across as an interesting person. You are who you are and social Darwinism will either cull or preserve, and allow your friendship/relationship to evolve. On the other hand, meeting someone new when you're entrenched in a demanding job, with nary a social activity in sight, challenges the limits of creativity. The most mundane of things have to be generously embellished; you have to constantly evaluate where this...

One of the less pleasurable aspects of reaching Pune is the traveling, particularly road journeys. Thanks to the inflexible work schedule, it's impossible for me to hop on to one of the regular intercity trains from Bombay, leaving only the MSRTC buses or Cool Cabs. The taxis require you to have either 3 other travellers or an infinite amount of patience so they're usually not an option, leaving only the bus. To be fair, the Shivneri buses are usually dependable and my only grouse is the increasingly princely sum of the ticket. However, dependability and comfort are of little use in Bombay's famed traffic, which is a doozy on Friday nights and long weekends, when everyone and their uncles seem to be frantically scooting out of the city. This was the case on the Independence Day weekend too. Reaching the bus depot, I was faced with a queue of at least 100 people, all of whom had a resigned "FML" look on their faces. I got talking with the guy standing before m...