The Art of Driving

I have been reading this book called Beautiful Ruins by Jess Walters. Juxtaposing past and present with equal ferocity, I feel myself being yanked back and forth into time periods that we never can in real life. That's why we love reading so much. The tenacity of knowing that we can cling to illusion and pretend it's real.

It rained yesterday in Bangalore. Sweeping torrents. I joke. A drizzle can be a flood in this city of potholes, potbellies and potpourri. I drive these days with something approaching serenity. I don't have to do anything or be anything except drive. People will honk. Push you off the lane. Ok. There are no lanes in Bangalore. They push you off whatever side of the road you are on. Pedestrians will either jump in front of you or sedately walk in front of you, wishing, hoping or praying or just plain dumbing their way across the road. Policemen regulate the chaos into infernal chaos. And there I am. Music on my Ipod and all the thoughts of work and off-work and friends and ex-friends and family and the World Cup and Indian cricket and life and love and movies all swirling around in my head. Honk honk. The occasional glare. The threatening look. The smirk. I absorb it all. And realize just why people from the West consider India the land of spirituality. You have to a saint or a sinner in this country. And when you sin, you sin. And then you pretend to be a saint.

And so I meditate.

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Blue Funks

I can't believe it's been almost a year since I last posted on this blog. This was meant to be my little place out in the world. I can't believe how much that little world inside me has changed. It has shrunk and I can barely see out of it.

I watched two movies today. "The Grand Budapest Hotel," and "Adam." Both really different movies. "The Grand Budapest Hotel" was a drama-comedy romp fest that plunged from one kind of absurdity to another. Thinking of it now, I feel that my life can be somewhat similar. I have much the same of experience as the concierge in this hotel does - albeit without the chopped off fingers and rolling heads. I have been a weird person to myself at the best of times, and seen the weirdness in others at the worst of times. I feel cut off from writing, like the words won't just flow, like I have to coax them out, like I have to use like a 100 times in a sentence. It makes you question the fluency of creation, the absurdity of life and the beauty of chaos. None of which makes any sense to me anymore. Yet, pick up the pieces we must.

Tomorrow is the beginning of the mad world we call work. It can't be real - this life I lead. It can't be real, the life I lead in my head. The question is can I make out the difference anymore?

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