I just discovered that there has been a marginal increase in the number of people who read my blog. At this moment, anyway. Toh amar khoob phurti hoyechhe. Mane, I can’t write copious reams, situated from within a comfort zone, right? In fact, I don’t really want to write, I feel quite comfortable to just be, or that perhaps, hmm, things are too much in a tumble for them to be articulated. You need for them to settle. Anyway, the Amrica-residing uber yuppy, short fella is going back to home. To his work and snow, and to look outta his office at a very large parking lot, I suppose. Mane, I am not saying it’s the only thing he does, far from it.
Anyway, so while walking with him, I also met S at Oxford, with, well, S, Saptarshi, whatthehell. And P. and I was glad how I cldn’t say. Shiny happy faces, like. You would be happy in their happiness. And we were meandering in my aimless way through what seems like oft-traversed streets. And I had ice-cream, bad throat, cough blah blah notwithstanding. B says I’ve read too many books and so am screwed up. I am not for a moment admitting that as a possibility, but I mean, that’s a thought too, right? That someone thinks. I was reading August today, book I’d brought for him. And I noticed that Ogu was 24, what I am now. And I’d wondered while buying the book whether had liked the book through eyes not equipped to discern, but it was, you know, what it had always been: one of those books which are right up my alley, like The Outsiders.
Somewhere in the book, August says that you realise that not even your crisis has the dignity of being unique. I remember it from the time when I was in 2nd year, it had seemed spoken by a grown up then, and what I felt seemed to be same as a grown-up’s life. Now, Ogu feels like an adolescent and his angst that too. A been there done that kind. Or something I will not, a bit of regret. I will not be lost in the so-called Indian heartland, and it’s not dry and dusty seen through a stoned haze as Agasyta’s was, just perhaps endless struggle and bits of epiphany, familiar high drama cause it’s mine.
You know how I feel right? How both things add up to the same? I am happy, really happy. Glad to have things the way they are. And I want to write so much more, just here, but can’t?

I feel terrible. Do I lead people on only to disappoint? But I am only the way I am, you know? When did I promise great things? Or am I am a disappointment to myself, that I can do exciting things, but deliberately restrain myself, as it were? Why do I come close to people at all? We are crowded islands on an open sea. I wish we stayed that way.

I had an awesome day today, as this guy would call it. I was glad to only be on the road, walking, working out energy, that I grow stronger the harder I work. It was "awesome", and the things you fear recede to the back of your mind. Walking is indeed very comforting. I wish I eventually walk alone, that I choose the way and go alone.

I don’t think I have been in a juncture like this before, but I seem to come up against them ever so often now. I doubt if I shall ever have a family. I don’t think I can stay this way. I don’t think it has much to do with the job, but more like what I have become in the past few months. It’s killing me from inside. Must be this ma went through for so many years, I don’t quite know. What to do, I wring my hands in despair, and wait for redemption, release. If there is dying in the head, I am living it, living it. I have little left. And someone seems to be waiting in the wings waiting for me to turn into exactly what I fear to be. Oh God oh God, what despair, what is this what is this?

uhoohoohoo, ki raag..

blue-breasted kingfisher

It is comfortable to know there is nothing to look forward to and quietly rot in hell. There is indeed nothing to lose then. And when you are gone and done with it, you can always get up and start afresh. It helps then if you are alone, but it does not matter. You are alone anyway when you are this way. I like that.