Blank.

He stared.
Stared at the whiteness that was his vision.
As if his surroundings understood him and responded to him their own way, the speakers blared a song that suited his mood.
Mera jeevan kora kaagaz,
kora hi rah gaya

He sniggered at how diaphanous his routine, his lines, his mannerisms had become.
Living in Bombay could do that.
Living and loving Bombay; long enough and strong enough.

Now every time he saw a real life situation unfold in the most normal RKN-esque way, he correlated it with a movie situation and imagined background music.(Violins, prominently)
When he was in Bangalore, a place he still called home, he would think of a book that presented a situation such as it. He liked to believe he was a displaced bhadralok.

He believed himself to be too many things.
He believed it was possible to stand out.
He believed newer cities meant newer possibilities.
He believed possibilities meant no roadblocks.
He believed.
Not so anymore.

Hours had passed since he was staring out the window. He loved windows, metaphorical and otherwise. The horizon that looked all white was now glimmering.
A faint orange.
The clouds seemed to take in the hue too.
The sun was almost to set, but left indelible faint orange tint where he was to dip.
A light, soothing orange.
Tangerine, that was the colour.

The horizon that had since remained blank ushered in a catamaran, swaying but holding strong.
Netting many fish, and possibly not.
Possibilities.

It looked a pretty picture.

No Gloomy Sunday this.

Started as it did with bouts of phlegm-evacuating exercises, one would have expected the rest of the day to be as phlegmatic. Life, Calvin says, is full of surprises, but never when you need one. Prophetic. For, i did not WISH for a surprise and voila, there it was in store, gift wrapped in pretty red.

Sorority of sorts organised a programme that proved to be more than rewarding; progenitors paid a surprise visit. Man, woman and child enjoyed quiet day out, cut off from the heat and tension, quite literally so, for nestled we were, under long, accomodating bamboo shoots. Unplanned picnic in a park that had not seen our shadows for an exact dozen years. Very nice. Very nostalgic.

The walk from Minsk square to Chinnaswamy is a most delightful one. Gentle autumn breeze knocks at your chest, enough to make you snuggle up to yourself. As you walk, the brick colored steeples of St Andrew's lie in stark contrast against a lone flowering tree on the road. Like Buson once said,

Spring is nearly gone
So now this old cherry tree
decides to bloom.

Bangalore, i tell you, is for the romantics.(which perhaps explains, why the above lines read very insipid)

Now, on to Strand book fair which, i reiterate is a farce. The upto 80% off tag holds good for books depicting earthworm cooking, Vietnamese tribe style. In other words, don't go. Unless of course, you have a deadline to spend a certain amount of money and the world's all destroyed, save Chinnaswamy stadium. Then, run.
Lizard-self could not help but peer down others' bookbaskets, only to be thoroughly disappointed with the piling Coelhos, Sheldons and Archers. No judgement; but why?

People with money,
lots of it, buy ugly books.
Lament of the day.

Visit to another bookshop blossomed into four more books. So, yay! A quickbite at the quintessential grab-a-bite place (literally so, for the waiting customers glare down, grab and bite you if you took any longer nibbling) later, the ideal post-apertif!

Paan, Banarasi shtyle!

Bhaat do they say?
Purrfektt.

All it takes for a
good day to end well is, but,
a better night's sleep.

Pissedoffdom is where i rule

I wish to not be disappointed with things that surround me.
I wish to choose to not *abhor* samples that seem to love my breathing space.
I wish to be more tolerant of iniquities and less forthcoming with jibes.
I wish to. Genuinely and all.

But, such is my fate, I am resigned to a life of being called Fatalistic; hating the world around me, and more so the people that inhabit it.(Schopenhauer, take a bow, like, NOW.)
I dont even need to hunt for *reasons* to be annoyed with misfortune, whose decorated soldier i am; they present themselves in all grandeur, epaulettes in place.

Case in point. Hearken o, reader.

Yours Truly (YT) wished to up his ranks on the academic ladder(whose lowest rung inhabitant he happens to be) by reporting (in a journal) a case, apparently of the 'once-in-a-lifetime' sort. So, dragged an extremely non-academic ass to a very pretentiously titled library, 'Put-LOCK-throw-KEY' Learning Centre. (Learn to snooze-drool and deface books, more like)

The LC (which was only recently pulled up for inadequate stocking, of books that is), also prides itself in having a something called the Digital Library Facility, housing a grand Two and a half computers from the times of Pascal. Try this.
Open a window on IE,
Take a stroll on the 140 acre campus, lush and swell
Sip (unsippably) insipid tea-flavored water in the mess as well.

Cross Sarjapur road, the death trap, real quick and fast
Jump a compound; pray, so you dont end up in a cast.

Throw in Hail-Marys at the chapel for good measure,
and if its your lucky day, with Him in total pleasure,
Half a Google might just show.

(Please to note, we have each been shaved off 1200 rupees, no less, for these Johnnagar versions of Param)

Given the situation, YT plonked looong and hard (the keyboard is arthritic) and Old Faithful spewed results in spurts. With these, YT climbed a floor to pre-historic times, also known as the Journal Section. With kerchief for hijaab (people with sensitive lungs, stay away from here unless you enjoy convulsing), I embarked upon Project Dhoondho.

Journal 1; 1980, December.
(Plump black, bound books with tough spines and golden lettering looked set to be perused, longing for a breather from rack confinement and hardy silverfish.)
...1976, 1977, 1978, 1979, ????, 1981, 1982, 1983...
(Chuckle), funny. Really. I could sense unsettling tectonic plates at the back of head already. But still, vaguely funny.

Journal 2; another one, 1986, August.
Many racks, many more silverfish, and much more sneezefits later,
...1986 June, 1986 July, 1986 September, 1986 October...
WHAT? Incredulous consternation. That. And, AaaaaaaaaAAAA.

Journal 3.

*NOT EVEN STORED*

Now, it was time. Beyond Richter. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRGGGGGHHH. (Why, just why me? At seventeen, i was busy mugging. Where was the time to lie?)

The floor below pre-historic times houses House of Nitwits, also called the Reception. I ran back. Asked the cretin playing Solitaire on the comp, what the faaahk is the problem with these?

Surr, waat surr.
(Problem explained)
Oh thutt surr. One minit surr.( Chick walks in. Flirt flirt flirt flirt flirt)
(Back) Yes surr. Waat surr.
The journals (if teeth had a breaking point, this was it).
Oh yes surr. Holding surr.
Yes.
Tell surr.
Journal 1
(looking looking) Oh no surr, 1980 naat there.
Journal 2
(looking looking) wait surr
*what does it take to look through a file, you dodobrained CRETIN*
(looking looking chatting chatting) wait surr
* you Flibbertigibbet*
(Huyn, did i even know the word? I MUST be Angry)
Oh no saar aagust naat there. (Then laughed, that chickenshit)
What? Okay, Journal 3
(looked for a FULL 180 seconds, the mercurylimbed bitch. And was not even apologetic. Mildly.)
No saar, we don get thutt wonly (Fullthroated laughter)
BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITCH.

Botched luck makes my life a travesty, thats a given. I have even made my peace with the fact.
But, utterly incompetent people(and here, we talk not merely of the reception-cretin; a certain airhead, a greybeard, a trenchmouth, a scarecrow too feature prominently) added with dollops more of ill luck, make it a full blown AVM tragedy, background music to boot.

Behead the jokers, make a totempole, dance around it. Thats what thoroughly addled brain advised me.

Instead, hopped on trr trr contraption and got home. This isnt new, is it?
Mouth let out an involuntary cluck. Tchuh.