11.45 PM Church Gate Local

**August 21, 2005**

Companies vociferously proclaiming their wares in between the movie premiere “Hum Tum” in Sony TV.. or is it the other way round ? Screens fleeting across the idiot box. Larger than life. More so in the plasma screen draped across the living room wall. And me; sitting on the weather beaten bean bag in the corner, beside the foot-on. Thoroughly detached. Clinical. The room looks like a quaint tavern, with a Chinese lamp being the solitary source of light, high up on the wall. The old coffee mug with the letters ONLY US, a witness to brighter sunnier times, sits beside. Stained with coffee lines. Dregs lying low at the bottom. Looking at me balefully asking me to get a grip on life. On myself. The air around is blue with cigarette smoke. (And my doc says 'quit smoking' to which I nod with sincerity writ large all over my face) The ashtray, a gift from someone special, a long time back, threatens to overflow with extinguished buds. Classic Ultra Milds filter tips; slender, graceful and white. The stained crumpled ends end jarringly. Euphemistic of life.

Rani's mother in the film says that at least she had Rani to accompany her in her loneliness. Someone is needed in everyone's life. To care for. To be cared for. Is it ? Must be. Dunno.

Weekends are a torture.

“Hum Tum” would run itself out. Just like the two other movies in different channels since 2 PM. Since the time I parked myself on the bean bag. The stupor broken only to get up and make myself a fresh mug of coffee or to light a fresh cigarette.

Sudden bursts of distraction. In the form of Mandira Bedi promoting a talent show that she is hosting (Uugh .. How many more idols does India need ?). Total makeover, a long way from the 'noodle-strapped' (there you are, my meager contribution to the reams of paper written about the (in)famous 'straps') Mandira that we (would like to) know about. Speaking haltingly in Hindi. Or for that matter any language that she speaks. But then who cares, what and how she speaks. Eye candy that she is.

They say that being alone makes one weird. Does it ? Dunno. Don't think so. But then, a lunatic is the sanest individual. To himself, that is.

Weekends are a torture.

Rani and Saif are married in a church. Oh wait. No, it’s the other couple. Confusion prevails. A myriad of light within the church. A myriad of emotions. Within me. Naah. Am detached. Clinical. (Where have I heard these words before?) Memories of the long haired 'Sardarni' seen (read “feasted” upon, with eyes that is) yesterday in Club Escape fleet by. Great looks. Great clothes (whatever there was) Great body. Complete wanton-ness. An untamed wild spirit encased in an exquisitely civilized body.

A haze of smoke. Loud music. Bare flesh. And me. Wooden. With two left legs. Leaning against the padded pillars. The ice-cold Fosters warm now. With the heat emanating from the dancing, writhing masses of flesh all around. Me lost ? Yeah. In my best efforts at foot-tapping and swinging to the noise (sorry, music) around. Much to the chagrin of Indira, who tries her level best to teach me how to set the dance floor on fire. Poor she. Little does she know that she fights a losing battle.

There you are. Me. Rambling and repetitive. Slipping from one topic to the other. Each signifying a further step downwards into the dark forbidden cellar. Life somehow has become a long dark night with a few comatose hours thrown sporadically in between.

Weekends are a torture.

2 pigeons sitting on the window grill. Cluck-clucking to each other. One of them (definitely the 'he') tries to be amorous, giving the 'she' love bites (or pecks) all over. The 'she' gives 'him' a stern look. But presently those flashing beady eyes softened themselves just like a mother eagle when her bruised eaglet breathes. And 'she' tells 'him' to go slow. To love instead. In a more dignified, calmer and subtler manner. In a manner that speaketh of trust and sincerity. In a manner such that no one else is aware.

"In spring when the woods are getting green
I will tell you what I mean
In summer when the days are long
Perhaps you will understand the song
For this must ever be a secret
Kept away from all the rest
Between you and me."

Shucks !!! Even the 'he' pigeon is not alone.

"Apni apni kismat hain sab
Jeesko jo saugaat mile
Unko moti saath mile hain
Humko khaali seep mile" .. (Ghalib)

Tired. I want to go home. These eyes burn. The heart disgruntled with life around. I want to go home. Home; a little green valley surrounded by greener jungle-draped hills. My town, dotted with tiny homes and a few humans. No pollution. Trees. More trees. More and more trees. A peacock imperiously cruck-craws its propriety over the soothing lushness around. Siliguri. Pretty to the eyes. Silent to the ears. Lost to the world.

The 11.45 PM Church Gate Local gallops by the tracks just outside my window. Chasing away the running-nosed, worm-filled protruding stomached, lice-haired, rickety child who had just sat down on his chosen spot beside the tracks to relieve himself.

11.45 PM... Time to order food. It's Pizzas today. Have decided to try PIZZA HUT. Mallaika Arora and her 'freshness' have impressed me.