Friday, July 25, 2008


Bonnie died, Clyde was fried, how does it matter? My bag is a military green coloured, over priced piece of branded pretentious hippiness. Once a week I sling it on my right shoulder cutting through my chest diagonally, but usually its the left one. It is never heavy and not too light either. The bag serves no purpose except that my skinny jeans and unwashed pajamas don’t have pockets worthy of carrying the little left over cash and a cigarette pack. The bag with the butt of denim stitched over its flap preserves the few hundred notes I survive on and two rupee change to be spent on tasteless canteen tea. A rectangular slot carries the Mild’s pack and an over lapping slot homes AIM matchbox with my favourite joke on its back.

What did one ghost say to another? Do you believe in people?

The Mild’s pack is refilled twice everyday, but it’s never enough. It’s a black hole tarring my insides as black as black can be. The old mess guy catches me every other day to give me his well meaning advice.

Smoke a full cigarette and then kiss a white sleeve with full force. It will leave a black imprint that no detergent can erase. I never tried out the experiment not caring for the outcome.

I did carry around a lighter for a week. It said Goa and was stolen. It stopped working.

What if in the end all your hopes were the wrong way around? Murakami said so in the words of another anonymous, Beatles obsessed nineteen year old introvert, who probably existed in reality in the seventies or was just a concoction of his writer’s mind. I sipped my coffee alone for the first time since I came to school, in a chilly breeze that this city enjoys every evening, nevermind the season. I finished another book and stared at the fluorescent light in that tiny hut like construction surrounded by a little garden. It’s pitch black with the crickets chirping away freely, only the V shape of a nearby trunk is illuminated by the hostel’s dim lights.

I finished my coffee much before the book, much, too much to ask for, even without the good conversation I could do without tonight, wondering if the unintentional story about a boy mowing lawns has any hidden metaphor, or it’s just our fake intellectualism that deliberately lends them some meaning.

Subtext, sublime, tone, monotone, catch, resolution, plot all in our mind, never illuminated by dim lights from nearby but still afar. I sometimes long for my black iPod, but I don’t really miss it. It’s like it never existed and is now in a better place. How very superficial to lend a mere piece of plastic and silicon my precious words. But, I wanted to know who sang Karma Chameleon since his name slips my mind and I won’t Google it tonight, or ever. It was an unmemorable song which I heard when I was thirteen, only because it followed Still Loving You, in the Best College Rock Collection from way back in the nineties. I don’t listen to Scorpions either. I don't have the songs either and hence no iPod is missed.

I replied back to a few friends who have been making attempts to contact me, but the good thing is I don’t get connection anywhere on campus, and it feels good. I refused to go out for a night of club related debauchery. I might have turned twenty three, months in advance. I called up Ma and Papa, who are in India, yet so far away now. They were sitting down to eat dinner, so I ate my dinner too. Beans and curd, not a good combination, but tonight I didn’t want to order good food. The curd was thick and cold, yet I hate curd, but I ate it as a challenge to my guts.

I walked back, forcing myself to rid myself of my childhood OCD, counting my footsteps in fives and placing my fifth before the next strip of hardened tar appears. I over step often and my neurons go mad. I look straight and walk and the phone rings. Another plan ditched. I want to write tonight, about Bonnie and Clyde and my bag which carries within, light words burdening my mind and my shoulder blades.

I want to write more, but maybe tomorrow. Goodnight and Goodluck.