Musings on Monday Mornings

I think I can say with a measure of confidence that ‘Streets of Philadelphia’ is by far my favourite song. And that too despite the fact that I never really took a liking to the film. There’s something about the lyrics—a strange reconciliation with the forces bringing you down. A pact with the inevitable: do what you have to do and be done with it. That this is it. The point where I cease struggling. I have seen Man, and my disappointments out weigh everything by so much that I stand at the point of No Return. And I come as I am. No pretences. THIS is me. I was bruised and battered; I couldn’t tell what I felt, I was, unrecognizable to myself, Saw my reflection in the window and didn’t know my own face. O brother, going to leave me wasting away In the Streets of Philadelphia I walked the avenue till my legs felt like stone, I heard, voices of friends vanished and gone, At night I hear the blood in my veins, It is black and whispery as the rain In the streets of Philadelphia. Ain’t no a...

Dancers I am told are born with a rhythm—or at least and ability to comprehend the music when it is playing. They feel the music within their bodies. They manifest the beat of the music with action, articulating the language of music with physical movement. And so, it is the rhythm that sets the pace, making you move. Stirring you, slowing you down, embracing you and make you move forward. Life is much like that, with cities directing the pace of the music. As people living in them one has no choice but to move to the tune and speed required…and if you don’t, well you just fall to wayside like quitters. And I have never been a quitter. So here I am in a new town dancing to a new rhythm. I am struggling to keep up with everyone else … while trying to maintain an illusion of grace. It will take some time till I get my moves down. And I know practice makes perfect. But it is so hard. And the temptation to not even bothering trying is so overwhelming.

And when I say red, I don’t mean the darker shades of red that almost don’t attract attention. When I say red, I mean jarring, in your face, Lolita-returns-with-a-bang, Angelina-Jolie-lipstick RED. This is a relatively new thing in a series of ‘things’. It first surfaced in the middle of the wedding season back home. And far as I know it was not motivated by something. You know, the vindictive-splurge-of-anger-that-is-directed-from-somewhere-else-but-cannot-be-expressed kind of motivation. This passionate fascination seemed to be born of a sheer reckless abandon. The freefall-fun-approach to life. I notice of late she is expressing herself more and more. We were pretty much alike a few years ago. Her name and mine shared the same words. She just seemed to be reverse. (She is laughing in my head). When I got married she didn’t change her name. She kept it as it was…and to be honest thereon, started asserting herself more aggressively. She’s the reckless one. She climbs trees and bears s...

Life is full of little details. The details that become inconsequential the moment they fall out of the parameters of a particular moment, but while a part of it, their importance is of great magnificence. It’s the little things that come haunting when you least expect them. Like the line from a movie you saw just once, that means so much just when you are ached, bending above the dishwasher to load the dinner plates. “First class—it used to be a better meal. Now, it’s a better life.” :) Ok, so I am deliberately misquoting to give a different picture. But something to that tune. You get it. However, more precisely, I am talking about the rubber band you were playing with during the course of an hour long conversation with a friend. But the second the call comes to an end you have no more use of the piece of plastic. It lingers, used and over. The entirety of its existence summarized in minutes. Its sentence pronounced and on the verge of being enacted. And yet, as you decide to throw i...