?

Why do we seek to impress others?
Why do we need to share 'thoughts' with people ?
Why do we need other people?
What does the term 'selfishness' mean?
What is the definition of laziness?
What is 'ego'?
What is Bravery ??
Am I a coward ?

India lost :(

India lost to pakistan yaar..this sucks.
Everytime we lose to the paks I slip into a minor depression,

Vito

Giovanni : " Who killed whom ? "
Raoul : " Vito killed Fanucci . "
Giovanni : " I don't believe it , must be some other black- hand's work , they are pinning the
the blame on poor Vito. "
Raoul : "Maybe , Vito is so quiet. "


Vito is not quiet , I know him , he talks to himself inside his head. He shouts quietly.
I can see beyond those glassy eyes . His brain is bathed in red , the colour of a gruesome death.

Did you know that Vito is a butcher by proffession? Nobody knows that, not even his wife . He butchers people with his eyes , cuts them up in his mind till they scream for mercy. He only stops when they grovel and call him 'Godfather'.

Vito is a conscientous worker and axes everyone who comes his way , including his children.
He hacks people and uses the pieces as bait , to attract more people.

Michael , his son , hacks people too. But he does it for his father. Vito on the other hand , does it for himself.

I know that he doesn't look like a butcher. But that turns out to be his strength. He doesn't have to hunt for prey, they come to him on their own.
That's why I choose to avoid him , I think he is dangerous , he reminds me of myself. It scares me that I can peer inside his mind , we have a lot in common.

He represents my dark side , an evil which I choose to supress. A Satan who makes me cry.

Night

Why is the mundane so terrifying ?

The grumpy, grotesque creatures of the unreal realm , get together for a jamboree every night.
Incidentally they always choose my brain to party in.

While I try my best to ingest the contents of the OG11 in front of me , they ramble on and on about the latest happenings in the grinch's palace. I am sure they mean no harm, that they are completely oblivious to my earnest efforts to keep them at a respectful distance , so that i can keep a straight face and make a career in the real world.
But the din ! It's impossible to concentrate.

While i look out of my window towards the creek yonder, I feel weightless. My mind snaps off it's moorings and floats into the grinch's palace. I am swamped by the swimming staircases and the swinging lamps and surrounded by gregarious and garrulous imps. Some of them notice me but they dont really care , and i feel like i dont exist.
Some tension builds up inside me , they may be naughty and numerous but they are dimunitive , filthy little creatures , and i must assert , for I am the mortal amongst these mere immortals. My ego swells and turns red hot like an iron rod about to burst into a liquid explosion. I yell and i spin , and suddenly I am standing on the dome of the palace with the wind in my hair.
I have turned into Howard Roark.
I feel my orange hair and the high hairline with my calloused hands. My eyes gleam and i am staring again at the creek through my window , the orange hair is still there but it is blurring . Suddenly , orange seems to be the colour of my book , the OG11. My hair is not orange, it is black.

I look into the book and lose myself into the questions given in it , for the real world beckons.

dust

This is a grimy city , full of greasy dust and smoky winds. The dust is everywhere , in the train, on the roads, in the food and if you look carefully you can see it floating around in the water , the water you are supposed to drink.
If you live here long enough , your face shrivels up and you resemble those incredibly old Japanese people they show on TV Nippon.

Mumbai is said to be the 'city of dreams' , but ironically one never gets the time to dream here , not on the dusty pillows and the dirty beds in the doleful suburbs , which we call home . Where we wearily trudge back every night and rest our dreary selves.

Mumbai

The rains in Mumbai have started.

It's maddening to walk among the honking cars and bellowing trucks , while playing Hopscotch to avoid the puddles on the road. My pants and shoes are in a perennial mess.

What's funny are the umbrellas , or rather the way the Mumbaikars use them. The rains in Mumbai follow the start-and-stop technique ( pun unintended !) , and the folk open and close their umbrellas in citywide unison.

I have always been amazed at the way this city envelopes a person , you start walking briskly, you tend to laugh off the long working hours , you can live off Vada-Pavs for days on end and can jump off the locals without any semblance of fear. You become yet another fibre in the fabric of coarse-fraternity which holds the city together.

But i feel there is a deep, sinister reason behind the friendliness that you witness from your fellow Mumbaikar.
This city humbles you into realising that you are just another pawn in this great circle of life, being pushed and shoved by forces more powerful than you. We are all nameless, faceless people trying to set a foot on the ladder , the one which leads to untold riches and power, a ladder which only the chosen few climb, and even they pay a huge price for it. . . . . We are all losers in this Rat-race , and we offer each other sympathy , which is often mistaken for friendship.

I better end this post right here , because if i don't , I will miss the last ' local' going north and won't be able to go back home .