Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Mr.Everest

About a month ago, I met a mountaineer.

That's right, I did, ironically it was on the scorching desert sands of Rajasthan.

Technically not, actually. But it was Rajasthan, and it was scorching hot, at least in the afternoons.

He and I bonded over bhindi at lunch, and I fell in love with his child-like curiosity and fascination with everything around him. Especially since my own life circumstances and experiences have caused me to cultivate over a period of time, an attitude of amateur cynicism ( I'm not yet a pro-cynic, still manage to feel occasional pangs of hope).

He has managed to visit places twice in this lifetime, that I can only dare to dream about visiting once, place in question being Mt.Everest. He has also been to the roof of the world, posed with a posse of hyenas (I'm sure that's grammatically incorrect but it sounded nice in my head), skiied down a volcanic peak to bring in the new millennium, and has photographic evidence of having 'been there done that' at the North and South poles. Of course, this list doesn't begin to cover the list of peaks he's actually scaled.

But just yesterday, I, inhabitant of the vertically challenged city of Chennai, managed to inspire him to scale yet another peak! Metaphorically speaking, that is, which is the only way it could've possibly been.

You see, it came to pass that he viewed my effort at a blog, and decided that if I could do it, then he most definitely could, and had to, I would add. So this morning, I opened my inbox to find this:

u inspired me to do this
http://satyabratadam.blogspot.com/

For a minute or so, I was over-whelmed with pleasure at the thought of having inspired anyone at all. Then I went ahead and checked his blog... And my first thought was his blog is way better!!!

They say first impressions are the best impressions. And my first impression stays. His blog is wonderful. There are gorgeous pictures far better than those you'd find in any travel brochure, and equally gorgeous descriptions of the places, a first-person account of them even! I can't think of better blog material (except an astronaut blogger maybe).

So this post is a tribute to my dear friend, Mr.Everest. I'm hoping he will return the favor and inspire me to get off my summer-sodden ass and get cracking on scaling a couple of those mountains he likes to call home.



Monday, April 27, 2009

Heart-breaker

I am a heart-breaker.

There, I said it, got it off my chest. Phew!

For the uninitiated, the passives, and those in-between, it's tough being a heart-breaker, not all that pretty. My poor shoulder-blade is chipped from the burden of all those broken hearts, and the shards pierce me with every breath I take, every move I make, to emphasize on the sting of it all. None of those cotton candy pink hearts. I'm talking blood-vessel pumping, capillary-oozing, palpitating, fragile human hearts.

I am a heart-breaker, and I'm not proud of it.

I wasn't always this way. Like every person gone wrong, I started out being right. It takes some kind of perverse effort even to be a heart-breaker. Now I know what you're thinking- some PYT who's gotten a couple of love letters written with quills dripping blood from some poor Romeo's slashed wrists. But really, there is a classification table, and my name doesn't feature under the 'inspiration for suicide' column.

You see, when I was very young, as everyone is at some point of time, my mother, who had fallen in love with the idea of making the world a better place, decided that I, the fruit of her labor so to speak, would have to fulfill this noble dream of hers, she being a mother, obviously had to concentrate her energy on making the home a better place. And so her heart nurtured my own.

But all too soon, my heart grew wings and fluttered away.

Who wants to be a doctor? Not me.

Alright then, a nurse? A lawyer? Human rights, of course. I don't think so.

A teacher? A scientist? A marriage counsellor? No, no and a definite no.

What's that? You want to be a musician?!

And since that fateful moment, her poor heart never was the same. Neither was mine. Except, I was so deliriously happy every time I sang a note and that note managed to make someone smile. But that smile wasn't on prescription, so it didn't really count. And I don't think it's ever going to.

Like any other habit, heart-breaking is addictive. A string of hearts followed suit, and every time my heart sings, the splinters thrust in time with the resounding crescendo, and in the small silence after, there's just the softest sigh of disappointment from some distant chamber in my mansion of memories.

But when one love's one's art...

Sunday, April 26, 2009

Night of the Cockroach

I solemnly do declare that the following incident did in fact occur, and is not a product of my hyper-active imagination. Further, reader discretion is advised, in that, Blattodeaphobics ( I did not make that up, it translates into fear of cockroaches) are advised to skip the article. Or maybe, read it as some sort of therapeutic exercise, to overcome their fear vicariously, if such a thing were possible.

Oh well, here goes...

It's 3 a.m. and the world as most of you know it, is asleep. I however, am making my way to an obscure part of the city, my driver still grappling with left-over sleep despite a pre-dawn dose of caffeine. After a series of phone calls and dead ends (quite literally so), I arrive at a decrepit old building, and tentatively knock at the door, which seems to be emitting strange, unearthly sounds.

The door, supposedly sound-proof, opens to a small, dimly-lit room furnished with one dark velvet sofa that could accommodate 3 people comfortably. But that's in an ideal world, and when I walk in, there are 6 rather well-fed people (the age of starving artists has undoubtedly passed) crammed on and around the ill-fated sofa. Still, persevering optimist that I am, I view them as a means of generating more body heat, to combat the freeze-mode that the air-con seems to be on.

After the usual pleasantries, I make my way past the soundboard, to the holy of holies (also, hole in the wall) the recording booth, where the mike awaits.

Once inside, the comfort of extra body heat is sorely missed, and while rubbing my hands together in an effort to keep warm, I make a startling and rather alarming discovery- a large, immobile cockroach that refuses to budge despite my incessant screams. My voice continues to soar, until I hit upon the possibility that the aforementioned bug might in fact be dead. 'Did you know there's a dead cockroach in here?' I yell, flailing my arms about in true blue Olive Oyle straight-out-of-popeye style.

But no one seems to hear me.

After a few painful seconds, there is a scratching sound, as someone finally presses the 'talk' button on the soundboard. The sound engineer's voice floats out to me- 'Is there a problem?' he asks most politely. I'm too ashamed at my little display to even answer, so I shake my head and make a conscious decision to not so much as glance in the cockroach's direction. Though come to think of it, it probably was quite a handsome specimen by dead insect standards.

And so the time passes, dawn comes and goes over a tiny cup of scalding tea (even before the recession). Against my will and better judgement, my attention is once again diverted to the bug lying just about a foot's distance from me. I wonder if anyone other than me has even noticed it, and decide rather nobly to not bring it to the studio's attention just yet. Someone was bound to find it and throw it out later, but for now, I think, let the dead have their moment of dignity.

So I get back to my tra-la-lahs, and the triumphant cry of 'That's a wrap!' coincides with the sunrise. A poignant moment indeed, I think to myself while saying goodbye, which is more appropriate than both good morning and good night, in such circumstances.

Walking to the car, I stumble into the most beautiful morning sky I've ever seen. My driver is grumpy, understandably so, but I'm too distracted to notice and on the bumpy ride home, I contemplate the marvels of the early-morning world. Half-way home, I curl up on the backseat, and yawning contentedly, I fall asleep dreaming that I'd kissed the cockroach and wonder of wonders, it turned into this big-time music producer who asked me to marry him and then of course, we made wonderful music together, forever...

Alright, I made up the dream. So sue me for wanting a fairy-tale ending.
It's finally happened.

I, the self-confessed computer cretin, have managed to create a blog all of my own, on my own!

And to think it all happened on a Saturday night. Well that just shows you how terribly exciting my weekends are.

I was contemplating what great historic event my first post should be about. But then I took a second glance at the title I've chosen for my blog and thought, 'who am I kidding?' I think it's more than obvious to all and sundry (I love that expression, it reminds me of 19th century gossipy English women and sun-dried tomatoes) that Blurry pages shall more than live up to its name.

So, I'm looking around the room for inspiration. There is none.

It is after all, a Sunday.

In all fairness, I'm pretty sure that if I had a 9 to 5 job, five days a week, I would probably worship this day of rest. But as it happens, I do not, and so I have learned to loathe 'the Sunday'. It just reeks of apathy, and the symphony of ceiling fans whirring away into the afternoon is more than I can endure.

See, my entire working life is unstructured. When I do get time off, I like to box it all up, little windows of activity, and that's my idea of a vacation. So its easy to understand why the concept of a 'lazy Sunday' is abominable to me. Then again, I'm not sure the world will take kindly to an anti-Sunday movement, so I'm left with no choice but to grin and bear it.

Anyway, there I was, lost in thought, in a moment of absolute Sunday-style quiet, thinking I could really do with a bit of noise. And miracle of miracles, my dog obliges me with a sneeze.

As is obvious, I'm yet to master the art of quitting while still ahead.