Or so thought the optimistic tharki bastard.
MG Road and Kasturba Gandhi Marg never meet. Which, considering how many kids the Father of the Nation had, is a bit odd to say the least. Or perhaps it is symbolic of something, not quite sure what.
The stray dogs at Khan Mkt are some of the fattest mongrels I have ever seen. Like plump little critters. Some of them even have those sweater like thingies which I spot on pedigree-critters in the winter mornings.
I guess that is what they call the trickle down effect.
I am continuously amazed at the power of democracy. Actually, I am even more surprised by the fact that not too many people are aware of this power. Like can you imagine what it would sound like if everyone sneezed at the exact same instant. Or even if everyone in the world had hiccups at the same time. What the hell would that sound like.
A long, long time ago I went for one of those musicals where the performers ask the audience to chip in. So he would go “ja ja ja ” and the crowd would then go “la la la” or something like that. It was amazing.
I also remember this concert I attended of this chap who played the cello. I think it was the cello. One of those big, bass like thingies which go “ba-doom badown” in the old jazz numbers. Fuck, whatever.
Anyway, this was a slightly unconventional chap and it sounded amazing. I remember it was in Chowdiah Hall and I remember that the air smelt quite nice that evening.
Our school’s annual day was there. So was this horrible, horrible rendition of Midsummers. Quite a few plays and quite a few concerts. Ohhh and wasnt that bengali film festival held there? The first time I saw Raima Sen.
Oh my good lord. Raima Sen. With those black-pool eyes and her heart shaped face and the mishti mishti manner in which she would speak bengali in Choker Bali.
Oh my good lord, me says. Gorgeous.
Saw my first clearly corrupt judicial officer today. Wonderful experience to watch someone who has been so obviously bought over. Interesting to say the least.
Reminds me of the time I visited my first police station. Languishing bodies sleeping on the floor and that acrid smell of urine. And the harsh words cutting into the silence and the unspoken threats and the cold stares.
I realised the other day that I still have not come up with a standard “hide boredom” word. You know, every one has one. This word you use when you are don’t really give a fuck about what the other person is saying but you have to pretend to be interested. So you say something like “Oh yeah??” or “How strange” or “Hmmmmmmmm” or something like that.
I also realised that my sense of direction is absolutely pathetic. Yes, mugs. eat your frikkin heart out!