How quickly time flies. It's been a month since my last post, and I swear, two years ago when this blog started I coulda sworn I swore every damn day, but forswear, dear reader, forsooth and forfucked that this tortured soul be; very forgetful is he.
Lately, things haven't been going that well; and there I surprise myself, as I usually rant about these things.
It's the end of my degree, see; much as I should feel about it I feel elated about leaving behind what was nothing more than a waste of time wrapped up in a pretty little bundle, much like those whores one sees dressed up like a pig's ear, but as you peel off the skirt, the price goes up with it.
No, what I'll miss are the solitary sunday afternoons, the thoughts of wandering all across the city and finally coming right back home without doing anything but spending a hundred rupees on petrol and cigarettes.
What I'll miss are the rush of the mornings, the droll afternoons, the musty little beer bars and My Holy Salvation the almighty Sarangi, that which played host to most of my cravings for Kishore Kumar, Port Wine, Kingfisher, Bacardi White and Red, Royal Stag...
I'll miss the roads at night, and my fourth home Budhwar Peth, its small, cozy curtained rooms, 90s music, cheap daru and cheaper beedis, all my girls there and all its "Bhais" and "Bhaiyas" who were both better and worse at the same time, at whose hands I was called both "Jaybhai" and "Betichod"; I'll miss the adrenaline of dodging the police after drunken brawls at suburban dhabas; the airport strip, cold as ice during the winters, hot filter coffees in their smug thermos flasks at three o'clock at night on some strip in the light of my Nova...
Friends that I made, brothers I found, and idiots I deflated, fun times there, little to be seen again..
The rounds of Street Fighter I've been taking with DK, since both he and I go in different directions; and then all the bakchodi every five minutes of being bored, who knows when or where we may meet.
Life is damn short, and it's not permanent. Not everyone's a Gandhi, destined for greatness, to be remembered. Among us are also those who, in their own small way, live out their lives as they wish, without making a song and dance about it.
So what do we do about Life? The meaning of Life is very simple. Somerset Maugham, in his book Of Human Bondage is one major inspiration for my own way of living; we are born, we enjoy life, we die.
What greater meaning should there be?
With those words, I depart, and quite likely it is that my next blog post may be either from Amravati, to where I'll retire if the future is too uncertain, or in Delhi, or in Chennai; who knows where fate may take us.