Here and there , nowhere actually

Arundhati Roy writes about the judiciary and the former CJI

here

'how much will we swallow" ?

The song just changed from Prince's little red corvette to Eagles' hotel california. The same old playlist, the same old me.

Interesting day today. Koyel and i joined the protest at North Campus for a few minutes. Later in the day a talk on why the Indo-US nuclear deal is a disaster in the making. And as the absolutely delightful speaker (Prof. Achin Vanaik) said , "how much will you swallow?"
This question hangs in the air.

A rainy evening , momentary panic on being stranded on auto less dark road and finally day (almost) culminating in nice home food.

The same old playlist, the same old me.

City love

Wet streets that smell of rain, the fading day pierced by headlights of cars that look washed and clean, an old song playing on the radio and a shaky auto ride. I feel like a hedonist trying to drink as much as I can, of the beauty of the city I call home. It’s not your conventional beauty and nor is it a perpetual one. There are times when I hate the city almost with a vengeance. But today I feel a strange calm descend, I am happy; I don’t want the journey to end. If I could just keep roaming the roads of this city looking at the grand Lutyens trees that stand oblivious to the awe struck me, the lit row of shops in Janpath, that exotic looking Persian carpet which hangs at a window, that freshly painted bus, the white imposing CP at it’s seductive best, abstracted people, rows of ice cream carts at India gate, the smell of an old, dusty library with it’s old, dusty books hangs in my head. I want to freeze all of this, in now, a rainy Tuesday evening. To remember at a later time when I will hopefully be shaken out of my reverie by a child begging on the road or when I am felt up in a (freshly painted) bus.

While someone else would be contemplating afresh their love for the city. That’s how we live with her and she with us. Some love some hate.

“Pozzo- the tears of the world are a constant quantity”

--Waiting for Godot

Of love and other demons

Of love and other demons.
The search for what can never be.

Exorcise me then …try
I know you can’t .

They fake concern
I fake recovery.

Naphthalene balls smell of childhood winter clothes.

I like.