Can I ever get out of towel?

This is not a post-a-day post.  I would write it even if I were not on a post-a-day mission.  This is why I had started this blog — The Blog of Reflections — to catch such of my moods, the times when I am lost somewhere, somewhere in or around me, or you, or don’t know where!

I should really take some classes on how to live life.  At this moment, I should have been singing Alvida Alvida loudly with Kailash Kher; I am instead scratching this post lowering the volume of my speakers.

Yesterday, as I was coming back from Reshimbag ground, a 30-something-year-old guy was arguing loudly with his companion on some stupid subject; it was all going in English (so uncommon on Indian streets).  They were apparently drunk, so steamed up, arguing with passionate hand movements, loud voices, a perfect drama.  I sat down on footpath and watched them fighting for long until some other guy came and took them away.  I got up and started walking back to home.

There was some van standing outside the bar.  They were offloading the wine packs from it.  Bottles of different shapes and sizes and colors.  People were coming in and out of the bar.  How lively they seemed!  I cannot even think of drinking, yaaack!  But then why don’t I look as happy as they d0?

Can I ever go out of towel?

Can I ever get out of towel?

I came on main street.  Some procession was going on, Durga immersion (don’t know how it came after Vijaya Dashmi)!  Really loud loudspeakers, heatingly fast drums, some bizarre steel-plate-like instruments making loud cymbal-like noise–mischievously tickling to the eardrums!  Everything so perfect to make you dance, move on the beats.  I stopped.  Watched the procession going, the drummers beating the drums synchronously, in high passion, all in sweats, dhan dhana dhan dhan, guys and girls dancing, playing fugadi–and me–I can’t even dance, not because I have two left legs, but because I don’t have the heart that one needs to dance.  For a moment, I felt I should go and just move, just move as bizarre as I can, that I should forget myself, forget the weight my soul needs to bear 24×7.  I didn’t do that.  I just reclined back to a car parked there and watched the dance with a calm that would suite only to an unrelated funeral.

I want to forget this stuff.  I want to forget what I am; in fact, I need to forget that I am, that I exist.  And just and enjoy the life, the breath going deep in my spastic lungs, the breath coming out of my nostrils.  I want to go out naked on the road when it is still dawn and feel the cool breeze tickling my senses.  I want to go out and sing loud without damn caring about what the next guy will think.  I want to go at some deep dark place and make a loud cry until I lose my sane.

Hmm, enough with impotent thinking–I know I can’t get out of towel even in the bathroom.

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4 Responses to “Can I ever get out of towel?”

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