I have not written anything here for the last two days, and got two inquiries about what happened to my post-a-day mission (Thanks Kailash; thanks Gaurav). Frankly, I have left the mission. I don’t want to go with it anymore. It was an experimental tour to see if I should go with it for the year 2010; I have got the answer “No.”
I will write as frequently as possible, but I don’t want any obligations, and I in no way want to write on the stupid topics suggested by WordPress Dailypost. So, for now, this is my last post in post-a-day.
And wait, I am coming back with new post just after this one.
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 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.
I have a years’ long habit of keeping a diary. Baba gifted me my first diary at the commencement of my ninth grade. It was 1998. I started writing diary on the Rakshabandhan day of 1998.
My first diary
Back then, it used to be just a note of routine daily events. Those pages seem too much dry as I read them now, but they keep a record of those years that I would have forgotten in the fog otherwise. I was just 14 then. An early teenager with lots of hopes and expectations from life, too much confident and still too much sensitive about his life. A lot of things came ahead as the life unfurled. I have almost stopped writing diary in the last few years; sometimes, it becomes too difficult to be honest with oneself.
In front of me is my first diary and I am reading the page for October 7, 1998, exactly 13 years ago. It was me, 13 years ago, a lot different from what I am today, but still a glimpse of it. It’s was written in Marathi, giving a smooth translation here for you:
7-11-98
Result of first-term exam declared today. Got 91.33%. But principal sir pointed out I got less marks in Social Sciences (124/150) that made my mood completely off. Went to temple in the evening. Studied. Watched Sri Lanka-Zimbabwe match. Gonna sleep now.
Thus a little simple page from my diary 13 years ago. Can you find me in it?
UPATE: Sorry friends, I made an error here. This page was from date November 7, 1998; not October 7! So, still one month to go for 13 years to complete.
The Blog of Reflections 