Ok, major update due...
First off, winter is here. Winter is back in Delhi. How do I know. Firstly, we've actually had great weather for the past three days. Secondly, and more importantly, an old, familiar smell has come back to me.The smell of the flowers that smell like cardamom.
The flowers that smell like cardamom have been with me for about three years now. When I had my first job, I used to drive back, or be driven back at 2 in the morining about once every alternate day. The flowers that smelt like cardamom were there. Of course, at the time, I used to think that the smell came from all the elaichi tea that all the night watchmen all over Delhi made in order to keep them warm in the freezing winter nights. Now I'm told the smell comes from a flower. It doesn't matter to me. It smells like winter. Like Rufus Wainwright and Neil Gaiman. Inextricably tied with winter.
Secondly, don't ever live on bread, jam and butter for a week. It weakens your bowels and kills your will to live. I've been writing lies about myself all week and subsisting on breadbutterjam to help me through the ordeal. Breadbutterjam for breakfast may be a good idea. After a week you begin to lose your humanity.
Thirdly, this must be my second month living in limbo. Living in limbo sucks. You don't know if you're going to hell or heaven. You just hang there, suspended in space, watching the stars above and the fires below, and wondering if you will fall or rise. The funny thing is, I think most people, whether they deserve to or not, believe in the fall. Somehow, I think limbo is worse than heaven or hell. Certainty flies out the window as you stare at the void around you. In hell, you know what awaits you, and if youre strong enough, you accept it and bare your chest to the flames. In heaven, you rest, peaceful and relieved. In limbo, you stare afraid, forever wondering whether you will fall or rise.
Fourthly, I've missed a bus. Or a train, or a plane. I've sat around at the stop, watching my carefully laid plans drive past, staring after the number plate and the passengers in the back window, friends all, crowding the back window, wondering if there's any way it will stop and let me get back on, hoping I'll catch the next. Plans and plans and plans... We always make the best plans in our heads. Real life fucks them up in unimaginable ways. Like my brother said, I should have had a backup.
Fifthly, I've begun obsessing about Rufus Wainwright. I've even begun imagining the conversations we would have if we ever met.
Me: Rufus Wainwright?
Rufus: Hey, yeah that's me, what can I do for you?
Me: Rufus
R: (a little worried) Yes?
Me: Can I ask you a question?
R: Sure man, as long as you're not asking the obvious ones.
Me: Do you really think that men reading fashion magazines is such a strange thing?
R: Oh what a world we live in.
Me: Blank eyed admiration.
R: Whatever happens, never forget Bolero.
First off, winter is here. Winter is back in Delhi. How do I know. Firstly, we've actually had great weather for the past three days. Secondly, and more importantly, an old, familiar smell has come back to me.The smell of the flowers that smell like cardamom.
The flowers that smell like cardamom have been with me for about three years now. When I had my first job, I used to drive back, or be driven back at 2 in the morining about once every alternate day. The flowers that smelt like cardamom were there. Of course, at the time, I used to think that the smell came from all the elaichi tea that all the night watchmen all over Delhi made in order to keep them warm in the freezing winter nights. Now I'm told the smell comes from a flower. It doesn't matter to me. It smells like winter. Like Rufus Wainwright and Neil Gaiman. Inextricably tied with winter.
Secondly, don't ever live on bread, jam and butter for a week. It weakens your bowels and kills your will to live. I've been writing lies about myself all week and subsisting on breadbutterjam to help me through the ordeal. Breadbutterjam for breakfast may be a good idea. After a week you begin to lose your humanity.
Thirdly, this must be my second month living in limbo. Living in limbo sucks. You don't know if you're going to hell or heaven. You just hang there, suspended in space, watching the stars above and the fires below, and wondering if you will fall or rise. The funny thing is, I think most people, whether they deserve to or not, believe in the fall. Somehow, I think limbo is worse than heaven or hell. Certainty flies out the window as you stare at the void around you. In hell, you know what awaits you, and if youre strong enough, you accept it and bare your chest to the flames. In heaven, you rest, peaceful and relieved. In limbo, you stare afraid, forever wondering whether you will fall or rise.
Fourthly, I've missed a bus. Or a train, or a plane. I've sat around at the stop, watching my carefully laid plans drive past, staring after the number plate and the passengers in the back window, friends all, crowding the back window, wondering if there's any way it will stop and let me get back on, hoping I'll catch the next. Plans and plans and plans... We always make the best plans in our heads. Real life fucks them up in unimaginable ways. Like my brother said, I should have had a backup.
Fifthly, I've begun obsessing about Rufus Wainwright. I've even begun imagining the conversations we would have if we ever met.
Me: Rufus Wainwright?
Rufus: Hey, yeah that's me, what can I do for you?
Me: Rufus
R: (a little worried) Yes?
Me: Can I ask you a question?
R: Sure man, as long as you're not asking the obvious ones.
Me: Do you really think that men reading fashion magazines is such a strange thing?
R: Oh what a world we live in.
Me: Blank eyed admiration.
R: Whatever happens, never forget Bolero.
Powered by ScribeFire.
