Soul Stripping on the Net

I wonder what a day at the highway food plaza would be like? Will I see illegal two-wheelers tempos carts carrying vegetables and supplies Cleaners trash pickers coming by rickshawloads Will I hear bhakti music or capitalist muzak in the morning Will there be a drunkard groggily stumbling around Will there ever be silence? When will the leftovers be cleaned? When will the leftover start searching for the missed shivneri and asiad? Helter-skelter in the rain outside Crowded covered commerce consuming chicken customers chamberside Tea and wada pav for MSRTC Starbucks and burgers for Mercedes Observe lane discipline on the highway Observe class lines off the highway When will the tyres burst? Two trucks pull in patients Will I see luminescent leaking coolants and prismatic empty petrol How much will the mechanoshepherd fleece? Sparrow and crow and ant A stray dog here too Will they give me company? Cigarette smoke, tobacco spit, urine stench They will give me com

Birthdays are funny days. They rarely give personal joy. They just mark a revolution around the sun, of survival. They make you question the purpose of existence and why it would be really funny if the plane carrying you crashes. Because every year after that the revolution would mark the anniversary of my non-existence and the anniversary of if-I-had-been-alive. Would confuse the hell out of people who commemorate such stuff though. How did I spend my birthday? In travel, and making questions. I was forced to cut a cake (I had specifically asked not to have one), I was forced to accept a gift (I had specifically asked not to get one). I did enjoy the puran polis. That was more like it. But as I said, this is not just me. I am sure many people my age have such low-key birthdays, more like they just have regular days. Because it is a regular day which has been artificially given importance in today’s age. Heh I liked that one. When life expectancy was in the 30s, which is probably

Deciding your own worth is a difficult thing. Especially when every other person also does that and judges you on how you rate yourself too. Only death does not judge. You think you are a great quizzer? Cool, you still die. You think you are bad at communicating your inner insecurities? Cool, you still die. You think your skill development over this appraisal year has been intermediate? Cool, you still die. Isn’t that liberating? Yet you mark and rank and judge yourself because you want to live in this world, and hierarchy and ranking are the only way to be eusocial. Even termites have a queen. And then you write such pieces and pay therapists to feel better and understand and live better. The problem is: this unrelenting heart and these relentless lungs.

  प्रयत्न करीन   मी घरी जिवंत परतण्याची शक्यता पावसामुळे २०%, गर्दीमुळे १०%, कामाच्या ताणामुळे कदाचित येऊ शकणाऱ्या हार्ट अटॅकमुळे ३० टक्क्यांनी कमी होते. अशी परिस्थिती, नव्हे वस्तुस्थिती असताना आई म्हणते, " घरी लवकर ये ", तेव्हा " प्रयत्न करेन " एवढच उत्तर देता येऊ शकतं.   बॉस म्हणतो, " जायच्या आधी, हे एवढं करून दे !" " प्रयत्न करेन. " ते मी करेनच पण त्या आधी मी बिल्डिंगवरून उडी मारली तर ... " हो, करतो. " असं खोटं आश्वासन नाही दिलं.   मित्र म्हणतात , " आज रात्री बसू या!" "प्रयत्न करेन." "नाही" म्हणून मैत्री तोडायची नाहीये. "हो" म्हणून खोटं बोलायचं नाहीये. इच्छा आहे मनात , ताकद नाही तनात. मनातल्या मनात केला मी प्रयत्न. शेवटी "मैत्री"नं पण प्रयत्न केला जगायचं. मुबंईनं तिचासुद्धा बळी घेतला.   पण मग मुंबईशी मी एकदा बोलताना तिला विचारलं की माझ्या स्वप्नांचं काय ? राबलो की मी! ती म्हणाली , " प्रयत्न केला , जमलं नाही."   मग मी स्वतःला प्रश्न विचारला , " तू आयुष्यात जे काही म

 Read Part 8: The Labyrinth by clicking here The sun was setting, the road was long. The nearest metro stations were Qutb Minar and Saket. I chose the latter. I passed the temple where women in their late 40s and 50s were exiting after professing their love for Lord Krishna, now tika-marked and prasad-filled. I passed the Qutb Ccomplex walls, the evening light highlighting Iltutmish’s tomb in jannatic light. Buses pounded on the road beside me. Then a jump – in class. Petty shops gave way to high-end boutiques. Sheila Lediess Dresses gave way to Satya Paul. Curtains used to keep dust at bay gave way to doorkeeps guarding AC-enclosed halls. I walked on. Valets lounged about where a few hundred metres behind bovine courts were held. It was mind-boggling. Dresses, lehengas, fabrics worth lakhs replaced headphones at a discount, biscuits with 30% extra and fresh cuts of meat. No sign of QR codes stuck on walls here. Restaurants with ‘Qutb’ somewhere in their name offered delicious wine

Read Part 7: Zafar's Absent Grave by clicking here Once I got over my sense of disappointment and sadness over the state of Zafar Mahal, I repeated the Maps process and settled in for a long-distance walk to the intriguingly named Bhool Bhoolaiya. Wading through courses that were labelled ‘main road’ – often footpaths that merged into houses, temples, stores, and parking lots beside them, I finally reached a wider-ish road. I term this road ‘wide’ because I had space to dodge traffic. Here there was a slight difference in the chowk setup. There was a police station, bhelpuri stands, sugarcane juice sellers, municipal offices, and buses! I had chanced upon Mehrauli Central bus station. Beside it, a Lord Krishna jagran blasted out of sanctified speakers. Opposite it was a typical Lodhi Gardens style tomb, though it was built during the Mughal reign. Again not the ‘bhool bhoolaiya’ I had in mind, but it would do. Adam Khan was a general of Akbar and this was his tomb. It got such