Early Morning Musings Part 4

 

                                                                        I

 

            Dropping bombs must have been either very terrifying if you are ridden with a conscience, or very pretty if not, especially if you are high on patriotism. Imagine flying a huge metal pipe through black flak mushrooms, zigzagging through death like a two-wheeler in Pune, and as you make a U-turn back home, marvel at your doing. Little orange flowers, spreading like fireworks across a black earth. Brick and flesh bursting fountains of smoke. Whoever said “Death is an art” was surely a part of the bomber crew.

 

                                                                        II

 

            The wind is a liar. It promises freedom – a scent from the sea, coldness from the mountains, a feather or leaf from the East, the fresh petrichor from the West. Blasts you full in the face, freeing the hair, flying the beard, ringing the ears, releasing the heart and lungs from their bony prison. The wind is a liar, for it brings promise, seduces the mind. Then leaves us bereft, like a lover who promised eternity. And we are left standing in the sweat, stifling heat, and the pessimism of the week to come.

            Then that liar comes again.

 

                                                                        III

 

            Having messy hair while drinking early into the morning really amplifies the ‘feel’ (not the feeling) of drunkenness. Shabbiness, untidiness, really act as a perfect surrogate to experience the penury of ‘poor drunken souls’ in the comfort of privilege. It might be compared to blackface.

            If not, sue me, I’m drunk.

 

                                                                        IV

 

            I appreciate hangovers. As they (‘they’ being a convenient generic blame all, attribute all, ibid., etc) say, the greatest joy is when there is a corresponding sadness, not necessarily acting on the same body, though in this case, it is. Mercantilist capitalism at its best. Given that getting very drunk renders neural memory linkages useless and even severed, how do you even know you had a good time? The corresponding suffering! A good hangover makes you appreciate the night before even more. Legend-wait for it-dary!

            What is even better is the add-on joy of breaking the self-promise of “I will never drink so much again.” It is a hidden joy, like a landmine, which adds intensity to the subsequent hangover that steps on it. It is like a FD which matures just at the right time to spend, but needs to be paid a random tax for.

            Hangovers are good. They remind one of mortality. And one needs to enjoy AND suffer. Hangovers complete the circle of life. Alcohol makes you live, hangovers kill you. After a certain number of reincarnations even the Buddha will grant you Nirvana.

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                        V

 

            God bless banyans (or as you so-called cultured people like to call it, vest/undershirt). Cotton, breathable, cooling, covering just enough, decent enough to be lounging-in at home, or going down to pick-up the forgotten phone in the car. Banyans are perfect.

            They get a bad rep due to ads and brand names. Despite being unadorned, they are functional. They absorb sweat with the freedom and dignity of the unseen bureaucrat who keeps your water, electricity, and railways running. I would argue that not wearing one is bestial, but then some other 21^st century rights group (probably justifiably) would be at my throat.

            Let’s conclude with a banyan appreciation haiku:

 

                                    Cool me, winter breeze.
                                    White, made of cotton, and cheap.
                                    Thank you, dear banyan.

                                                           

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