Sitting Alone In A Pune Pub

Waiting, stood up, on a hot March afternoon.
The sangria slides down easily.
A waterfall of wine dowses the tongue, rushing to make good the wasted time, cool down the parched throat.

The parched heart too? Now I’m just begging for sympathy.

The Wakad v. Warje debate on the only other table seems more interesting than force writing this poem. But such is life, and one has given up to it. Alcohol on hot summer afternoons, now humid due to climate change, aided by damned offers. Thus is life. Thus it is given meaning.

Unemployed. Unplanned. Unloved. That’s the story of this old ‘un. Such a story that every unrecognized English song on the pub playlist tugs at your chordae tendineae. Yeah. I learnt bio.

Back to this attempt. The random breeze that flows through this unfanned outdoor seating sweetens the sangria. The random flittering butterfly brings a smile. The hospitality assistants staring at this lone dude downing glasses gives them a thing to talk about. At least someone is talking about me. A “cheers” to myself and away it goes.

So what does an aspiring writer at the age of 28 have to write about? Will he become a successful writer? Does he want to be one? And the now prose turns the verbatim 360 degrees to my affliction all over again: Decisions. Decisions. Responsibility. Finances.

Déjà vu.

At such times it would be so comfortable to believe we are a program. Predestination exists. Existentialism sux. I want to be irresponsible in the non-existentialist sense. Accept the consequences but disregard them while acting. That may be true living.

The sun wanes into the dusky skies and the rain clouds now command the firmament. Neither care who gets sunlight, who gets water. They exist. They live. They die. I want to be the sun and the clouds and be recreated every morn and die every night. Disregarding what my actions resulted in. But accepting that I have expended a few more helium atoms soon to doom me or those last few water molecules which killed me. The insurance business is a lie.

The rhythm of life can be enjoyed only if the notes are in harmony. But as all subjective things, what is harmony?
The sigh of regret.
The sigh of a lover.
The sigh of a babe.
The sigh of a shared story.
The sigh of a good meal.
The sigh of a content vacation.
The sigh of happiness.
The sigh of every moment such that the breath hangs heavily and lightly as a different note on the song you write for your life. That is harmony. And that will make your life enjoyable. But to write that song, do you have the courage? I want to. I can. What is stopping me? This glass of sangria.

The sigh of sangria is the most seductive.