Recently, while on an intra-explanatory, inter-critical and introspective streak which generally involves many in my convoluted and erratic socio-cyber circle, there were all sorts of nonsensical arguments doing the rounds in the numbness of this head we all so proudly share! And, as such silent and galvanic environments allow, we were all on each other, rather than about each other. "You're a despo, frustoo, aint-got-my-due gonna-be homicidal maniac". This was a universal tippani that surfaced out of that hour long exchange that revolved around each of our lives, naturally females and the ghosts that kept this world alive <nudge-nudge-wink-wink>. So, the toll that had been taken sometime a year ago inevitably has a psychological impact strong enough to reflect even on my social psyche... Not that these tippanis did not find their ways towards me before, it is almost an opinion now, as far the my topic is considered. "What a miser!", "Arse!", "Get something to live please..." and other suggestions, but is it just sarcastic, a jovial arse-kicking contest, where of course, winning is against the rules? I found out, or hope to substantiate, myself at least, about this glaring impasse, that my graduation stint has come to be!
Constant bickering, like a bug in a cobweb, like a guy who hasn't been fed sense for an eternity! It was a distinctive and often contentious side of human perspective. Perception. It gets you all sorts of trouble and accidental rewards. You never know you are right. Its a realm of absolution, where you often say m-words to criticism. Ethical definition may differ, and there is every chance that someone comes after me for so conveniently contorting facts and giving my wretched theory, but m** ch*****! Anyhow, and the subject of damnation is Introspection. My attempts, about which I am profoundly apologetic, to write about what exactly stirs me up, or has been stirring me up has been met with sympathy and not empathy. Its a grievous error, a conflict of rationale, a miscommunication of all things, but there's that. Introspection makes you look weak. One of them, with whom the conversation was separate (you know who you are, sir!) even suggested in a prophet-like trance, "Make it a life worth living!". I was almost demented. WTF!?! No on the spot clarification on my part because, just look at the crap I have written. Abstruse and Irrelevant. Isn't there enough muck to clear up in lives of people, and hardly anybody wants more muck raking, when surfing is supposed to soothe you, invigorate you? Though, its beyond thanking, it feels like a blessing to have such enlightening souls around me, who are ready to spank me when I am not myself.
I also blame it, in which I am developing a proficiency of late, on the type of fiction I am consuming. Vikram Seth. Gawd! He kicks ass. Of course, he is a bisexual. The Key-Word here is bisexual. Not a homosexual, as he is famed, after signing on petitions, and being vocal about the euphoria he portrays in each of his works. This guy is hallucinating. His descriptions are vivid, ethereal and deeply emotional. As Khushwant Singh says, "Material Nobel Laureates are made of..." Now, as I help focusing myself back on the din that Delhi is and the din that my dwellings are, I find that utopic, but what a utopia! No social engagements, my social presence in my insti (NIT Rourkela, or whatever!) is hardly countable, and neck deep into musing, Seth, writing for a mag of my own, and cheating on purposes I swore by ten minutes before I sat down to fill my roll number on that AIEEE question booklet, I had little to hold on to. Occasional phone calls from my folks and rarely from my cash-stripped friends all over this country was all the distraction I had from the mundane life there. Even events like, the warden, dubbed as the Shepherd of the First Years beaten by a drunk-passout of our insti, hardly aroused anything more pronounced that a sleepy "Wow" from me. I really, really missed that aimless wandering at any place around and in Delhi. Nostalgia, romanticism etcetera.
Of recent, when I have been back, I have quarreled more times with guards than with any of my folks. The occassional visit to any public hangout rises more doubts than belief on the average conscience of the common man. What does Delhi have for breakfast???
Constant bickering, like a bug in a cobweb, like a guy who hasn't been fed sense for an eternity! It was a distinctive and often contentious side of human perspective. Perception. It gets you all sorts of trouble and accidental rewards. You never know you are right. Its a realm of absolution, where you often say m-words to criticism. Ethical definition may differ, and there is every chance that someone comes after me for so conveniently contorting facts and giving my wretched theory, but m** ch*****! Anyhow, and the subject of damnation is Introspection. My attempts, about which I am profoundly apologetic, to write about what exactly stirs me up, or has been stirring me up has been met with sympathy and not empathy. Its a grievous error, a conflict of rationale, a miscommunication of all things, but there's that. Introspection makes you look weak. One of them, with whom the conversation was separate (you know who you are, sir!) even suggested in a prophet-like trance, "Make it a life worth living!". I was almost demented. WTF!?! No on the spot clarification on my part because, just look at the crap I have written. Abstruse and Irrelevant. Isn't there enough muck to clear up in lives of people, and hardly anybody wants more muck raking, when surfing is supposed to soothe you, invigorate you? Though, its beyond thanking, it feels like a blessing to have such enlightening souls around me, who are ready to spank me when I am not myself.
I also blame it, in which I am developing a proficiency of late, on the type of fiction I am consuming. Vikram Seth. Gawd! He kicks ass. Of course, he is a bisexual. The Key-Word here is bisexual. Not a homosexual, as he is famed, after signing on petitions, and being vocal about the euphoria he portrays in each of his works. This guy is hallucinating. His descriptions are vivid, ethereal and deeply emotional. As Khushwant Singh says, "Material Nobel Laureates are made of..." Now, as I help focusing myself back on the din that Delhi is and the din that my dwellings are, I find that utopic, but what a utopia! No social engagements, my social presence in my insti (NIT Rourkela, or whatever!) is hardly countable, and neck deep into musing, Seth, writing for a mag of my own, and cheating on purposes I swore by ten minutes before I sat down to fill my roll number on that AIEEE question booklet, I had little to hold on to. Occasional phone calls from my folks and rarely from my cash-stripped friends all over this country was all the distraction I had from the mundane life there. Even events like, the warden, dubbed as the Shepherd of the First Years beaten by a drunk-passout of our insti, hardly aroused anything more pronounced that a sleepy "Wow" from me. I really, really missed that aimless wandering at any place around and in Delhi. Nostalgia, romanticism etcetera.
Of recent, when I have been back, I have quarreled more times with guards than with any of my folks. The occassional visit to any public hangout rises more doubts than belief on the average conscience of the common man. What does Delhi have for breakfast???
