Coming across idols from the 60/70s, one could feel having lost a track of our society's progression...what 80s and 90s came up with was the image of a cosmopolitan brute, quite another universe from the likes of then-existing gods - Bowie, Beatles, and Bond. For a scholarly discussion to its roots, please get in touch with not-me.
So it happens I had another unstable weekend, and it was exciting in the latter half, halfway-exciting in the former half, and somewhere in between the two jumps I lost a track of my life and lay googling, and ogling, and doodling.
It was reformatory, but a wrong reform in the context of my vastly potential life that everybody finds could be well spent in the sterile and formal corridors of our always-hot industries. Who distracts himself with soul food? Who finds time for nature? Who tries fingering death on a weekend? Who finds the world? Who thinks about the world?, ultimately, Who thinks?
With the mental grease off, I could help myself with some facts. At 1430 we think of moving out. At 1440 I start with some movie on Varun's laptop. At 1600-ish we're done with another hour and a half of hollywood inanitites; we dig out and feast on some peanut butter in the meantime, jump gently. Finally we mutually help dragging each other out in the open, beyond those doors. And we move for the greener climes in the distance - it's a reservoir/dam that we've to get to; it should be the East/South-East direction that Varun presently points towards.
On the bike, and off the slacking. We drive on for 15 minutes before feeling lost (the roads are there, but Varun's unsure); asking around gives us unsure remarks about the existence of that place. "Directions to the dam, please" soon changes its general form to "Directions to behind that cliff, please" ... we were using our instincts to map the location to our present position, which would put it right behind the cliff next to us. (In under the next hour we'd learn we couldn't have done worse - well, blame it on Varun.) We change directions from what the locals tell us. We tear out from the hustle bustle, and now are slowly winding along a dirt track that boasts of some horrible mud patches that could kill our journey. We enter and exit small villages, and by the time we're hesitant of going deeper in, we're almost there, as we find out from a stoned villager. Some of the worst roads, and we land up by a quarry - work on hold here on a Sunday.
A teenage kid Imtiaz sleeping atop a white, minivan-sized generator watches over the orange bulldozer, while the operator himself takes a dip down there in a pool inside the quarry. We exchange words, gather intel on the directions and surprises that lay along our path, and start our trek with a rough steep climb onto the hill that the quarry itself has eaten into. THE END.
When you climb to the top of the mountain
Look out over the sea
Think about the places perhaps, where a young man could be
Then you jump back down to the rooftops
Look out over the town
Think about all of the strange things circulating round
For once you see me not with the eyes of their eyes and speak to me not with the words they pieced for you. As terrible as you are, as unimaginative as you are, as goody goody as you never were, but it all works. There are things that stir, lips that form a smile, and a crescendo is reached midway - it could've worked no better, let me assure you.
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