The word “polymath” teeters somewhere between Leonardo da Vinci and Stephen Fry. Embracing both one of history’s great intellects and a brainy actor, writer, director and TV personality, it is at once presumptuous and banal. Djerassi doesn’t want much to do with it. “Nowadays people that are called polymaths are dabblers—are dabblers in many different areas,” he says. “I aspire to be an intellectual polygamist. And I deliberately use that metaphor to provoke with its sexual allusion and to point out the real difference to me between polygamy and promiscuity.".
Its 2 am. despite being ultra mobile for the entire day, I don't feel sleepy. The last movement of the day saw me out, at 9pm, to Noida to catch up with the C, then heading back, at midnight, to the far end of Delhi to abode of the Y - where I now am - to make it by 0130am, totaling about 60k on the bike*, that too with a heavy backpack. Before that I was looking forward to a night of libations, which sadly didn't happen; so I just busied myself doing the dishes until bro returned. I had just been back from a ghoom at Chandni Chowk, in search of randomness - and needless to say I was suitably rewarded. Prior to that I was a part of the spirited lunch conversation and ideation about present and future prospects of travel with the A&A- which had a silver lining in the form of a (slim) commitment by all, for the Annapurna circuit next summer.
And to think that earlier I had been cursing myself at a late start to the morning, declaring dead all hopes for an eventful day. Just another 3 hours, and then tennis, followed by a long day in places with shady sounding names. The weekend's still young.
*bicycle
Tricked, by the S, who gave me a tumbler containing his freshly extracted and bloody bladder stones.
Treated, by the M, who gave me chocolates and promise for a lot more.
My cerebral tubes are probably choked with Manchurian, Chaap, and Shahi Paneer, in multiple servings to satiate this evening's foodie that had been eager to attend his first wedding of the season. Finally, after committing to two other weddings (as a guest), where the wedding couple itself broke off commitments prematurely, I get one to attend in all fanfare. Disclaimer, that being in my league means almost commenting from a cave - social events are rare, rarer still are the ones I do attend.
One thing for sure, is that being abandoned is no fun (aka being a guest on behalf of yourself, as against the earlier routine when it was the parents we used to tag with and everything used to be 'on behalf of' them). I am newly-abandoned, so I could be led to confuse my unethusiastic impulse for inexperience, and linger on in the hope that there is some silver lining. But really, the only silver lining, as I've come to find is just that palpitational feeling of rubbing shoulder with lardbags in suit.
There is the assurance of food, if nothing else, but trust me, I feel like going on a pilgrimage every time I return from a wedding - not to forget the paradoxical situation of my stomach the next few days, that will not let me leave home. The course of 6 meals accommodated over a single hour is brutal for anybody, regardless of whether they deny it.
This guy, has his eating quirks - still no different from 12yr olds who are ignorant of propriety, skipping main course to accommodate more space for ice cream... which nets me even more lubber than I think.
Of note:
- New fat deposits. They will be useful WTSHTF.
- Dysmorphic body structures.
- People growing into their parents. But I hold negligible appreciation for any parents (mine included) in the first place. So this adaptation is of little use.
- The era of silence, when silence dominates congregations, is still faraway.
It has been 18 hours that I've had anything to eat, and the same that I've locked myself in muteness. This is not my usual recluse in the Delhi apartment - I'm surrounded by the people called family, in my hometown of Lucknow, under assault by tastes that unlock some primal corner, and yet this is how my past 18 hours have been. My vision starts to feel blurred as a particular set of glands prove their existence, an emotion so alien that i make my way out to the open rooftop to tame this new level of emotion; my eyes hurt, and it's not the treatise on chronosynclastic infundibula to cause that, for a change.
I am alone, and I feel like it, for a rare time, in a very intense way. The vision of my world is just that, mine, and I panic. I know you won't be there.
"I can't help it," I said. "My soul knows my meat is doing bad things, and is embarrassed. But my meat just keeps right on doing bad, dumb things."
"You and your what?" he said.
"My soul and my meat," I said.
"They're separate?" he said.
"I sure hope they are," I said. I laughed. "I would hate to be responsible for what my meat does."
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