18th October 2008
Time: Twilight
Place: Sylvan Woods, Near Ethereal Waters, Opp. Salvation Cove
Where am I now? Oh yes, Michael came home with a number - Prof. Fiesty's number. Not Michael the Sacristan, but Michael from Bandukwalla Bldg. God alone knows why I'm writing about him here? Perhaps, I just want to fill some space here. Mom's in the kitchen - washing her face, and trying hard not to interfere in the phone conversation right now in progress. I think she's trying hard. Fact of the matter is I don't know for sure.
The station looked like a toy station yesterday. I can see those yellow lines dotting its sides. Standing alongside the platform, actually. People are so listless. I think they're fed up of waiting for the train. I guess they're fed up of waiting for anything that comes or is to come their way. My thoughts want to go blank. But my mind wants to think. It rambles on. I was in the Sacristy today morning. Fr. Symbolic stood there near the dressing table, reading the gospel. He's thin, has a stubble and is one of those fellows whose accent lends them to the hope that they might err in their grammar as they grope in the dark for a proper English sentence. However, as they keep talking, you realize they know their way well and stumble perhaps, once or twice. The statue of St. Joseph looks fairer than I thought it was. Oh I am cheating. That wasn't what I thought when I was in the Sacristy. Let me see. I must go abroad. Why am I talking about going abroad? Yes, I know. Glory mentioned abroad in her telephonic conversation.
I am tired.
My neck hurts. I am thinking of Countess Generosa now. I see her dressed in her jeans and a t-shirt. The t-shirt's light brown. And she looks simple and innocent. She's walking in that usual attractive manner and I think this walking is happening at Borivali station. I can see the dull white pillars of that station trying their best to look sad. And there's the weighing machine - colourful and so bright, it hurts the eye. It hurts my eyes for sure. My stomach's growling. I think I need to go to the loo. A listless feeling pervades my shoulders. They are tired and want to sit down. But then I cannot get my shoulders to sit down. Who will do their job then? Tch, I am so bored. I want to throw everything away and get lost. I don't know where. I think I'll take Countess Generosa along. But she has her career. I cannot make her sacrifice that. I think I'll wait a while then. And then I'll throw away all. You know, just take it in my hand - take all in my hand and throw it away.
I see myself in the train on the way to Vasai Road. I can see the creek and the railings that fence the bridge and the tracks and the train in. The water ripples along as it flows below and the train just hurtles along. I can feel the wind in my hair. That's such a cheesy expression, wind in my hair. As if the wind is in my hair. The wind just throws my hair behind. I don't have that much hair to even use the expression. It's not as if my hair sways back and rustles at the back of my head as I sit in the train. It just flutters near my parting and then decides to sit down all over again.
I am tired.
How many times am I going to write about my being tired. I think I'll just get up and get going. Time to dress and go for that interview at Andheri East. XXXX called me. Let's see what they have to offer. And I want to keep writing rather than get up and get ready. I feel so comfortable writing. It's as if I have nothing else to do. It's as if this is all I want to do. But no one pays you enough to keep writing. Infact, no one pays you to write this way. They'll label it trash and into the bin it'll go. Well, what must I say? Need I have an opinion on that?
XXXX's office looks splendid. The glass doors stood silently as they let people in and out. I walked in yesterday and sat in one of those icy glassy cubicles. I gave a test. I want a job, so I gave that test. It's so testy and so irritating. Everywhere you go, you need to sit - not even stand - and type, or write a test. Evidently, no one believes a resume - even if you write it honestly. So when they say, "Carry a resume along," they simply imply they're following protocol. Actually, they don't mean to read that bloody document at all. They'll have their own ways of evaluating you irrespective of the fact that the company you are working with did evaluate you and then hired you.
Sigh.
This world has lost its chance to make love to me. All it needs is proof. Proof of experience. Proof of tragedy. Proof of salary. Proof of God alone knows what.
This world has lost its own inhabitant - Me. And since the ticket to Mars and Venus is a tad too expensive, I think I'll remain lost here for a long long time to come.
Time: Twilight
Place: Sylvan Woods, Near Ethereal Waters, Opp. Salvation Cove
Where am I now? Oh yes, Michael came home with a number - Prof. Fiesty's number. Not Michael the Sacristan, but Michael from Bandukwalla Bldg. God alone knows why I'm writing about him here? Perhaps, I just want to fill some space here. Mom's in the kitchen - washing her face, and trying hard not to interfere in the phone conversation right now in progress. I think she's trying hard. Fact of the matter is I don't know for sure.
The station looked like a toy station yesterday. I can see those yellow lines dotting its sides. Standing alongside the platform, actually. People are so listless. I think they're fed up of waiting for the train. I guess they're fed up of waiting for anything that comes or is to come their way. My thoughts want to go blank. But my mind wants to think. It rambles on. I was in the Sacristy today morning. Fr. Symbolic stood there near the dressing table, reading the gospel. He's thin, has a stubble and is one of those fellows whose accent lends them to the hope that they might err in their grammar as they grope in the dark for a proper English sentence. However, as they keep talking, you realize they know their way well and stumble perhaps, once or twice. The statue of St. Joseph looks fairer than I thought it was. Oh I am cheating. That wasn't what I thought when I was in the Sacristy. Let me see. I must go abroad. Why am I talking about going abroad? Yes, I know. Glory mentioned abroad in her telephonic conversation.
I am tired.
My neck hurts. I am thinking of Countess Generosa now. I see her dressed in her jeans and a t-shirt. The t-shirt's light brown. And she looks simple and innocent. She's walking in that usual attractive manner and I think this walking is happening at Borivali station. I can see the dull white pillars of that station trying their best to look sad. And there's the weighing machine - colourful and so bright, it hurts the eye. It hurts my eyes for sure. My stomach's growling. I think I need to go to the loo. A listless feeling pervades my shoulders. They are tired and want to sit down. But then I cannot get my shoulders to sit down. Who will do their job then? Tch, I am so bored. I want to throw everything away and get lost. I don't know where. I think I'll take Countess Generosa along. But she has her career. I cannot make her sacrifice that. I think I'll wait a while then. And then I'll throw away all. You know, just take it in my hand - take all in my hand and throw it away.
I see myself in the train on the way to Vasai Road. I can see the creek and the railings that fence the bridge and the tracks and the train in. The water ripples along as it flows below and the train just hurtles along. I can feel the wind in my hair. That's such a cheesy expression, wind in my hair. As if the wind is in my hair. The wind just throws my hair behind. I don't have that much hair to even use the expression. It's not as if my hair sways back and rustles at the back of my head as I sit in the train. It just flutters near my parting and then decides to sit down all over again.
I am tired.
How many times am I going to write about my being tired. I think I'll just get up and get going. Time to dress and go for that interview at Andheri East. XXXX called me. Let's see what they have to offer. And I want to keep writing rather than get up and get ready. I feel so comfortable writing. It's as if I have nothing else to do. It's as if this is all I want to do. But no one pays you enough to keep writing. Infact, no one pays you to write this way. They'll label it trash and into the bin it'll go. Well, what must I say? Need I have an opinion on that?
XXXX's office looks splendid. The glass doors stood silently as they let people in and out. I walked in yesterday and sat in one of those icy glassy cubicles. I gave a test. I want a job, so I gave that test. It's so testy and so irritating. Everywhere you go, you need to sit - not even stand - and type, or write a test. Evidently, no one believes a resume - even if you write it honestly. So when they say, "Carry a resume along," they simply imply they're following protocol. Actually, they don't mean to read that bloody document at all. They'll have their own ways of evaluating you irrespective of the fact that the company you are working with did evaluate you and then hired you.
Sigh.
This world has lost its chance to make love to me. All it needs is proof. Proof of experience. Proof of tragedy. Proof of salary. Proof of God alone knows what.
This world has lost its own inhabitant - Me. And since the ticket to Mars and Venus is a tad too expensive, I think I'll remain lost here for a long long time to come.
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