Black

A black horse off Central Avenue isn't a common sight on a Sunday afternoon. And having an equally black naked man following on the heels of the black horse is rarer still.

I wish Otter were around. That'd have made for a prize-winning photo.

Lizzy sighted

I saw the underside of a lizard's head today. I mistook it for a pointy strip of white painted metal at first, till I saw it moving. I think lizzy had swallowed an insect right then, kop kore.

Green Box Life

I'll soon be moving into a place of my own. It's a little box. A cute box. And to mark the occasion, I'm starting another blog: The Green Box Life. Do drop by sometime.

N.B.: But GGG will carry on anyway, with or without the new blog.

Lullaby to me

Going to keep this short. I'm supersleepy and greatly addicted to Typing Maniac on FB. I'm not even terribly good at it. I've been cranky and spaced out for much of the evening. Now, I feel better. I wish the buses would not be so crowded. I'm getting a little tired of worrying about commutes. A cat turned at my mew today. And I saw people playing chess below the Gariahat flyover, just beside the loo. Some blogger had written about it a year back - either Dreamy or Onnesha I think. Well, I've finally seen it. I'm not hungry, but I feel like some chips or momos about now. Nite nite.

In search of a bear hug

Sometimes, I feel superior to everyone else. Happens pretty often. It's not always a wonderful feeling, but it's not terrible either.

People advise. But you don't want it. People sympathise. But you don't want that either. People try to get into your shoes - but hell, it's not one size fits all.

There are stories and there are stories. Some aren't mine to tell. Some are, but I don't want to tell them - not to everyone, maybe not even to anyone. So many stories, and yet the ones you record, aren't quite real. Fiction is so much happier and just than real life - so much easier to understand.

I wish my father were Baloo the Bear. But he's not. And life goes on.

Tea

There's something special about earthen pots and ginger tea - something that goes missing in the mug. Except that one time on a bandh day when the chaiwala puts his all into pleasing his solitary group of customers with the steaming brown liquid in a dettol-washed glass.

The bhaanrs are so hot to touch, that all concentration is on not dropping the tea - you don't want to get scalded. You blow softly over the surface, wondering if some khaari biscuits with coconut stuffing could be an add-on. You sip slowly, gingerly, taking care not to burn your tongue. The sips get larger, till you're left emptying the contents down your throat. And then you tilt the bhaanr and strain for the last drop.

It's peaceful.

There should be more things like this.

Untitled

What's great about a blog, is that if you word it right, no one will guess what you're really talking about. I guess, the written word does offer a sense of privacy that the spoken one tends to take away.

Yesterday I entered a condom store and emerged out with a bed pan. Today I spoke to a man who feels like a woman.

It's been an eventful month minus the value judgements.

PS: Today's my 1-year anniversary. Gifts are welcome. Cash please.

PSS: Also the famous Chomu Kunda's budday.