Vissable Views

Archive for August, 2010

Is what my girlfriend says, a progressive woman with rather rigid conceptions of male beauty, she strongly disapproves of anything that says, normal. My lack of tattoos notwithstanding she nevertheless, manages to foist upon me something that an Italian gigolo with no sense of self would reject  out of shame. It’s all I can do to save my khaki cargoes and denims from being burnt outright. If I want to look like something that just stepped out of the African bush, she says, she would rather not be seen with me at all. Which is fine by me because we are in india, where it pays to keep your flings to yourself, and so I end up in khaki cargoes and bush shirts.

Well its true, money does make the world go round as someone who was sponsored pretty much all the way to college, the pinch is quite acute. No longer can  have as extra piece of chicken and not worry about the bill, or flush the toilet without a care for the water bill, or plumber’s fees, or taxes, or work , or oh well never mind. The fact is money is not something that I’ll ever need too much of, no matter what I do, stuffing it in ridiculously shaped receptacles or jam in into a bank account, it always flies off.

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Not many people today appreciate the simple pleasures of life life being able to walk and doing your own chores, the immense satisfaction of these acts coming as it did after a crippling tussle with a schoolbus in a hurry, can be quite overwhelming. Not to sound like a world war 2 veteran but, we do too take for granted these everyday phenomena. Never do we stop to ask ourselves if we deserve this privilege and are we entitled to abuse it by jogging or training for a marathon.

Nostalgia is best expressed In sepia, the gloomy discordant colour of fondness for better days, and sorrow for their passing. My favourite pastime during childhood was in the library of a girls college where my mother is a librarian, like a dragon who sleeps on her treasures my mother rarely allowed anyone access to the sacred archives, A privilege that I abused as often as I could. Stuffing an ancient print of Rudyard Kipling’s Kim down my back only to wonder at the rash I got from god knows what strange insect taking exception to the sudden mishandling of what it considered to all intents and purposes, its home. Wrapping a cotton hanky around my face and excavating strange tomes in german, finding my very first copy of the adventures of tom sawyer behind a set of Sanskrit treatises on the Ramayana.