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the heat

heat. heat  is everywhere.

the skin burns and eyes cower...

With every breath of the sun, the curtains beg to be taken further inside the room. They flare and spread themselves in appeal. But then swiftly the relatively cooler winds of the home, throw them back to their guarding positions - the in between world of negotiations. the world between the hospitable world of inside and the savage world of outside. and yet, the heat is everywhere.

The little home is not crowded. and yet, it seems as if books are shaking and pushing away the neighboring books. The used clothes lying carelessly on the spare bed are un-crumpling themselves and spreading themselves to cool off. Heap over heap of clothes to be washed. Books upon books, that are yet to be read. The heat is evaporating the will to engage with challenging thoughts and acts.
These days, the sour, dour magazines are going straight to a corner of the room that has no future. The corner is a mini black hole of significance. things that go there, never register in anyone's conscience ever.

The heat is everywhere. Outside on the streets of Gurgaon, invisible men of gurgaon's past are shoveling hot dust onto people passing by. The Audis, the BMWs, the two wheel drivers... none are spared.

The heat is everywhere. so is alcohol, but not water. There's no other town in India where no animal or bird surprises you midway in the man made flow of everyday-ness. Life itself has taken flight away in search of greener pastures it seems: Apart from us humans, who have turned life into a transact-able paper.

Oh snow capped mountains, when do we meet again?


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Scroll Scroll Scoll..
Catch yourself slipping away.

Deep  breath. 

Close the browser. silence the mobile and turn it away.

Open an offline-real-paper diary. Stop your thighs from lolling impatiently. Stay still. 

Pick up a pen awkwardly. ahh, the fingers are stiff. It will take a  while for them to get used to holding a pen. Quick finger exercise - open the palm, stretch finger outwards, close into a fist, dig the fingers in. Repeat.
Ok now.. about to pick up the pen again, but eyes dart towards the screen. Tempted to check email.

Shut up. The last consequential email came two months ago. Nothing of consequence is online.

Pick up the pen. Don't fetishize the object now. Get on with it. Put it on paper, write a word and start it already. If I get to a sentence, perhaps I will get into a flow and won't have to look up from the paper at all. 

One sentence later.

Ahh. That was good. I am feeling good about myself. The sentence makes sense. …