Too miserable to write.

Can't write. Jimmy's gone, and it's pretty much the worst feeling ever. Ever.

Just wanted to say a big thanks to CUPA, for rescuing and treating the strays of Bangalore. It's a wonderful organisation that really respects life. They deserve all the help they can get. If you're a dog-lover in Bangalore, here's where you can contact them.

You bring the noise/ And I'll bring the smile.

Courtesy Numb's wanderings in the land of the Dalai Lama.

Oh no, not me/ We never lost control.

The only Nirvana track that truly got to me was The Man Who Sold The World, and that's probably because it was a cover. Otherwise I'm fairly cold to Kurt Cobain, in a way that makes me quite an exception from the rest of my generation.

Was quite intrigued by the suicide, though. The note's below. (Click here if you'd like to read it yourself.) Addressed to his imaginary childhood friend, Boddah. Quoting Neil Young. Mentioning Freddie Mercury. Apologising, describing, making one last attempt to make sense.

Was strangely intrigued by it. ( After all, how many suicide notes does one read? Not many, I hope.)

Was equally drawn to the (many) surrounding versions of the truth. For instance, the Conspiracy. (Reason to believe? It's written by a private investiagator.) And the Reasonable Approach. (Reason to believe? Well, it's reasonable, isn't it?) And the Plea for Justice.

The newest version of his last days is a movie, apparently. Not the first. And, one can safely assume, unlikely to be the last.

Baby, you can drive my car/ Yes, I'm gonna be a star/ Baby, you can drive my car/ And maybe I'll love you.

I'm clueless about cars. And quite happy to be that way, too. But that doesn't keep me from plunging headlong into stuff like this.

Take the test; it's worth a few laughs. For example, it claims I'm a Porsche 911. (You have a classic style, but you're up-to-date with the latest technology. You're ambitious, competitive, and you love to win. Performance, precision, and prestige - you're one of the elite, and you know it.)

Moi?

You learn something new every day.

Wow, look at you now/ Flowers in the window.

Just because I'm not writing too much these days, doesn't mean I've lost my sense of humour. At least, not completely.

The quick guide to providing feedback, from McSweeney's.

I'll meet you on the other side/ I'll meet you in the light.

Think of it as blogging detox, but it's been almost two whole months since I fired up Blogger.

Highlights and lowlights of the stuff I did in the interim: Fell madly in love with Lush. Went to Goa. Read my first Zadie Smith.

Worried about my wrinkles and falling hair, thereby compounding the problem.

Saw KANK and Lage Raho Munnabhai. And RDB, Fanaa, and Bunty aur Babli, thus topping up my sadly-lacking Bollywood IQ.

Decided to take a sabbatical next year. Hennaed my hair (allegedly) black. Dog-sat. Watched Arsenal decimate Manchester United.

Acquired a set-top box, thus becoming the only person in the known universe to buy two of those in a two-year span. Renewed my car insurance, and swore to get my finances/ payments/ life in order.

Gave up on the Indian team for the zillionth time, even though they beat the West Indies quite bizarrely just a little while ago.

Listened almost exclusively to Travis, Keane, Oasis, and Coldplay on Pandora. Bunked work for a couple of days, realised it was almost blissful, and decided I hate my new job. Will be rectifying that situation pretty soon.

Bravely and single-handedly made huge contributions to Vijay Mallya's personal wealth. (He's seriously considering replacing the illustration of the bird on the bottle with my mug shot.)

The other stuff's either so boring, I don't remember it. Or so depressing, I'd rather not write about it.

Meet me halfway/ Across the sky.

The world is squarely divided into two kinds of women: The kind who beg the men in their lives to be more communicative. And those that know better.

This is the tragic fate of a poor bloke named Joseph Dobbie (Romeo), who met a girl called Kate Winsall (Juliet), and, being in touch with his articulate, communicative self, dashed this email off. Needless to say, it's a romantic missive that Juliet sent on to her sister, who sent it to all her friends, who... Oh, you know how it is; it's now been forwarded across the planet.

The result? Not only has poor Romeo been forced to change his home and mobile phone numbers, he also has to listen to the world at large sympathise/ criticise/ die laughing at him.

Beware the power of the net. Really.

Bones/ Sinking like stones.

Been in advertising too long to believe it makes a difference. But not long enough to ignore stuff like this!

She says we've gotta/ Hold on/ To what we've got.

All of yesterday, I blamed my lack of Blogspot access on my IT department. Assumed it was some crackdown on visits to non-work-related sites, notably pornography. And started composing (mentally, of course) a viciously polite email that would touch upon the importance of the freedom of expression, the internet as a medium for exchange of information/ ideas/ opinion, and blogs as a measure/indicator of 'buzz'. Fortunately, I was too snowed under with work to actually send off this missive.

This morning, I read the front page of the Economic Times and reeled. Apparently, I have DoT to thank for blocking access to my very own blogs -- blogs, whose only claim/ link to terror could be bad writing. Read on.

Terror Trail: Govt blanks out select blogs
SHOOTS OFF LETTER TO ISPs TO SHUT 17-18 SITES ACROSS THE COUNTRY

A week on, echoes of the serial blasts in Mumbai are being felt on the Net. In a hard hit at terrorists who blasted the life of some 180 Mumbaikars, the government — the ground beneath its feet shaking for its lackadaisical response to the carnage — has dealt a big blow. It has ordered the DoT to block blogs across the country. Cyberia, too, has been ripped apart indirectly by terrorists, most of who are incredibly tech-savvy and flash latest gadgets at the drop of a bomb.

DoT has sent a notice to Internet Service Providers (ISPs) to block around 17-18 websites. The department usually sends such notices of censorship only when it finds objectionable anti-national content or anything against public interest. But the government, going full blast in its zeal to do something to quell rising anger, has goofed big time by proscribing the MumbaiHelp blogspot, which acted as a lifeline after the blasts, giving information about critical numbers to contact and details about the dead and injured.

To compound the absurdity, it is still possible to get onto this site by logging on to www.pkblogs.com, a site set up by Pakistani bloggers to get around the blog ban that their government had put in place after the Danish cartoons episode. In short, thanks to this new policy, a blog to help the victims of a possibly Pakistan-inspired attack can only be accessed through a Pakistani site!

Lest Cyberia turn into Siberia, the online community is already up in arms against the new move. Experts believe that the government’s sudden move is aimed at thwarting the use of blogs and websites by terrorists and their supporters. Blogspot, a Google-owned site, is among those blocked.

Peter Griffin, one of the founders of the MumbaiHelp blog, points out that the government’s policy is particularly futile given the explosion of the blog universe. “Apart from free blogs like Blogspot, which is what the government seems to be targeting now, there are also private blogs which anyone can put on their site, and the blogs being run by media organisations like CNN and the Guardian. Is the government going to shut them all? It would probably be simpler for them to close the entire Internet business and then only allow select sites the way China is doing,” he said. Is this really the way India wants to go?

Domains also blocked to keep out blogs

Deepak Maheshwary, secretary of the Internet Service Provider Association of India (ISPAI), confirmed that most of the ISPs have received the DoT notice and have blocked these websites. He also added that some ISPs have not received the notice, but may get it on Tuesday.

The DoT sent the notice to all ISPs on Friday, and some of the ISPs have started blocking websites. Some websites were reported to be inaccessible. The process followed for blocking is as follows: The Computer Emergency Response Team (CERT-In) reports on the presence of websites or content which is anti-national or against public interest to the DoT. The latter then issues a notice to all ISPs, more than 100 across India, to block these websites.

Over the past six years, the DoT has blocked over 100 websites. Generally, a DoT notice has one or two names of websites to be blocked. This time, the notice had more than 17 names. The online community has started debating and criticising the decision. The online community also claims that some ISPs have blocked Blogspot. If the domain name is blocked by the ISPs, none of the websites on that domain can be accessed. Sources say, sometimes when the government gives a particular website or URL address to be blocked, it cannot be done unless the domain name is blocked. Consequently, ISPs have blocked access to all sites hosted by a provider.

Many of the ISPs could not be contacted for comment on the issue. Sify officials vehemently denied receiving any notice from DoT to block any site. They also denied that they have blocked any sites. Sources say the rationale for blocking these websites and blogs is to prevent foreign terrorists from communicating with the cells networks in India.


Sure, like anyone who has lived in Bombay for nearly thirty years, I've blogged about the blasts. Exchanged comments with friends and anonymous visitors. Returned visits. Checked out the points of view of many of my favourite bloggers. Dropped by the Mumbai Help site, and provided a link to it. Ditto for the CNN-IBN Light a Candle effort.

And I'm crushed that the government of the world's largest democracy sees fit to block access (paid internet access, that is) to blogs of my choice. It places India squarely among the likes of Pakistan and China. (Think I'm exaggerating? Log onto www.pkblogs.com Hell, if you're reading this, you probably have already.)

Other people have written about this, and written brilliantly. (Check this, and this, and -- my personal favourite -- this.) After all, it's no coincidence that bloggers across the country are continuing to do what they have always done -- sharing information, taking a stand, protesting, commenting, emailing, ...

And keeping the faith.

Consider this, consider this/ The hint of the century.

In the teeny, tiny chance that you might not have visited the CNN-IBN site already, please click here. It'll take you 30 seconds, and will generate relief money for the victims of the Bombay bomb blasts. Thank you.

What goes around/ Comes around.

If you've ever called Customer Support, this one's for you.

So sue me, I'm easily amused.

No clever title for this one. My head is quite empty of song.

One moment, the world (lip readers included) is wondering aloud if Materazzi called Zidane a terrorist. The next, terrorists are blowing up the city I've always considered my home, station by station.

Better people than I have written about it: Amit Varma is one, Desi Pundit will direct you to a host of others. People are helping: Mumbai Help is one such stop. And, inasmuch as there are answers in a situation like this, Suketu Mehta fields some questions on the bombings.

I was in college when the '93 bombings took place. And yesterday was such a bad flashback to that time. Trying to call, and not getting through.

In the random images that have flashed through my head, TV footage from last night mingles with odd fragments of memory. One such flash was the Salaam Bombay campaign that ran the day after the blasts.

I found these pics on agencyfaqs, Special Citation-winners at the Abbies in 1994:

And I found this post-9/11 piece by Vivek Kamath, who worked on the campaign at the country's hottest advertising shop then, Trikaya Grey:

A New York State of Mind

New York and Mumbai. Mumbai and New York. They have so much in common. Both cities are vertical in their architecture and in their ambition. Both have a phenomenal work ethic. And both are as vulnerable as an ice cube in a volcano.

Last week’s attack on New York brought back memories of Mumbai’s serial blasts in 1993.

Everyone has a story to tell about the blasts. Here’s mine: I was working at Trikaya Grey whose offices were at Kala Ghoda. When the stockmarket bombs went off, we heard a muffled thud and thought someone had dropped the photocopier on the mezzanine. Then, someone came in from lunch and said, people were bleeding on the street and stories of other blasts started doing the rounds. Some true, others unfounded. There were no mobile phones or Net connections then. The landlines were jammed by anxious family members and friends. After the riots of December 1992 and January 1993, fear covered the city like shroud.

But unlike December and January, these attacks were the handiwork of an outsider who was trying to destabilise Mumbai. And Mumbai refused to cower under the attack. In an overwhelming show of tenacity and resilience, the citizens of Mumbai pitched in to help the victims of the blasts. BEST buses doubled up as ambulances and sped the injured to the shelter of a hospital. Near the stock market, restaurant owners put up drums of drinking water. There were queues of blood donors at hospitals and by 9 pm, blood banks were full. Outside the passport office, people had formed a ring around the blast site and onset of set of volunteers helped the injured while one set diverted traffic.

One of Trikaya Grey’s clients was on his way home from the airport when he saw the devastation outside the passport office. But he also saw the spirit with which ordinary, everyday people were helping out. He got home and called Ravi Gupta (now no more but then the MD of Trikaya Grey). He told Mr. Gupta to do a campaign that saluted the spirit of this city. Use print, outdoor, radio, TV, T-shirts, buttons. Do what you must, he exhorted. But highlight these seemingly isolated instances of courage and bind them together in a campaign that unites the city and makes us proud to be a part of it.

But while he was willing to pick up the tab for the exercise, the client was clear that he did not want his logo on the campaign. He felt any ring of sponsorship around this message would smack off crass commercialization and dilute the message. Mr. Gupta called a meeting of six people (creative, client servicing and media) and briefed them. Don’t give me an “I love New York” kind of campaign, he said. I want pride, not love, he emphasized. He told us we would meet every two hours to review progress.

In less than 24 hours, the Salaam Bombay campaign was born. The strapline was It’s my Bombay. I’m proud of it. Billboards and print ads highlighted how, despite the serial blasts on Friday, there was 92% attendance in offices on Saturday. Of how trading resumed at the stock market on Monday. Armed with a blanket permission letter from the CM, six camera crews shot footage of the devastation and contrasted it with images of the city getting back on its feet. Kids at traffic lights sported Salaam Bombay T-Shirts. College kids distributed car stickers which motorists, for once, gladly put up.

The campaign made its point and sent out a signal. At least six multinats asked for copies they could send overseas so their headquarters knew Bombay was safe. Through it all, the man who initiated the entire exercise remained quietly in the background. But today, eight years later, I am taking the liberty of naming Mr. NS Sekhsaria of Gujarat Ambuja Cement.

Because as the destructive footage of last week’s events started to steam in. As economies collapsed and there was talk of war, I thought of Mr. Sekhsaria and I was filled with hope.

Because if New York and Mumbai have so much in common, there must be someone like Mr. Sekhsaria in New York. The world needs them right now. Quite, strong men of steel and vision, who always look at the silver lining. And think constructively even in the most destructive of times.

In these most destructive of times, my friends are safe. More than one has had the grace to wisecrack about working late saving their lives.

And, sure, the Bangalore I live in today seems a lifetime removed from the Bombay of 1992-93 -- with its curfews and unsettling undercurrent of violence, of maha aartis and staticky recordings of conversations over police scanners.

But I suppose that's just another illusion.

This could be heaven/ For everyone.

My mind has always been chockfull of obscure lyrics collected over the past 34 years. Post titles have been the only vaguely useful application of the stuff. So sue me, much of these lyric fragments date back to the dregs of 80s pop.

Imagine my utter delight when I found One Hit Wonders. Complete with radio station. Hence the title, cogged from Queen.

And I said/ What about/ Breakfast at Tiffany's?

One of those breezy Bangalore mornings that make it impossible to concentrate on work. So, I'm going to sit out on the balcony, read my PD James, and call my submerged friends in aamchi Mumbai.

Meanwhile, here's to beer.

You can call it lack if confidence/ But to carry on living doesn't make no sense.

England's out of the World Cup, and the blame game's on. Rooney. Cristiano Ronaldo. Eriksson. Beckham. Lampard. The list is quite endless.

Sure, it's a side that has never won a penalty shoot-out at the World Cup, but that's a fact that has drawn comment even before the tournament kicked off.

Go on as the British press will about the team being overrated and useless, the fact remains that they kept the Portuguese from scoring for all of sixty minutes when down to ten men. They had to trade in Joe Cole for Crouch, but they made it work. It could easily be argued that with a little bit of luck, it could be them facing France the day after.

Rooney deserved to be sent off. Kicking Carvalho in the balls deserved a red, with or without the friendly intervention of Cristiano Ronaldo.

And the amount of criticism levelled at Lampard is beyond belief. If I hear the phrase 'Runner-up for Footballer of the Year' once more, I'm going to hit someone. Sure, he's been disappointing this World Cup. But he was England's top scorer in the qualifiers. His 16 goals for Chelsea this season ('05-'06) are an EPL record for a midfielder. And, I'm afraid you don't get 26 shots at goal in six matches unless you're doing something right. (Compare that with, say, Rooney? Or, to take a broader view, Ballack?)

Besides, if billing mattered so much, just where does the winner of the title stand? No goals for Brazil for -- get this -- one whole year. And counting.

A little too ironic.

It's awards season in the advertising business. And I've just realised, that it's now two agencies that I've quit just when their fortunes turned the corner. No regrets, both times. But it certainly got me thinking.

The first of these places taught me everything I know about advertising: the art, the craft, the drinking-and-swearing. Taught me to respect work, not people. Compete, not be cowed down. Sheer, complete, utter fearlessness. And ruthlessness. Made me a damn good advertising person. And a slightly f*ked up human being.

The second was a lesson in what I don't like about this business. Visiting cards vs. intelligence. Egotism vs. understanding. Gutlessness. Mediocrity. 24/ 7 game-playing. And a focus on everything but the work. Got out of there as soon as I could.

They're doing well, both agencies. Making ads. Winning metal. Building reputations.

But the grass isn't greener. Ever.

Cellophane flowers/ Of yellow and green.

Voila: The Random Surrealism Generator. Since realism is so last year.

Who stole the soul from the sun/ In a world come undone at the seams?

Work is better than before. As is life in general. And the weather. And my frame of mind.

England's winning. Friends, family, and other animals are well. I'm getting more than my share of beer, and Breezers. Good books, and more-than-decent conversation.

Even He Who Has Not Scored Off A Zidane Pass In 54 Matches For France found the back of the net the night before last.

Basically, every single one of my usual stress-providers has either stayed the same, or improved a little over the past few weeks. Then, why the heck do I feel so strung-out?

Think it's boredom.

People will always/ Take the long way around.

Heart-broken about Drogba & Co. The Dutch were brutish (with the exception of Van Persie, for which we have to thank M. Wenger), and were under great pressure the second half. Stupid refereeing hardly helped. Neither does the fact that Drogba will be sitting out their next match.

Argentina was stunning. Fluid, artistic, and effortless in their Serbian massacre. Joga bonito, baby.

At least the English are through to the pre-quarters. Barely, to be sure, but that's a few zillion times better than the French. Les Bleus, like me, are not handling this age thing too well. However, unlike me, they insist on putting themselves and their country to shame by pottering around a football pitch cluelessly in front of thousands of fans. Their key weapon isn't Zizou, Henry, or Ribery, it's plain and simple boredom. And I can't even blame it all on Domenech.

So here we are, a week away from the Round of 16. And, if you're still having trouble getting into the World Cup mood, being a die-hard cricket fan, for instance, or perhaps, just blinkered -- here's a little help from the BBC.

I'm looking through you/ Where did you go?

So much airtime/ column space devoted to the World Cup, and yet it falls to li'l ol' moi to point out a few staggering resemblances:

Ashley Cole is a dead ringer for Karan Johar.

Wayne Rooney was separated in a mela from his identical twin, Shrek.

Miroslav Klose looks like John Cusack. (I've also believed that of John Lennon.)

And we live in a beautiful world/ Yeah, we do, yeah, we do.

Things I've done in the weeks since I moved back to Bangalore in lieu of posting to this blog:

1. Well and truly worked myself up about the World Cup. Now all is done: there's a Come on, England wallpaper on my computer, but my money's firmly on the Brazilians (with a teeny, tiny, dark horse bet on France, out of sheer love/ loyalty to Thierry Henry).

2. Fretted and fumed about losing hair. And died laughing at some of the solutions I've tried so far. Ranging from a month of Vitamin B supplements, prescribed by none other than my hair stylist; to a suspiciously Vicco Turmeric-like hair loss cream from Himalaya.

3. Cribbed about traffic in Bangalore, and generally told everyone I met that the city had gone down the toilet since I was last here. Never mind that I've only been away a year and a half.

4. Read a paragraph or two of my current book every spare second I could find. Football has, unfortunately, relegated my compulsive reading to second place, and I find myself dipping into Saturday the second the half-time whistle goes. I'm quite certain that I'm doing the brilliant Ian McEwan a tremendous disservice, but, hey, a girl will do what she must.

5. Begun to reclaim this city, one beer at a time.

And so it is/ Just like you said it would be.

Wrote a story after years. Practically forgotten what I sounded like outside of advertising. And, just for that, here it is:

My muse doesn’t work Sundays.

My muse doesn’t work Sundays. It’s in the contract. I guess I got conned, but, at the time, I was revelling in the idea of being a card-carrying, muse-using writer, and I figured, ‘Hey, muses probably need to curl up with a beer in front of the telly and watch Super Sunday, too.’ This was before I realised she reserved the Sabbath for moonlighting. More idiot me.

So here I am. Working towards yet another unreasonable deadline, this one, for the ubiquitous GQ-meets-IQ men’s magazine. With a borrowed muse.

Not too bad a proposition, really, because writing with someone else’s muse has a delicately unsettling quality. It’s subtle, but risky; meaningful, but short-term. And, when you’re an angsted-out writer pushing 40, it’s your solitary claim to a clandestine coupling.

I’m not particularly attached to my own muse, if truth be told. She’s a bit overbearing, and, occasionally, predictable. The predictability she blames squarely on my own predilection to writing dark Kafkaesque stories of people who silently rage against their destinies, and, er, die. The overbearingness is all her own, though, she prefers the term ‘assertive’.

Like her I do, but the eye does rove on occasion, fancying a philander with, say, Kundera’s muse, or perhaps, Pamuk’s. I just wonder what it would be like to write with one who truly understands the depth of human suffering –- what sort of motivations would she explore, what kind of questions would she provoke, what kind of emotion would she wring out of me. It’s been a long time since I was wrung.

There I was, lost in a cerebral ménage-à-trois with two muses who have traveled the dark side often, when she arrived. My borrowed muse. Chipper, enthusiastic, briskly cheerful. I remember feeling distinctly tired as she settled into the armchair by the window. Her inquiring gaze, also irritatingly sparrow-like, did nothing to improve my temperament.

‘So, what are we writing about today?’ she trilled. Perhaps I exaggerate, and maybe she did speak normally on that occasion, but it was the overall sense of writing an allegory of rejection and failure with a muse specialising in romantic fiction that I bristled against.

‘It’s an allegory of rejection and failure,’ I bristled self-importantly.

‘Wasn’t that your last story?’ she ventured, revealing she wasn’t quite as ditzy as some of her work implied.

Vaguely flattered, I explained, ‘It’s more of a broad theme to my writing, actually. Individuals living lives of quiet desperation, yearning for meaning, but finding none. I write about the futility of that desire.’

‘You’re the writer, but, in my experience, desire’s seldom futile. It’s usually good for at least a chapter of passion. In fact, if it’s suppressed at the outset, it can be built into a regular crescendo of emotion later. And there’s always the slow burn. Never fails to hold a reader. And quiet desperation’s been done; don’t you watch TV?’

For a muse who used words like ‘seldom’, she really was quite shallow.

Sneaking a look at my watch, I realised that time was of the essence if I planned to get any work done before football. The advantage of living in Third World India was that the earliest kickoff was 6 p.m., thereby providing professional writers with a whole day with which to earn their livelihoods without affecting their soccer dependence. So I hastily put away my judgmental frame of mind, figuring that there was a job to be done, and a muse to do it with, so why not just get on with it?

Backtracking a bit, I said reasonably, ‘Maybe the theme sounds familiar, but I’m quite certain the story won’t.’

She nodded attentively.

I continued, ‘It’s about this guy who won the Bournvita Quiz Contest as a child, and was quite the celebrity, not just in Pune, where he grew up, but also in various quizzing circles and stuff. He’s bright, and had his high school known what a yearbook was, he’d have been voted Most Likely to Succeed. Anyway. So this guy, who seems to have been earmarked for stardom, gets the requisite engineering degree, and moves to the closest City of Gold. Where reality overcomes him.’

She frowned slightly, and I wasn’t able to tell if I’d managed to draw her in, or win her disapproval. In my best collaborative tone, I said, ‘When the story begins, we see him at a nothing job in a nothing company on some forgotten street in Bombay. That fateful morning, he gets sacked, replaced by an under-age college student at half the wages. He walks out of the office, blindly. Walks endlessly, till he finds himself facing the muddy grey waves of the Arabian Sea at the very end of Marine Drive. At that moment, the only thing he wants is to end it all. The high point of the story is the conversation in his head before he does.’

She seemed singularly unimpressed.

Imagining she sought more description of my saga, I injected a note of what I thought was lyrical melancholy into my next words, ‘A sense of dull dejection seems to hang over him like a raincloud. In everything he does, there is a sense of futility, as he sets out to work, climbs onto the 7.15 Churchgate Fast, battles the masses, settles behind his pockmarked desk in the corner of the office. Everything is wasted.’

The singular lack of impression continued. After a long minute, she asked, thoughtfully, it seemed to me, ‘What’s his name?’

‘L,’ I replied. ‘In the long tradition of nameless, faceless characters meant to be Everyman. This way, my reader will, unconsciously, believe it is his story as much as it is L’s. I like to think of him as a twenty-first century successor to K.’

‘It’s an interesting assumption,’ she said softly, leaning back in the armchair. ‘That the less description you provide, the greater identification might occur. As for me, I like to get under the skin of the character. What does he like, what clothes does he wear, what does he do with his weekends, what is the last thing he thinks of at night before he falls asleep. That sort of detail, that tells you what makes him different from the teeming masses, however similar to them he might seem.’

‘We could do that, too,’ I replied, not wanting to antagonise her too early on in the process. After all, she certainly acted more engaged than my regular muse. ‘What he likes are, well, normal things: TV, food, booze. His clothes are regular. Scrupulously clean, but characterless. Boring shirts, readymade trousers. On weekends, he writes home and runs the many errands his nothing job refuse to let him complete during the week. He thinks, continually, whether this is all life will be.’

‘Hmmm, this could lead somewhere. Perhaps, a beautiful single lady moves into the flat opposite. Silent. Somewhat withdrawn. But, inside, quietly desperate. Just like him. She’s trapped in her nine-to-five drudgery, but when she’s alone, behind closed doors, she dreams of freedom and escape. Of hitchhiking along the French Riviera. Of singing karaoke with long-forgotten college friends.’ She paused, somewhat out of breath.

I reeled. Partly horrified, partly astounded, I felt a mild headache start up. ‘No, no,’ I said weakly. ‘No.’

I explained to the muse, ‘There’s no woman living there. It’s a dull, grey hive of single rooms, occupied by impoverished bachelors, sending home Money Orders every month. It’s grim and dark and terminally depressed. There’s no room for, for,… karaoke!’

She grimaced. ‘I suppose he could meet her on the train? Nope, she’d be in the Ladies’. At the station then. Day after day, he sees her familiar brooding visage. And in that expression, he feels a kinship he has never experienced before. He strains to hear her voice as she gently brushes away the pushy vendors and sellers of bindis and hairclips. He watches her as she disappears behind the purdah of the Ladies’ First Class compartment, before tearing his way into the jungle of the common Second, lest he forgo the chance of seeing her alight at Churchgate.’

My headache worsened. ‘You’re not quite getting it. There’s no woman.’

‘Same sex couple then? How progressive.’ She smiled, ‘Must say, I didn’t expect it of you.’

I counted to ten, slowly. ‘There’s no couple. There’s just this one lone guy, doing his lone thing, and, and,… getting miserable about it. How tough is that?’

‘Very,’ she replied earnestly. ‘ Why would anyone read about this chap unless something interesting happened to him. He needs someone to see the unfulfilled potential in him, someone to share his dreams, and hold his hand. He’s looking for deeper meaning, and he finds it in the one he loves. It’s poetic. It’s fulfilling.’

‘It’s crap,’ I said finally. ‘I’m the writer, and I don’t write romantic rubbish. My protagonists live and die miserable, because that is the human condition. They hope for something better, but never find it, and that’s the goddamn plot. Now, are you going to help me write it, or not?’

‘Why can’t they hope for something better, and find it, huh? What’s wrong with rising above the misery and gloom-and-doom and finding something, well, happy? For once in their dull, dreary lives?’ She had worked herself up into quite a snit, something my regular muse would never have done. She’s morally opposed to unnecessary exercise.

I don’t know if it was her earnestness that did it, or just the fact that she seemed so involved. But I found myself thinking about her scenario. Cringing all the while, but considering it nonetheless. ‘Maybe she can love him and leave,’ I offered. ‘That way, he’ll still suffer, and still want to end his life. And it’ll be just another reason for him to be beaten and miserable.’

She looked at me, aghast. My head started pounding a little faster, and I couldn’t remember where I’d left the aspirin.

‘Why?’ she asked, aggrieved. ‘Why must forces conspire against him? All he needs is someone to understand him, and then he can go right ahead and find another nothing job in another nothing place. And he’ll come home to a life that’s superbly something. It’ll give both their lives meaning, and who knows, there could be a sequel.’

‘I don’t want a sequel. I just want an intelligent story for a men’s magazine that explores the human nature. Is that too much to ask for?’ I was beginning to get very depressed.

‘So you have one. It just assumes that human nature doesn’t have to be dull, dreary, and 100% black. What’s the problem with that?’

‘But it isn’t,’ I protested. ‘Suffering is the human condition. Love and happily after is for the birds. Real life doesn’t work that way. It’s a struggle.’

‘The struggle is getting people like you to write stuff people actually want to read. Think about it, if you wanted to actually be a fictional character, who would you be? Darth Vader or Han Solo? Marvin or Arthur Dent? Ross or Joey?’

I was flummoxed. Taking full advantage of my dumbfoundedness, she railed on, ‘I’d take a happy Bridget over a stupid Scarlett anyday, and, you know what, so would a million readers out there.’

‘Aspirin,’ I mumbled. She dispensed a couple, without missing a step. She flipped through my notes, and I watched phrases like ‘a lifetime of futility wasted’ and ‘the universe has an answer, and it is: nothing’ appear and disappear in my angst-ridden scrawl.

‘I hate all of this, but you’re the writer. I’m going to give you one last bit of inspiration, and then I’m off to get my nails done,’ she said shortly. ‘We’re at Marine Drive, and he’s gazing at the waves. It’s sundown, and, in spite of his melancholy, he smiles at the yellows across the horizon. A beautiful young woman walks past with a golden retriever. She smiles back at him. The End.’

Returning to her former brisk self, all traces of involvement and attachment gone, she picks up her shiny black handbag to leave. ‘My bill should arrive by the end of the week. Good luck. And sorry if I derailed your train of thought too much. I just do what I know.’

As the door closed, I started to write my story.

It ends with L watching the sunset. Glumly, of course. Beautiful young woman does make her appearance, shiny black Labrador in tow. The dog sniffs around his park bench, before looking up at him with ridiculous button eyes. She says, puzzled, ‘He isn’t usually so friendly. He must like you.’

He smiles back. (L, not the dog.) Returning the smile, she says, of the dog, ‘He’s been awfully depressed of late.’ He says, quietly, ‘Then I guess we’ve a lot in common.’

Finis.

Maybe she put something in the aspirin.

There is a season/ Turn, turn.

New month. New city, new job. New places to live, to work. New keys on an old keyring.

New balconies to watch the rain from. New roads, casually scattered with new shops. New phone numbers. New places to call, identify yourself, and order takeaway from. New stray dogs.

New newspaper in the morning (which I think I'm going to change).

New mugs to sip too-hot/ too-milky/ too-sweet tea from. New bookmarks for frequently-visited sites on your new Internet Explorer menu bar. New keys on a keyboard that you will soon be all but blind to, in your haste to meet a deadline or craft a script or phrase a sentence just so. New log-ins, new passwords.

New one-ways (or perhaps they're old ones: in this city, it's quite impossible to tell). New time to set your morning alarm for. New libraries. New salon girls to correct when they file your nails too curved, or shampoo your hair too vigorously.

New people.

Whatever else may come, there is something to be said for this air of newness around me. If only it didn't feel so damn familiar.

When everything's made/ To be broken.

Not even a hangover can take away from the sheer relief of this being my last day at work.

Birds singing in the sycamore tree.

If you wait long enough, every damn thing in your life repeats itself, like some badly programmed loop.

Seven-odd years ago, I traded in a life of peace, calm and coolness for one of unimaginable stress, misplaced trust, and foolish optimism. To deal with the fallout of that particular walk in the clouds, I moved cities. Put time and distance between myself and my family and friends. Started afresh. Lost my way a couple of times, but, by and large, survived. And survived well. I'm pretty proud of that.

Now, just when I thought life had finally calmed down, storm warnings are going off again. Hello, stress. Hello, so many emotions I hoped to never encounter again. And (since someone up there has a sense of humour) hello, moving.

Life is weird.

Oh, baby/ When you talk like that.

Still trying (unsuccessfully) to balance the negativity of my current state of mind.

Things to be happy about: Set of five commercials approved at first shot. Out of current agency in less than a week. Started an Indiana Jones-type book called Seven Ancient Wonders. Drinking less. Back in touch with friends I've been neglecting for a bit. Going to move back with my folks, which is something I really, really need to do. Will be out of the sweltering Madras summer soon.

Er, that's it.

Could things be better? Yeah, sure. Worse? Don't even get me started!

So run, baby/ Run, baby/ Run, baby/ Run, baby/ Run.

Summer in Madras, and half a dozen other reasons to feel suicidal:

1. Rooney's broken his foot.

2. Chelsea's top of the League again.

3. I've got to pack up and move, which is quite a pain. And I have very, very mixed feelings about moving back to Bangalore.

4. Have hit rock bottom on enthusiasm/ cheerfulness/ optimism levels, and am quite convinced that life is f*ked up beyond redemption. And, yes, I'm aware of the meaning of the term 'beyond redemption'.

5. Writing is just not working. Not as an experiment. Not as a diversion. Not as anything.

6. Del died.

I realise that this is a staggeringly negative post. But that's just how I feel. I'm tired of being chipper and up and positive, when I feel like everything that's important to me is all over the goddamned place. And I don't see why I should pretend to be alright with my life, when I'm so clearly not.

Since I'm the world leader in kidding myself, perhaps I need to take a much-needed break and just stop. Stop ignoring stuff that gets to me. Stop being selective about reality. Stop sitting in my corner and waiting for things to get better.

I hate the idea of moving back to Bangalore. And I'm so, so tired of waiting for things to change.

There are just so many books to read, so many football matches to watch, so many things to throw yourself into. Can't do this self-distraction 24/ 7 any longer. It just takes too much out of me.

The world around us/ Makes me feel so small/ Lyla.

And more good news floods into my corner of the world. The talented Mr. Kolwalkar is Best Actor at the New York Short Film Festival 2006, and I'm incredibly happy for him.

Got the TV on/ 'Cause the radio's playin'/ Songs that remind me of you.

Much has happened since my last post.

Said yes to a fairly dubious job offer in Bangalore. Conveyed the news to my current employers. Slipped into the delicious, nirvanaesque haze that accompanies every notice period.

Spent a week in Bombay. Which means old friends and real conversation and far too much alcohol than can really be healthy.

Shot a couple of commercials, which improved my already terrific mood -- I quite like shoots. Shot some stills with a bunch of Icelandic and Russian models, who gave me some great images while absolutely wrecking my self-esteem. Life isn't fair to 34 year-old Creative Directors who don't look bad for their age, but can't hold a candle to gorgeous (and, coincidentally, young) international models.

Missed a good friend's wedding. Hope he forgives me. And that marriage is all that he wants it to be.

Came back to sweltering Madras. And I have just two words for anyone who thinks I'm exaggerating: thirty-nine, degrees.

Slept through the second semi-final against Villareal last night, but woke up to the stunning fact that Arsenal is in the Champions League final, la, la, laaa.

Read lots of Murakami and McCall Smith in hotel rooms, and on flights. Started reading a stunning first book called Incendiary, by someone called Chris Cleave. Its subhead reads A Novel of Unbearable Devastation and Unbounded Love, but don't let that put you off. It's exquisite, and I know this post will be shorter than it deserves to be simply because I need to get back to it.

All in all, it's been a time of getting back in touch with the people in my life who really matter (and that includes myself). Of copious drinking, and zero working out. Of good days, both, now, and in the past. Of happiness of the kind that truly suits me.

I don't quite know what lies ahead, but, with every passing day, I'm feeling more and more like myself.

There are stars/ In the southern sky/ Southward as you go.

Reasonably happy still. Quite an accomplishment, since the weekend ended four days ago, and I expected my rollercoaster mood to (inevitably) rocket downwards.

Possible reasons? Finished the warmly written, superbly characterised No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency. Started the impossibly ambitious Cloud Atlas, and have the sneaky feeling that it is all that it is said to be. Laughed my head off as we won the first ODI against England. Watched Arsenal kick Juventus' sorry Italian ass 2-0. Going to be in Bangalore this weekend.

This better last -- I'm SO much better when I'm up.

Andy, are you goofing on Elvis?/ Hey, baby/ Are we losing touch?

Read Mike Gayle's latest; it's called Brand New Friend. Passably interesting, but not a patch on My Legendary Girlfriend or Turning Thirty. But it does direct one's attention towards a huge problem -- how to make good friends once you're in your thirties.

I, for instance, find it quite impossible to strike deep/ meaningful/ close friendships, and it's not for lack of being social or extroverted. Truth be told, I'm downright friendly. But there are invisible boundaries to conversation over a drink, or chatting over a meal, or even that old favourite, going out to coffee.

And, whenever something important comes along, the people I do speak to remain the ones I turned to ten or fifteen years ago.

My closest friends are, now, in different cities. Some are married. Some are happy. Some keep in touch. But all are utter rocks. They've seen me through the worst -- and, obviously, the best -- of times. And, somehow, I'm loath to add to their number.

Certainly it's because I'm less trusting than I used to be way back when I first met them. Equally, it's because there are such few people who 'get' your kind of conversation/ humour/ personality easily. It's beyond liking the same kind of music or books; in fact, my tastes differ quite dramatically from most of my friends. And I'm not saying like-minded (what a horrible word) people don't exist; I'm quite certain they do. It's just that the chances of running into them are damn dim.

So it is that I go out, meet people, share conversation, meals, and the occasional movie with people I like, but who will never know me well enough to figure whether they truly like me in return.

Bright are the stars that shine/ Dark is the sky.

Working late, and not quite sure if this belongs to my writing blog or this one. But I figured if the Zen-type poem about walking down the street belonged here, this one does, too.

It's a piece of dialogue from When Harry Met Sally, and no, I am not one of those people who quote romantic comedies from the eighties in normal conversation. Really.

So, here it is. He says: 'I came here tonight because when you realise you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.'

Deep.

That I would be good/ Even if I did nothing.

Crazy thing, perspective. Makes you realise just how much time you spend on worthless stuff. And how scarily mixed up your priorities actually are.

Not that I'm conventionally mixed-up or confused, but I'm certainly in denial about many things in my life. (Which explains the excessive angst.) Maybe it's time to face the music after all. So, here goes.

Work is currently uninspiring. Makes me feel trapped, unappreciated, and irrelevant. Lack of great options have added, over the past year, to my legendary amounts of self-doubt. Currently, my best option offers me a smaller setup, a flatter structure, and, my personal favourite, newness.

Should I take it? Probably. Will I? Tough to say right now.

My writing life seems to have hit another roadblock. And, I'm quite clearly at a point where I need to do something, or lay this particular ghost to rest.

Solutions? There's no solution to laziness, so I obviously need to get to a point where writing is more important than not. Which means I have to find (discover/ invent/ whatever) something that simply must be written.

Whether it happens or not, that answer will always be important as hell. For it will be revisited, like all major, life-altering decisions, pretty damn often.

While on the subject of life-altering decisions, I look at my personal life. It's extremely conflicted, and for more than just one reason. One, I'm not in a relationship; I'm in the idea of one. Two, I'm fairly convinced the relationship-or-whatever-it-is won't work. Three, it's happening in a way that I know is wrong, not just in absolute terms, but also for everyone involved. Four, I'm at a stage where I value clarity as much as (if not more than) happiness.

Will anything change? Sure. (Working on the assumption that, eventually, everything does.) Will I survive? Doubly sure. Will I be happy? Unfair question, since the one truth is that I've been f*king unhappy for the past few months, and seem to be heading towards a very familar, very switched-off, very flying-solo kind of neutrality.

It's a lot of perspective to come by, true. But, hey, it's a hell of a life.

One last question: Where's my drink?

And freedom/ Oh, freedom/ Well, that’s just some people talkin’.

Want to move, but have a bad feeling about it. Hate where I'm at, but am unconvinced moving's going to improve it. Don't want to be like this, but going quietly insane trying to change the way I feel.

When the hell did I get this neurotic, anyway?

Even/ Through the darkest phase.

From a book called Geography. Quoted from The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying.

I walk down the street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in
I am lost... I am helpless
It isn't my fault
It takes forever to find a way out

I walk down the same street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I pretend I don't see it
I fall in again
I can't believe I'm in the same place, but it isn't my fault
It still takes a long time to get out

I walk down the same street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I see it is there
I still fall in... it's a habit
My eyes are open
I know where I am
It is my fault
I get out immediately

I walk down the same street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I walk around it

I walk down another street

La question, c'est/ Voulez-vous?

Why is it easier to bare your soul to a stranger than someone closer? And, if it's neutral ground that fuels such honesty, why is it so hard to come by in relationships?

Do all women bosses dread women bosses? Or is it just me?

When did growing older become something to worry about?

Sun-Tzu suggests waiting by the river until the bodies of your enemies float by. What happens if you're impatient? Or uncomfortable with passiveness?

Why are the good times fleeting, and the bad ones endless looped inside your head?

When did the sunny, good-natured, live-for-the-moment, randomly entertaining (if somewhat bookish) person I used to be become intolerable, neurotic, stressed-out me?

Not good. Not good at all.

Even flow/ Thoughts arrive like butterflies.

Would you rather be happy than right? And, if it makes you happy, can it also be (with apologies to Sheryl Crow) 'that bad'?

Does watching a movie on DVD corrupt the 70 mm experience?

Is intellectual cheating cheating? And is it better, or worse, than the other kind?

Why is it easier to deal with people who are bad to the bone than those who are only mean/ hurtful/ evil occasionally?

Do predictable people think predictability is a good thing? Or is it that a sentiment only appreciated from the outside?

If everything changes, why do we spend time/ effort/ energy/ imagination chasing different kinds of permanence?

And, finally, an answer: The reason I keep seeking clarity in life/ work/ relationships is that I got handed more than my fair share of questions at the door.

It's a black fly/ In your Chardonnay.

Been down and depressed long enough to appreciate a few things that make the downward spiral fractionally, infinitesmally better:
1. Alanis Morissette, especially the first two albums. If angst had a voice, it would be hers -- nasal, relentless, anguished. Not only is she pissed about things, but she's going to sing loudly and vividly about them till the cows come home. I like.
2. Kafka. So you think your life's pointless and meaningless? Meet K. Sublime.
3. Chocolate. Trite, but oh so true. Preferably KitKat Chunky or Flake, but regular milk chocolate in somewhat melted condition works well, too.
4. Alcohol. A Breezer or three, or a vodka-and-Red-Bull. My Alkiegirl side approves.
5. The Bell Jar. It might be your life, but Plath got there first.

Thoughts meander like/ A restless wind/ Inside a letterbox.

Seems like every night is a dark and stormy night. The stories don't get written. The movies don't get seen. And people continue to perfect Phil Spector's Wall of Sound inside my head.

If there's one thing that's relentless, it's time. Not my best friend, currently, no matter how loudly I sing along with Mick Jagger.

Alongwith my sense of humour, I seem to have lost my talent for excess. Can't drink too much. Too financially-challenged to shop too much. Tired of reading too much. Or maybe just plain tired.

Arsenal kicks Real Madrid's all-star ass. And then loses, the same week, to Blackburn. Blackburn, I ask you?

It isn't even March, and I've already used up my annual quota of patience, tolerance, and turning-a-blind-eye-towards-obvious-idiocy. For those of you who believe work stress is something to be corrected by breathing correctly and playing calming New Age music, you've obviously been fortunate enough to never have worked in my office.

These foolish games/ Are tearing me apart.

If playing games inside your head were a sport, I'd be an Olympic medallist. Truly.

To keep my mind off my career going downhill, I distract myself with relationships. To stop getting depressed about relationships going, coincidentally, nowhere, I make my way towards writing. To duck getting suicidal about writing, I try to cheer myself up by blogging.

In the midst of this idiotic haring around 24/ 7 trying to use up energy that will otherwise be spent on unhappiness, I find myself wondering, what the f*k is the point?

What's the point if every single thing in your life is a temporary distraction from the previous one? What's the point if nothing keeps you afloat for longer than a day, a week, a month, at best? What's the point if you keep abandoning one meaningful thing after another and another and another?

What are you left with? And is this the way life was meant to be?

Somehow, I seriously doubt it.

Suicide blonde/ Was the colour of her hair.

For all the reading I do, I hardly remember a quote. In fact, any lines I repeat from memory usually date back to my impressionable college years.

Like these, from Wilde's The Ballad of Reading Gaol (for the record, Reading is a town in Berkshire, England; and Reading Gaol isn't some form of imprisonment where you're locked up in a library):

For he who lives more lives than one/ More deaths than one must die.

Sometimes I think I'm the only cab on the road.

All my life, I've had a clearer picture of what I didn't want, rather than what I did. (Not that it's had the slightest impact on the actual course of things.)

As a fledgling advertising writer, I looked at the many single, older women around me, and swore I would never follow that path. The singleness I had (have) nothing against; it was the accompanying trappings that sent a shiver down my spine. Thus was born the Older-Single-Women-In-Advertising Phobia, though I'm sure it applies equally well to other professions.

It's been many years since I warned friends and family to slap me if I did even one of the following: 1. Abandon my advertising skills for PR activity. 2. Let vanity/ insecurity run my life. 3. Spend far too much on dressing far too young. 4. Be deluded/ removed from reality/ easily flattered. 5. Depend on alcohol/ New Age stuff like yoga and reiki/ going out every night/ shopping/ boys (alright, younger men) for my happiness. 6. Become crap at my work.

No slap as yet.

And I'm not quite sure if it's honesty. Or kindness.

It's the end of the world as we know it/ And I feel fine.

What's amazing isn't one's ability to go through something and survive. The truly stupendous thing is the fact that we forget. Maybe we spend time shutting it out, erasing the details, trying very, very hard to re-wallpaper that part of our minds. Or perhaps that is the way of human life. But forget we do.

Forget all the things that were supposed to keep you from this very place, this very time, this very dilemma. Forget the promises you made yourself (and others, but hey, you forgot.) Forget the assortment of things that have gone such a long way to making you who you are today.

So it is that only the worst parts of history are condemned to repeat themselves: in war, if you're looking at the larger picture; and in love, if you're not.