It's written on the wind.

Whenever I get gloomy about the state of the world, I think of the Arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love. What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died? That she was beautiful and brilliant? That she loved Mozart and Bach, the Beatles, and me?

Every love story has a different beginning, it’s true. That first inkling that two people are meant for each other. That time will bind them together with threads of emotion and passion. That they will share the joys, the uncertainties, the rollercoaster ride of living a life together.

Some couples come together over many cups of coffee in a college canteen. And to the background score of bunked lectures, irate professors, and annoyingly frequent exams, a love story begins to play.

Other relationships are kindled as best friends realize that the degree of closeness they share cannot be experienced with anyone else. That over the months of hanging out, and talking about everything under the sun, and just being great friends, somehow, they managed to fall in love.

Still others step into the circle when they meet the young woman their parents think so highly of. Who looks even better in real life than she did in her pictures. And isn’t half as silent.

And you can’t blame it on the place, or the season. The attractiveness of her smile, or the sense that this could be the person you would like to grow old with.

There’s no clear, single reason that draws two people together. Brings you closer. Wraps your lives together and shoves it into a brown paper bag.

Or is there?*

*From the Dead Copy Files

We've been circling/ For time, baby/ We're coming down/ To land.

It's fairly well-known that I'm terrible with time. Have been for as long as I can remember. (The only exception being flights. Though I've only actually missed one ever, I've cut it fine too many times to tell.)

It's a somewhat lesser-known fact that I can be on time if I care about the occasion enough. (Not the person, it's never about the person. Some of the people I love to pieces have spent hours waiting for me on railway platforms, bookstores, coffeeshops, restaurants, and taxi stands. In fact, the closer I get to people, the likelier I am to be late.)

So, I rarely miss new business presentations. Serious, once-a-year kind of office meetings. Airport/ station pickups. Family stuff that involves my mom. Any stuff that involves dogs, young children, or older (meaning grandparent-age type) people.

Still, I continue to be late to many things: work, most notably. This morning it led to a minor skirmish with a colleague, and it got me thinking.

Is there a certain greatness to my lateness? Short answer: No. Long answer: Well, it hasn't killed anyone yet. And I've never been late for something that actually mattered.

So, do I just believe that the people I work with don't matter? Somewhat disturbing answer: Maybe.

That's terrible, yes. It's also terribly important.

What do I do about it? Can't stay like this; it stresses people out. Can't ignore it; it's been brought to my notice. Can't talk it over; as it's a habit, and not a one-off. Can't rebel; been there, done that. Most of my life, in fact.

Can't change; that would be pretending. Can escape. And probably should.

Life is sneaky: throws epiphanies at you when you're barely awake.

Everywhere you go/ You always take the weather with you.

Why is it that for the first thirty years of my life, I was perfectly immune to the weather? Sure, I took note of climatic changes, but those were mostly from a clothing point of view.

The weather outside my window had little/ no bearing on my frame of mind, choice of city to live in, productivity, or patience.

If you imagine this newfound weather sensitivity has anything to do with idyllic weather in my formative years, let me clarify that I spent twenty-eight of those years in a city characterised by muggy summers, heavy monsoons, and stunningly high levels of pollution.

First, I moved to Bangalore, where I proceeded to freeze my ass off for three-quarters of the year. Then, to Madras, where I let the heat take over my life. It dictated every single aspect of it, including all aspects of social activity. I spent over a year where, not once, not for one single moment, was I in a place where (I felt) the temperature was perfect. It was always either too hot or too cold. Now, I'm back in Bangalore, where along with everything else, the weather has gone downhill, too.

Suspect it's my over-sensitivity to the weather that makes me feel like this. Can't bear the thought that I'll have to go through the rest of my life compromising about the temperature.

'Cause we could be lifted/ Lifted.

Four months since my last post. And, in a desperate attempt to refute my usual plus-ca-change attitude, here's a list of the handful of things that have, indeed, changed my life since December.

1. Went to the Bangalore Passport Office and stood in long, winding lines half a dozen times.

Encountered many Passport Office people, all surly and unhelpful, except for the Passport Officer. Cannot imagine why the Government cannot take advantage of the huge workforce available to them, and hire a few normal human beings instead of those obviously visiting from another planet.

Passport Office people from other worlds. Oh, the irony.

2. Discovered and visited my nearest Police Station, where obese officers of the law made me look through box files to locate my own paperwork. While they leched and smile widely.

3. Got my first stitches ever, when I fell and cut my hand. Resulted in a tiny-but-fairly-sexy scar on the inside of my right wrist.

At least, I think it's sexy. Must be a throwback to all the times I've insisted that the only glamorous way to snuff yourself out is to slit your wrists.

That was/ is/ always will be a joke. I fully intend to live much longer than I should, and that's the reason why I shop as much as I do.

4. Went to Goa twice, and Madras, KL, and Bangkok once each.

Discovered nothing. Shopped a bit. And had the singularly gross misfortune of having a migraine attack in a foreign airport while travelling alone.

5. Turned 35, and plunged headfirst into middle age, only to discover I'm still firmly in possession of the two-and-a-half qualities that define me: a vicious sense of humour, an escapist reliance on the sunny side of life, a deep and abiding love for dogs and travel and books, and a pathetic handle on money.

Oh, and some issues with arithmetic.

6. Acquired an iPod and a Nokia 6300, both of which I love to pieces. (And, yes, I lost another phone. )

7. Decided to rejig my sporting beliefs a bit:

a. Like Thierry Henry, I, too, will miss the rest of the EPL season due to injury. Shall enjoy what remains of The Season of Man U, and start again in July.

b. For the rest of this World Cup, I shall adopt the BLACKCAPS as my team.

c. Lewis Hamilton is undeniably cute. And British.

8. Read some fabulous books, including, but not restricted to The Robber Bride, Sacred Games, and House of Leaves.

9. Made my first (and last) Page 3 appearance, thanks to being at a reading of a book which I hadn't/ still haven't read.

What I have read is Kiran Desai's earlier novel, which I didn't like at all. (Salman Rushdie did.)

:)

End of list!