The following  are some of the people born on 17th July. Which is also my budday. The ones in bold are those I think are lame-o’s.

July, 17th

Art Linkletter – 1912
Camilla Parker Bowles – 1947
David Hasselhoff – 1952
Diahann Carroll – 1935
Donald Sutherland – 1934
Erle Stanley Gardner – 1889
J. Michael Stracznski – 1954
James Cagney – 1899
Phoebe Snow – 1952
Phyllis Diller – 1917
Tash Hamilton – 1982

I’m feeling dangerously aggressive.

Not a good sign.

The Beatles came alive for me today.

Four of their 1964 and ‘65 Concert tickets lay temptingly before me for 300 bucks each.

 Vintage, said the shop-wallah while chewing beetlenut.

Several ‘actual’ and ‘real life’ pictures of the Beatles, previously housed on a mouldy wall of a minuscule Iranian cafe in Pune lay in a neat bundle before me.

And I poured over them lovingly, hungrily, despairingly. 

What I would give for a spare 1000 bucks that no one needed…

So I had to let them go and looked at some very old Coca Cola, Rolls Royce, Austin and Ford posters… so kitschy with their obscene colours.

Then I walked along Mutton Street looking at old (empty) Scotch bottles, scratched LPs, old wooden telephones, Creme brule cups, faux Russian enamel plates, beakers, nuts, some body’s gold medals, dog-eared pictures of old Parsi families with the women swaying towards proud upright men, shopkeepers who spat beetle juice neatly in a steady stream, goats and iPods in the shimmery silent heat.

My companion/victim sighed at my goggle-eyed fascination. 

Rusted spare parts, switchboards lay in heaps.

Who buys these? I asked.

People around, said the laconic old man.

You want anything?

No, I smiled.

Hmphed my friend.

A brusque nod of his head later we were on our way.

Then we walked into a lane which sold the most delicious smelling chicken.

But I had to setlle for a McD’s burger. (Killjoy)

We didn’t eat the chicken as we were scared of dying.

The midday sun burned a steady hole in our enthusiasm. We had to leave(Please, for Godssake!).

But not before I looked at George Harrison and Lennon once again. Come to think of it, someone reminds me of Harrison. I can’t remember who.

A part of the Cattycamehome’s ‘The Red Balloon’ series.

“I can never decide whether my dreams are the result of my thoughts, or my thoughts the result of my dreams.” D.H. Lawrence

Today I rode a bus to work.

And I looked outside the window and saw Abdul’s Bone-Setting shop.

I was so depressed.

Heartbroken for those that don’t know/trust or can afford quality medical care. I feel so sorry for those people who suffered through blunders of a quack’s ignorance- paying for it with their lives and their livelihoods.

We have no social security, no regulation in medical practices and no education on the goodness near magic of proper adequate and appropriate treatment.

I feel guilty working for a multi-crore pharma company and then merely feeling devastated for those that weren’t as lucky as me.

For without the alchemy of allopathy, I would be dead/disfigured…

..saw a little boy come out of the shop with his little arm wound in yellowish bandages.

I hope his arm knits just fine.

Fucking hope.

Makes me feel better about my own inaction.

Something that Ogden Nash said about it being like dope.  It’ll smooth over my guilt, I’m sure.

Give or take a few days. 

I have moved to WordPress.

Don’t make me feel guilty about leaving blogspot.

All I ask for is a little respect.

When I bust my ass for 13 hours every-effing-day.

I don’t need the sarcasm I get from the boy who serves tea.

And I’m tired. And I feel so hungry and cold all the time.

Real Life is hard.

Mumbai is a difficult city.

Not like Sunday Mornings.

I struggle to get by.

Money, humidity, language, culture, Poha, work.

But I’m slowly developing respect. Maybe it’s not the love I feel for Delhi. Or the affection I have for my Pune. But it sure is something.

Today I travelled by local again.

The man-with-no-legs pitched his sales. Some bought some. Many just watched. Hanging on to dirty brackets suspended from above.

There is no luggage rack because of 7/11.

The man-with-no-legs is the only man in this rambunctious compartment. Ladies’ Special, they call it.

I watched a documentary on Ladies’ Special once. I recognise a lady from the doc.

The man slides off as we reach Andheri. He waves with both hands and promises to come tomorrow.

Some women wave back. Other smile.

Some sleep standing. An equine disposition.

I watch. Fascinated. Terrified I’ll miss my stop.

Some pray. Their rosary beads clicking softly. Their mouths moving in His praise.

Some yak. Loudly. About husbands and boyfriends. About benign maids and stupid faced children. On the merits of cooking a certain way. Or how to scan a document.

Many read. Some study. Other learn by rote.

Women crammed in one compartment.

So many lives. So many upbringings. So many smells. So many people. So many voices.
Crowded into the early morning heat.

At 7 in the morning, Bombay is more than alive.

It pulses.

Its Bandra now.

I get off here.

I felt a little pull of attraction today.

After a very long time.

I wonder.

My name made it to the College Mag 7 times. With a picture and an article.

I learnt a song of the Beatles by-heart.

I slept for 13 hours. Through no electricity and 80% humidity. And dreamed only one dream.

I said ‘Ooh’ to a dog today. He had the most gorgeous liquid-y eyes.

I had an eventful day.

I spilt coffee on myself and water on someone else.

Eventful evening.

And now I pack.

Singing ‘Duets‘.

I wonder.

Why do people say ‘existential’ with ‘angst’ to sound smart?

Like when they say they read Nietzsche when I know all they know about him is what they read about him in the Culture Vulture thing last week?

Posers.

Those.

Us.

Me.

I felt like an idiot doing it.

Which is why I won’t anymore.

I shall take pride in being the person that I am.

Coke-guzzling, yaar-saying, tapri-eating, uber- mercurial wonderful me.

And if I read Brothers Karamzov, good for me.

And learn to spell Russian names right, even better.