One Flew Over The Cotton Clouds

As my William Dalrymple lay prostrate in the seat pocket in front of me, the guy sitting one row in front to my right asks for a Ballantine's, inspiring me enough to request one - actually two - for myself. Little did I know that after 1 and a half glasses of it, I would be tipsy enough to write this post from 10 thousand metres above the earth.

Flying somewhere over Afghanistan

But, I have just been interrupted by the flight steward - wish he was hotter - who asked me the very Indian question of "Veg or Non-Veg" before inserting the vegetarian food plate gently into my line of sight ( puns, my friend are always intended - always ). This was the moment when I decided to take a break from writing. You can be sure that the text after this sentence was written after consuming a vegetarian meal somewhere over the Atlantic.

In the middle of the meal I was interrupted by the melodious voice of a guy singing - " Pehchaante Hi Nahi Ab Log Tanha Tumhe..." - into my earphones. The Hindi song made me think, and think hard, who exactly it was meant for. 

By this time I was drunk with 2 glasses of Ballentine's. This was my first time drunk on a flight, and all it made me think was why I had not done it before. And at that precise moment I decided to keep down my phone to focus on my food which is clearer in the pic above than it was to my hazy eyes. What that means for my mostly non-existent readers? Well, it just means that the next set of thoughts would be thoughts I had after I had my dinner.

Also, a question for you guys : does my writing differ between when I am drunk and when I am not? Anyways, I now end this paragraph as we fly further east across the Atlantic Ocean, headed eventually towards my home in India. I will now eat my food before it becomes stone-cold.

The delicious food they served. Too bad i missed tasting the dessert! Sigh!

Being drunk on a long flight is by far the best thing one could do. I say this as the South Indian lady to my right thinks I have gone bonkers after my 2 glasses of "coke". Little did she know that the glasses of coke were much more than glasses of coke. Guys, I am taking a break once again to take care of the food lying on my table, before the airline staff goes mad at me for not eating my food on time-yes, that actually happens, I guess. So, the forthcoming break is for me to finish up my food. For the information of my readers, I am quite a bit drunk, and quite a bit short of finishing my meal at 2.38AM IST / 5.08PM EDT. What this oddly timed meal means is a question I am desperate to answer, if only I had the answer myself. I write that as the women in my earphones sings, " Make You Love Me".

The oddly timed meal is deep inside me now. Just as I have composed myself to write this second sentence of the paragraph, I realise that it is time for me take a good sleep, for it is almost 3AM IST. Whatever follows this sentence in this post would be the thoughts I wrote after taking a good sleep in this New Delhi bound flight, now heading towards Europe.

One of my two companions for the flight!

So, yes, the alcohol did leave my system sooner than I expected. I am sober now, and wondering if the preceding paragraphs revealed too much of my state of inebriation. It is now 11.10AM IST / 1.40AM EDT. I am far away from New York and just about 3 hours from New Delhi.

As I continue to read William Dalrymple masterfully guiding me through the intricacies of the revolt of 1857, I wonder if I am going closer to or farther away from home. It's a question so deep it makes me shudder. But the fact that such a question makes it to this post itself says a lot about the changing dynamics of the past 6 months.

As I grab a glass of water and some cookies from the pantry area to my front left, and as I observe the sexagenarian Sardarji ( it's amazing how close this set of words sounds to "the sexy Sardarji" ) standing there, I think of New Delhi, the place I was born. 

And as I think of New Delhi, I read of it too. 

It is at the heart of the book that lies on my lap and, i think, at the heart of me too.

The Lonely Luncheon

The cafetaria was crowded with groups of people chatting away their platters. There were no people at the cafetaria, just these groups - everyone with someone. Office talk, home talk, project talk; gossips, judgments and rants; the meandering conversations, the pointless blabber and the fake forced nods. Amid these wailing herds of people, all flowing with the flow, it is quite intimidating to pick a place all by yourself, just for yourself. Eating lunch alone isn't a cake walk.

Social ostracisation is the first thing one tries to hide when going for a lonely lunch. The first thought of eating alone ushers in feelings of humongous misery and self doubt. At the other end of the spectrum, a person who sits in a large group of colleagues or friends considers himself more successful, both professionally as well as socially. We as a society too like to pity people who eat alone, always assuming that eating alone is not a choice they make, but a misery they are forced to live by.

Powerful, inspiring, and arousing.

But, on the contrary, eating alone is powerful, inspiring, and arousing. It carries with it a sense of being in control - there is absolutely anything one may think about, anything one may read, anything one may look at, and anyone one may stare. Sadly though, the unwritten rules of modern day socialisation force us to be with someone all the time, while preventing us from being with ourselves, and preventing us from understanding that there is no better investment than to progressively know ourselves a little better every day. During our days that are usually crowded with dozens of voices of dozens of people, a quiet lunch all on your own is a rare opportunity to retrospect and introspect what was, and to plan what will be. It is also an opportunity to communicate with yourself, and to know the most important person in your life - YOU.

When eating alone there is a host of things you can do, the most important being just bonding with your food and taking in the aromas, the tastes, and the beauty that are served on your platter. You can read articles on your phone to gain more knowledge every day, utilising a time you thought never existed. You can also just look at the things and the people around you, appreciating how the new plants and flowers add to the beauty of your environs, or how the new muscular hunk raises the ambient temperature whenever he enters the premises. Moreover, you can just think about where you are headed, about what you value the most in life, about what you consider truly important in your profession, or about how you plan to reach where you always wanted to be. The senseless chatter of a herd often shrouds these most cherished and important things in life.

The pleasures of eating alone - bonding with your lunch, just you and the food

Moreover, from the point of view of a keen observer, the people who eat alone, and do it confidently, exude an almost magnetic sense of power and control, and look more focused toward their purposes in life, than the ones who herd together for lunch. Whenever I sit for lunch - my lunches these days being more in herds than on my own - I instantly feel attracted and connected to people who are eating alone. I feel these people are the ones who are in touch with themselves and who are independent enough to not force themselves to be WITH people, just because, it is the socially acceptable thing to do.

My opinion here might be influenced to some extent by my own days of yore - not of yore but of a more recent past, obviously - when I loved eating alone. I would never wait to gather a herd - something most people look for these days - and would instead just head for lunch when hungry. When I was at the food court one of the most important things was to not be inconspicuous. I would always make sure I chose a table right at the center of the cafetaria and ate my lunch with a princely confidence. I would also read articles on my phone, look at the trees, the buildings and the traffic around, and stare the judgmental in the eye to let them know I gave no shit for what they thought. Also, obviously, as an added bonus, I would cherish this chance to ogle at the hot guys around.

A view not ever appreciated by a herd, but only by a lonely keen observer.

All in all, there has been not one moment when I have regretted my lonely lunches, because I know that the habit of chatting away my platter would have certainly prevented me from experiencing the wonderful pleasures of a lonely luncheon.

So maybe, the next time you see a person eating alone, remember, they too have their arguments and they too have their story.

An Ode To A Starbucks

The touch of the teakwood table was cool and premium, and it used to be tilted towards the entrance and not facing the walls like it is today. There was lesser of the furniture and more of the welcoming empty-ness, allowing for deep introspection without bumping into the thoughts from an adjacent table. The staff-partners as they call them-was less yet much more. The melody of their country music or the blues was still mesmerising. Starbucks at N-Block Connaught Place used to a place I could be at peace with myself, sipping hot frothy Caramel Macchiato, listening to the calming music, and watching the world pass by out the window, as I thought my life through.

Tilted Teakwood Tables

Starbucks used to be an over-hyped, over-priced concept for me. I had been visiting Connaught Place very often but had never tried to visit the store at A block. And then one afternoon, while walking through the outer circle, I saw a new Starbucks logo at the N-Block. I used to be a frequent visitor to the Cafe Coffee Day a few shops ahead, and also to the Apple store at this block. For a week it was under construction, and then one fine day, I saw that the Starbucks at N-16, Connaught Place had opened its doors for customers. Though I had never been a fan, I felt attracted to an unusually peaceful Starbucks store and went right in.

The moment I entered, I experienced the difference. The wind curtain felt perfectly powerful and the air conditioning was perfectly cool. As the lady in her bob cut hair welcomed me, I realised I was one of the 3 customers inside. The ceiling was high, the sales counter and the immaculate displays were to my left, the casual teakwood seating to my right, tilted slightly so as to face to door, and the stairs to the first floor were down far right. Having no idea what their specialty was, I asked the lady to recommend me something. "Caramel Macchiato" she had said, a coffee that has since been not just a coffee but a roller coaster of emotions for me. I have tried more than half a dozen options, but only "Caramel Macchiato" has stood the test of time. As per Starbucks, Caramel Macchiato is freshly steamed milk with vanilla flavoured syrup, marked with espresso and finished with caramel sauce.

On Christmas. The entrance with the perfect wind curtain

I have since had many fulfilling visits to the store. I always preferred a seat on the ground floor, one with the good view of the outside world. I loved how they tilted their tables then, helping us focus better on the world passing us by outside. At the store, I have spent many afternoons all alone, yet not with a speck of regret, only with the sense of peace and calm. There have been many other afternoons, mornings, and evening I spent here with my dates. All of those guys equally interesting and intriguing; some moved on, while others have stayed on for long, while still others have made their special mark.

Some of my fondest memories had the setting of this Starbucks, yet change was the indeed going to be the only constant. As the months passed by, more and more people got to know of the place. The store got some extra furniture and got rid of the its signature tilt. The tables were placed closed to each other now and the welcoming empty-ness was receding by the day. The noise of the crowd had taken over the music and the long queues at the counter had taken away the barista's charm. I had such a deep emotional connect with the store, having seen it from the days it was under construction. I had personally known and interacted with the many baristas and had spent countless moments of love and togetherness, and also of perfect loneliness and introspection. Yet the store felt less emotional, and less wonderful now.

Starbucks, N-Block, Connaught Place

It is difficult to even find a seat there these days. There are tens of loud, fake and boisterous souls inside just as the soul of the store seems to have sold itself to the growing footfalls and profits. There are countless times when I  go to this store, once 'my' store, and find no place to sit. The store seems to have lost its personal touch. Often, I see myself regretfully visiting the Cafe Coffee Day a few stores ahead in the block. I see myself skipping my coffee more and more. I wish there was some way to have my old store back. I wish there was some way the maddening crowds and soaring profits could one day accommodate the lovely Starbucks this place once was.

P.S : 'Haider' is one of the Baristas here from the good old times. He still tries to be cheerful as ever and knows me  by name. The lady with the bob cut is somehow not seen at the store anymore.

© Quasars Are Forever

Holi-time Sadness

My most vivid memories of Holi comprise of scenes with me sitting shit-scared in my room and the room locked to keep my horrors out. Ever since i learnt about the festival, my relationship with Holi has been at best difficult. I have dreaded almost every single Holi, whether it be here in Delhi or the occasional ones I suffered outside Delhi. Today, I write this post well past 4 in the morning, the morning of Holi. I was supposed to strategise to keep out of harm's way this Holi, but i see myself brooding and capturing my thoughts here instead.

If i were to dig into the books of my personal history, there is no particular moment I could identify as the one that triggered this dread of Holi. As young as in class 3, I remember getting stressed about saving myself from the Holi celebrations at school. Luck would have it that Holi fell almost always in the middle of our final school exams, making it not feasible to take leave on the day when the celebrations were due. Hence, comprehensive plans were made, exit routes were checked and planned, strategies made. It was almost like a mini war for me-so much so that my strategies often involved beating the shit out of people who tried to color me. Luckily nobody got beaten, and more importantly, i never got seriously colored.

What the fuck is this flower doing here!!

School was an outdoor war-ground; there was a battle planned on home turf as well. There were  a number of people at home to be specially concerned about-my two aunts, specially the younger, more adventurous one, my maid who had been with us since the day i was born, and last but my no means the least scary, my colony friends. Such used to be the fear that I would religiously lock myself up on the first floor of the house. The planning was impeccable, with arrangements for food made in advance,  with all the bolts on our gates assiduously inspected while also testing for the fail scenarios, with careful planning to attend to the nature's call and with deciding to not speak a word whenever someone suspicious knocked at the gate. My maid, my aunt, as well as my friends at the door were all left disappointed, but in their disappointment i found the greatest relief.

Till the day before Holi, I gave detailed instructions to my parents and grandparents. They were supposed to tell friends that I had gone out to play Holi - which, by the way, has to be the most hilarious and unbelievable thing they'd say on any Holi day. But, the people who swore to fight the battle on my side always seemed to flip allegiance on the Holi day. My father would come calling and say that a friend was at the gate, forgetting all the strategies and commands I had explained him the previous day. He would have the bizarre logic that the friend carried only Gulaal (a form of dry color, the lesser evil), not understanding that the tricks my friends could play were more devious that his most profound of imaginations and that it was all probably a trap to get me out in the open, where i could then be the target of heavy fire. Most of the times, i could not be convinced and the friends went home disappointed, something i did not mind at all. There was only once that a friend caught hold of me when he entered the house and smothered all my face with the Gulaal. It was definitely not something I liked, and gave me taste of how bad things might get one fine -or not so fine, actually - Holi.

So, here i am, all stressed and depressed. Holi is here and I am sure there is nothing productive i would do, since most of the energies would be spent to ensure that I am not colored. It would be a tough day. Lets hope I survive. There are two kinds of people in this world i could almost instantly fall in love with - first, the ones who would understand my fear of Holi and stand by to protect me from this shit at all costs, and second, the ones who know swimming and could teach me to swim in the sea, being my personal lifeguard when the tide gets tough. With regard to the latter type, I have already almost fallen in love with a blonde hair guy who held me firm and got me to dry ground, when i was snorkeling 30km off the coast of Karnataka.

Anways...to the ones who do happen to like this festival...a happy holi!

© Quasars Are Forever

A Not So Uplifting Massage From Kerala

It was probably some sort of bespoke, extra-thin, extra-soft tissue paper. Flaccid was the only state it could hide, for turgidity of the phallic kind was too much an ask for a tissue paper. Moments before, i had the confidence of almost taking off everything in front of the masseur, who was standing right behind, probably giggling at my ceremonial unclothing. I had almost taken the ultimate step to nudity, when the masseur asked me to hold my horses. He had a thin strip of paper ready to cover my properties. He rolled it around my waste, just as i was slowly drawing the curtains down. The paper was now pulled down my posterior and passed on to me from between my legs, to be pulled up my front and tucked in. The resulting construct was more like the traditional 'langot', which is famous with the modern day sexually conscious male gym-goers and which keeps your belongings in check during strenuous physical exercise. It must be noted that this paper construct meant to reassure that one is not totally naked, was miserably failing at the task.

If only i too could do that

He asked me to lie down on the massage bed face down and let the music play. I don't know why but the instruction somehow reminded of a past sexual act. Just as i was growing a little nervous at the prospect of their being some hidden camera recording my antics - or more appropriately, his antics - i felt a strong smell of ayurvedic oil. Before i could say something to the tune of "Holy Cow! What the fuck is that!", i experienced the warmth of tonnes of oil poured down my back. He goes on to pour some on the arms, and then moves to the lower territories. He thankfully jumps over my property and goes on to drench my legs in some more of that pungent oil. Only when I inform him of my fear of drowning, does he stops bathing me in oil . He is now ready for the next act.

Moving closer to my upper back and neck, he makes first contact. His hands are warm and soft, and his touch,  gentle. He slowly moves his hands all over my upper back, rubbing in ever so lightly. I feel good. He moves onto my neck and massages it well with both his hands. I feel much more relaxed just in this few minutes. Ready to explore other territories, he moves further down my body, passing my lower back and onto my lower-lower back. The oil on my lower back is enough to drench some of my lower-lower back as well. He starts to massage it and massage it well. He takes hold of both parts of it, confidently manoeuvring his hands so they they can both soak in as much of that warmth as possible. It feels really good.

Just as he is handling my lower-lower back i wonder if he plans to go any deeper. I must not let him do that. He just cant go deeper. He must stay on the exterior. To my respite, he clearly wasn't planning to explore the depths. He moves onto the legs and then to the feet. He massages the pads of my feet so well that it feels like heaven. Rubbing his fingers in between my toes and letting them all soak in the oil, he makes me feel ticklish yet wonderful. Just as i start to feel the most relaxed since i that room, he asks me to turn over.

Exactly how my massage room didn't look

As i turn, i realise that there is practically nothing that piece of paper could hide. Its all their in the open for all cameras to record, may be also zoom in to see the details. My only hope was that since none of the camera are visible, and since the place seemed like a respected destination, there should not be any cameras. But then that may also be the precise reason why they'd put secret cameras. Unconcerned about the them, i let him pour some more warm oil on my chest. He repeats the ritual and drenches all the front parts of my body with oil, leaving the middle ground dry for now. He starts to massage my chest and i start to feel the most sensuous in the room yet. He is massaging in a circular motion, moving around both my nipples. He casually touches the nipples too, but not with much intent. He now decides to move down my abdomen and my heart skips a beat. But, i see that I am not very uplifted yet. I did not find this guy particularly attractive, but i was still expecting that his touch would lift things up.

He moves over my pelvis, missing the most coveted region, at-least for now. After massaging the legs, he once again pleasures me immensely with that feet massage. I see him coming right up, only to cross the zone. I am still not uplifted and it seems that he would only handle things when they were uplifted. But I want to him handle it, and to handle it the best he can. So, i try to concentrate on my breathing, hoping that it would make me feel more sensuous. I try to feel every touch deeply and think about the last 'xvideos' clip i watched. BUT, its not helping. I see no upliftment. It has become an almost vicious cycle. I want him to go to the zone to lift things up, but we wont go there till the things are uplifted.

I considered it highly inappropriate to ask him what i really wanted, for what if he had never wanted to do that in the first place. I kept mum, hoping that he would get the obvious signal and massage me there, massage me well. But, he clearly misses the point. He moves up now and says that he would washing his hands to perform the facial massage. With that hand wash, all my hopes too were going down the drain. To my horror, he now unbolts the door and goes out as I lie there, absolutely naked, hoping that no one else enters the room. He comes back after a few moments and starts the facial, dashing all my hopes of any higher level of pleasure.

In a few more minutes it was all done.
He asks me to stand, wipes me all up with the towels and asks to clothe. Honestly, it felt as weird as the clothing ceremony after sex, yet this was an act devoid of any sexual pleasure. It was weird that the very thing i had expected to definitely happen in a Kerala massage, didn't happen. I take back all my stuff. Go out. Head to the hotel. My massage was an utter disappointment.
If only that thin trip of paper has aphrodisiacal properties.

© Quasars Are Forever

photo credit: Bäder und Massagen via photopin (license)

Two Retirements At 25

January is the last month, a month that would end a service spanning almost two and a half decades. It's a very emotional moment; the job has been like a transparent window in an air-conditioned room, looking into the harsh landscape of the seething Savannah. I have not felt the window there, until now, when it's being removed, since now the economics of an air-conditioner might be a little difficult to handle.  A little more than a year back, i experienced another retirement, one that was not even as transparent as this one, and  one which dawned a new reality on me-a reality that was slightly uncomfortable. But this is another step in that same uncomfortable direction, and with another retirement, comes another dawn.

She had been working with the Delhi Government as a school teacher for almost 25 years now. He was a high ranking official with the Central Government. Together they both provided me a life that was comfortable, enriching, full of ambition, a life that was a cushion for sound sleep in the troubled times, a life that provided a safety net which would always hold my fall, however abrupt. Father retired more than a year back, and my mother would see her last working week starting this Monday. They have both been pillars to my existence, two wonderful pillars of power, strength, compassion, tolerance and love. But this week would now leave them both retired from their wonderful jobs. It seems like the most momentous week of my life, just as much it is of theirs. Their jobs have been only a part of what they have been to me all these years, but this part has been so significant. Not so much economically, as it has been emotionally. I have always seen them both in command, willing to handle all challenges that come to the family, ready to shelter me from all that they could. But now as they retire, times, they're changing.

God's own country!

I have been on a small hiatus from work lately, trying to use the time to introspect, to learn, to practice for exams, to try my hand at new and interesting things. I found myself lost in my job, a job that was as far from my ideal as it could be. I had to sit at a computer and code programs for e-commerce applications. I did it all reasonably well, and received a more than average hike when I joined my current company.  But still, the job has been a continuous struggle. I have never felt satisfied with my work over the last 3 years, having struggled to wake up each morning, finding it difficult to ever understand why i was doing what i did, kicking myself in the balls for going with the flow and not listening to my heart, a heart that had been suffocated for years.
Hence i decided to take a break from the job, to try and find solutions to my emotional penury. It has been some time now, and my plans have not unravelled the way they were planned to. My quest for an Indian MBA is all but shut, thanks to an unexpectedly dismal performance in the CAT (Common Admission Test, commonly used in India for selection to MBA colleges). I have been thinking of foraying into the media as well, through a media management course, or mass communication. I have been considering to write as a amateur as well.
International MBA has been on the plate too, and i have been working to give it my best shot for the last few weeks. I have been making plans obsessively for each new day, trying to stick to it with an equal obsession. The plan includes not just MBA prep, but also my media management course prep, mass communication research, ugly tidbits of writing here and there, some reading, some fun (The fun gets knocked off the list at times, considering its obvious low priority in the scheme of things).
For the MBA I have paid for an online course, bought a book, slotted in my GMAT test, shortlisted my universities and scraped my innards to muster all the inspiration that i could.
BUT, there's no income. My hiatus has been an unpaid one and there has been no new money coming in.

Now with both my parents almost retired, i feel the pinch even more.
i sometimes make effort to not feel like a liability. Although i have enough savings in my account to last me for more than a year, this feeling of vulnerability is very real. When this month ends, there will be no income coming into the family, only my parents pension. These are difficult times, and the least of it seems monetary for now. There is enough money coming in, there is respectable amount in my bank account, and there is some property to take us through any foreseeable trouble. Its more in the mind. With every passing month, I am not getting any money home, instead just toiling to follow some distant dream, a dream which is still so abstract. My parents who have worked hard and earned well all their lives are now retired at home. It scares the hell out of me!

God's own road!

Gosh! Wish i was perfect, at least the perfect son. But then, maybe, there are no such sons. For perfect comes from perseverance, from facing the testing times, from fighting the problems head on, and from persisting, whatever the odds may be. If one has a plan, and the resolve to reach the destination, as abstract as it may be, good things will happen.
May be not today, not tomorrow, but the coming week.

© Quasars Are Forever

He Came Like A Breath Of Fresh Air

Standing about 5 feet across he is waiting for the metro right at the front of the queue. I am standing at the queue to his left. Waiting. He is slim, yet muscled. I can see the thin-ness of his abdomen accentuated by the fullness of his well-built chest. From the collar of his t-shirt a few hairs are peeking out, just the tiny ones, similar to the ones part of his light stubble. He is eating a sandwich, looks like one from the Cafe Coffee Day at Rajiv Chowk metro station. I am heading to a class,  and waiting for the Blue Line metro towards Dwarka. Moments like these, when i am headed to a class, or a test, are usually strenuous and nervy, especially given my propensity to not ever be punctual. But yet moments like the one right at that moment make a feel so much better. A breath of fresh air he was, if only there was no girl accompanying him.

Like a breath of fresh air

I find guys beautiful. It is less the carnal attraction that a homosexual man feels towards another, an attraction which also gives us the image of being too horny all the time, and is more like a sweet, beautiful attraction towards another man, an attraction that makes one feel like talking to him, or just atleast keep looking at him. Wherever one may be, i always make it a point to appreciate the aesthetics of a boy around me, though ensuring that i never ever make him uncomfortable, unless being uncomforted is what he is looking for. More than any other place, it is the metro stations that are full of these beautiful people(read guys). Sometimes while walking out of the metro station, sometimes climbing into it through the stairs, sometimes on one of the historical lanes of Connaught Place, sometimes it is the inner circle, sometimes the outer, sometimes it is Starbucks, while sometimes, Subway, but all these moments are moments of little pleasure that make me forget the bad that is going around in life and focus on the good, the beautiful, the pleasant, the positive. I really appreciate them all, and mean no malice whatsoever. Though, it would always be a cheery on the cake moment, if one of those pleasant people happens to launch Grindr or PR on his phone and hence signals that he too appreciates beauty of the kind that i do.

© Quasars Are Forever