As I start on these ways every morning, wading through scattered left-overs of the party at house number 70, the night leaves letters on the road, adding to the hang over of the 'baithak' at Sharma Sahib's. The screeches of inebriated men and women, high on power and pomp, mirth and recklessness, drip down the rain spattered hoardings of these mum shops and stores. It is difficult to make a living out of so little and yet feel any dignity for self. When always the dreams are powered by petrol but the house still runs on fire wood, its a shame to boast to the mirror. But then, I have been plagued by dreams of grand dark milky ways and slant angled free ways and most importantly, dreams of perfect people, almost myth like. The one that sways lily like yet unrooted gentle yet strong with potent cloud swallowing prowess and yet like how, such ordinary black lush curls. So on... Till then it is play, the mind that lives through body waits a spell of rain to clear the old ones who could never live an epic, a making of a big self inside their heads. The heady pompous cocaine drug of life keeps flowing as I watch each day, an exhibit of hundreds of lives parade in the trains that slither past. I feel the throbbing heart of my country in my soles as they tread tracks.
(ps. these are random excerpts for now but I hope to bind them up in a play or something, once character sketch is done)