I can’t breathe – I’m in Bombay! There’s so much pollution and fetid October heat and lack of space! I think I need an oxygen mask!
Never been happier in the last two months.
So it may be that the old ‘artists must suffer’ cliché holds good. Everyone knows, of course, that the ratio of blogworthy intention to actual blogging is normally somewhere in the realm of 42:1. This equilibrium (?) at least returned to somewhere in the realm of normal as the first whiff of the wasteland around Kalyan arrowed into my unaccustomed nostrils. Suddenly there were chemicals, little puppies, the joys of being single, cheap restaurants, how many intellectuals on the list of the world’s best one is aware of, how many of those one agrees with, how many of those are not as smart as oneself, etc.
Woe is, I’m leaving to go back to the land without shadows tomorrow afternoon. Nothing grows there except quantities of junk food and badly-planned office complexes. One’s work is literally one’s comfort, and that strikes me as singularly deviant from common human experience.
Following arrival, I’ve been eating Navratri prasad and yummy Thai food, being a lazy arse and re-reading Ravan and Eddie. Gods, what a novel. I think aspiring young novelists (could there be a more ridiculous profession?) starting off by imitating Rushdie tended to be bad enough in the manner of incomprehensible Dylan Thomas clones in the Fannish Fifties. Still, gratitude is in order that Nagarkar remains relatively unread and unsung, since I’d volunteer that nine out of ten would start off believing themselves better writers, and then we’d all be in a worse mess. The only thing that man needs is a better editor. Even the preoccupation with below-the-belt bodily functions is a delight. After all, he has a legitimate predecessor in Joyce etc.
I can’t believe it. This is the first time since Hyderabad that I’ve even thought of Joyce.
*watches disgusting alien creature writhe out of navel in delight*
While still rejuvenated: allow me to announce my joining the ranks of above-ridiculed melting-pot boiler wannabes: I’ve signed up once again for NaNoWriMo. I met the challenge last year, and its consequence thru 2005 was a fullblown obsession shared by esteemed Irish litterateuse Arthur C – no, Lindsey Clarke. Our project continues to hop along in bits and bites (So an Irish novel-in-waiting would really be Hopalong Cassidy?). However, I’m taking another shot this year with something different. I think I’ll do what no young person has ever done before and write urban fantasy with lots of disturbed sexuality and casual violence in it. Prompts for bad poetry to be inserted in the text welcome starting now.
Rounding up Bombay mini-mini-weekend with a visit to Strand Bookstore this evening.
 Of course I’ve never really even read Joyce, dear reader.
Last but most important: Birthday cuddles to Aishwarya! Shall I write you a bad poem?
current musix: bunty aur babli - kajra re
endnote: I have b0ikutt (i.e. v. short) hair and extra ear piercings now. ears hurt like milton.