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Saturday, November 3, 2007


was just going through the hard drive on my lappie, when i came across this obscure piece of writing(??). back then i do not know what it had meant to me, but today i think i am clearer about it. here goes nothing:

"I was f***ing bored today. No one around in 301 and I was playing the same old rhythms on the kit with absolutely no wish to keep playing. Hell, I even fell asleep. Worse things could never happen. Couldn't keep doing that. Throwing off the drum sticks, I stomped my way down to the restaurant near our college, ordered some thing to force down my pipe (thought it was my tummy playing tricks on my brain). And when angrily chomping on my stuff, I happened to notice this man who was sitting in front of me. Description could be as good as saying Mr. Average Joe. Normal shirt and trousers, clean unshaved and disheveled hair. And he was constantly looking at something in his hand. Since from my place I could not make out what it was I decided to haul my bulk and change the angle. What I saw was a a leather wallet holding a handsome young mans picture. Black eyes, neatly parted hair, white shirt and a black blazer. The tie was maroon mind you, that’s a bit out of the way for me. Might be his son , I thought, albeit a little loudly. And as I quieted down I could hear the old guy sobbing. Poor thing, I thought. Old man missing his bright son. The typical Indian story- lower middle class family, brilliant boy in the fold, studies hard, gets a good job and off to America. The old man and his wife won’t live for long anyways. So why worry. Made me think about my dad and momentarily resolve that my father would not go through this. Well, all this thinking and conclusion reaching needed energy. As I finished off my short “anger venting meal”, I settled the charges and was about to leave as I saw it. The face of the man who was sitting in front of me. The face in the photograph. They were the same, leaving apart the stubble. And then I had nothing to ask anyone and not even myself. I was just pissed to no end about my drum sessions. That seemed like royalty in front of what I was a spectator to. This guy, has lost so much in his life that his once glorious days were his only support and they too were doing him no good.

No, returning from there, my drumming and my evening did not improve, heck, just because I had met a sadder man. But stopped me sure from cribbing about the bare bone fact. Couldn’t feel equal to it. Had to go home and sleep the night off. Tomorrow might be my lucky day."


  1. this is one of those GREAT pieces of writing that you come across very rarely on the web. Usually, stuff on the web is trashy, coz obviously, most of the real talent moves out into the publishing world. But this essay here is really good.

    Please consider submitting it to Pictoreal, if you haven't done it already!

  2. thanks for the appreciation dude.
    and pictoreal's out of league for me cause i have passed out

  3. lol... then let someone else put it in... for example, i could put it in and say "as narrated to me by frostbite" :D