The antediluvian radio set sitting dusty and musty in the panwallahs shack across the street was spewing out some insipid Bollywood musical buffoonery. Barely reaching my ears, but earning some distinction. Am staring at the stretch of tarmac two storeys below me called the Assembly Road. It’s a cold and windy night, cold one for mid summer. Identity crisis, I think. My ocular senses scan the piece of grey pressed stone in perspective, but can’t seem to find anything of any interest, any aberration. Nomadic behavior. At least they do not wander without reason. And when the brain does not register anything in that department is when I realize that I am clutching a book. “Clarkson: On Cars” it says. With the picture of a balding curly topped Limey with a donkey juxtaposed on the cover page. Clutched by the same hand that wears the found ring. Lots of data/information. Very little knowledge. None at all, in fact.
Bleak setting, but might be the perfect wall for a ground breaking mural, is what I would like to think. After all a little mind wandering mustn’t be so hard after a days hard work (read that as trying to shovel word lists into the mnemonic area). A paradox, since I am completely aware that nothing of that significance will happen. In about, another 30 minutes or so (since it is 10:30 p.m. and I have somehow convinced myself that sleeping at 11 is a good habit), I will start feeling sleepy and then drop cadaver asleep in a very gauche and blatant manner. Day over.
And then the next and so on………..how does one ever figure out what to do? Is being dictated, on what your opus for the day is the sign of the times? Do our brains exist just to see a line of tick-marks on the day’s to-do list? I would like to think otherwise. Really. For now, Clarkson’s rant on watches and diaries beckons, so I would like this to be the coda to mine. Maybe the road will have some interesting answers when I look at it the next time.