I really don't believe in being too fussy about religion. Of course I don't like others to be fussy as well. As far as is race is concerned, it's a pity. But I don't pity Bipasha Basu or the sort who were hurled abuses in London. And since it's post Shilpa-Big Brother, it's quite fashionable these days to be racially assaulted and whine -- who knows you can get your ticket to the big screen with all that hype that people worry about.
I won't get much into it.
As far as I'm concerned, nothing really bothers me apart from class. The trouble with class is -- and I think you read that bit on my previous post -- that it can't be bought very easily. Going by the textbooks, I come from an upper class family household -- and that we live in an upper middle class fashion is only by choice and contemporary circumstances. But as far as the class, my dear old man preserves it in his dignity.
Pride is something I have learnt from him, or I'm studying it still. And as he sits there in his tiny bookshop, sometimes frowning, sometimes grinning over an old joke, dealing with fuckers who come and ask him the worst set of questions to ask a bookseller (I want that yellow cover book, I can't remember the name right, do you have it?), sipping his coffee and disappointed every single day of his 23 year old booksellers life -- very few people understand that his knowledge of books is broader than yours and mine. Now most bookshops in this city are controlled by the middle class business man, the industry too, and people who have the tiniest idea of what books read like. They not only control it -- but they also screw it.
Robin Potter, Sydney Sharma, Harry Sheldon -- call it the way you want it, you'll get it. Not in a bookstore but even the dump seller knows what you're talkin about.
In some sort of way my father, the bookseller, is a Sisyphus of modern times. The sheer class buoys him -- and he will never reveal to the world that behind that tiny desk where he sits uncomfortably -- he comes from a direct royal family. That his childhood was different -- and close to the spoils of royalty, unspoiled. That he once grew up with servants, elephants, libraries and a father who was a visionary gentleman. He's seen it, I haven't.
He doesn't care. He's given it all, and he'll give it all over again. But he won't tell you. He saddened too much.

Nice I wrote a whole bit, and it got lost. It didn't really matter what I wrote because as far as I can think it was not going to save the planet and or make you feel any better. The trouble is that when you write something, you don't want it to be irretrievable.
I have reasons to feel that I'm disconnected. Is it just people, or some people? And it's nothing to do with company or anything of that sort that I'm with. It's just that last evening I was at father's bookshop, which is meant to be in a posh market block, and I peeked through the glass door of the bookstore to find no one who could give me an impression that books are read for fun. It's not that people don't read.
I don't care really. I mean, it's not my job to care if people are downright stupid or almost getting there. But what troubled me is that I don't relate to anyone out there.
Women look terrible today. (Calm down femmies, I don't mean to piss ye off). The real trouble is that I can't seem to tell who exactly they are. They wear terribly expensive clothes that just doesn't agree with them. Now here's a girl who was in some vest and here I am in a jacket out in the open. Their style of talking is crass, uncultured but they have the bucks to roll. Maybe people I agree only come out in select. But what the city's opened to is some sort of a middle class that's doing brilliantly, financially -- but seems to be torn off all decency.
They spoil the night. Every guy's gelled like a goat crossed with a pig, sucks to ultra mild cigarette as though it's a Frooty straw, and is drunk silly, either blatantly checkin a chick out or trying to pick on another fuck trying to check his chick out. Does it make sense.
But these are people roughly my age. I don't give a fuck of how they affect global warming and the economy of our country -- but they look so bad.
The trouble is that they aren't punks, or some part of an underground movement, just losers flying around the city. What angers me is their arrogance.
I don't want people to reform cause it's not my prerogative to be Mother T or win some Nobel Peace -- but for the sake of other people's mind. Uncool. Ruined the rest of my evening.

Feel terribly ill for some terrible reason. Change of weather. I really don't wish to be ill or so. Seem awfully disconnected these days. Lost, easily tired and a on low diet of self confidence. Not that fate's working against me -- perhaps new lows on different bends.
The nights have turned cold, sleepish and easily lost in a flash of dreams. The mornings are just early, misty, dusty, with hot water and a feeling of insufferableness.
Early mornings in Delhi are dusty with sweepers and their faces covered and stooped backs. Old men clear their throats, servants walk to the vegetable store and dairy booths, small children are being dropped to school by daddy's, with their mommy waving after she's perhaps packed their tiffins, and there's me with a cup of bittersweet jasmine tea on a balcony wondering what's it going to be then, eh?
If it doesn't matter, how does it count? Perhaps it's sweet old winter trapped in a blanket blowing kisses at you. Maybe you need a crowd, a second of a smile, black coffee, a book, and a bed to sink and dream. Maybe happiness or maybe a concert, maybe an art exhibition or maybe just a frown and a cube of sugar.
How hard is it to write, when you feel nothing is right? Summer promises, summer roses and summer songs -- licking an orange bar and sense of loss.
I'm not unhappy. Tense perhaps. Something's troubling, I'm figuring it out.

All that's decent, but I need my byline somewhere, anywhere. At the moment it's difficult to write, and what worries me is an actual perfect detachment that will distance me further from all around. I need street poetry, I need my promises, I need roses and lips -- and I have nothing at the moment, but some broken lines of broken songs.
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I really can't write, and when I want to, I can't.
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It starts with an idea, doesn't it? A small flickering hope sometimes in the sun and sometimes in a dark room. Then there's a bit of mystery, a little sadness perhaps as well, and then as though you're waking up from wispy dreams in the early morning. We sip tea, smoke our cigarettes, sigh, and carry on with our newspapers. Just like a song. Then we decide to write. A letter, then a word, then a sentence, then a paragraph, and then a story. But it doesn't seem write. So we laugh. And we're tired and we feel a bit hollow. We seem wronged a little. Not terribly sad though. But we feel or we pretend to, and I suppose we don't know. Then we're a bit lost and we let ourselves to slide. When the ride is over, we feel cheated and dizzy. We look for eyes. Some do with pale one's and some with bright. We drift. We think, we wander and then we sigh again, we sip more tea.