Precision

Was awe struck watching the redbulls at the Aero show. As the two planes crossed each other within hair's breath there was a collective gasp from the audience and then a round of applause. It must have taken years of practice but I also wonder if some of us are better suited to do such things than others. With my unsteady hands and nausea prone body, hypothetically even if I had spent twenty years of my early life practicing would I have made it? I doubt. Heart surgeons and test pilots are my ideal.

Marketable skills

So I am sitting on a chair by the window staring out - they advise you find a job you really love to do - the problem is I don't think anyone would pay for the things I like to do. Let us see - I like to mindlessly watch youtube videos (political satire, cute ads), argue a point to death in a loud voice, read the same books again and again, surf the internet on obscure topics (myth of Aryan invasion, Shakespeare authorship), the aforementioned staring out the window... No, I don't think anyone would pay me for these.

In the meantime I have to carry on the way I do now - a mental equivalent of bulimia. I restrain myself for a few days and then have episodes where I do all or some of the above in a binge until 2 AM in the morning. Unfortunately there is no cerebral equivalent to sticking your fingers down your throat.

New year new blog

In the movie Bridget Jones's Diary, Mark Darcy scathingly describes Bridget as verbally incontinent. I get reminded of it often these days - the whole planet seems to have become electronically incontinent.

Last year, the commonwealth games was not enough of a temptation for me, I had successfully resisted the spectrum scam, heck I had even remained silent at the face of Ayodhya verdict. So I suppose as one of the early bloggers I am on the downward curve now, a sort of blogging fatigue.

Anyway, here is my new year wish - Let me always be interested in something and have the ability to exercise that interest.

Chocolate

On the bridge to Electronics city - a cloudy day - I saw a man standing behind his motorcycle on the layby, one foot on the side wall, a hand resting his neck, gazing at the sky, puffing slowly smoke rings. There were certainly a lot of things wrong with that picture but I must admit the only thing that filled me was envy. Soul chocolate moment.

Talking of things one shouldn't appreciate but does - the new Tanishq wedding collection with Arundathi Nag and that beautiful girl - utterly charming.

Death before breakfast

Several weeks ago a pigeon found a way to build a nest in my balcony. In a couple of days I saw it had laid two eggs. Chasing it out of course was not an option and for a week or two I tiptoed around the nest and one fine morning saw the eggs hatched and two little pigeons very helpless living in my balcony.

I wish the story ended there.

Few mornings later I opened the balcony screen to a bloody scene - I shot but a glance, still enough for an indelible image of two wings broken brutally and blood splattered all over the white tiles and what could be the left over mangled remains. Much later, with no guts to go there, I asked my driver to help me. He called to ask me what to do with the other one; turns out one was alive. I asked him to leave it on a safe tree somewhere below - my mind dwelling on the horrors the other pigeon must have gone through - how it must have been filled with terror all night that the brutal assailant might come back. It must have been a cat - I have always hated cats with their cruel cruel eyes.

My driver looked pityingly at me, after cleaning and dutifully depositing the pigeon on a tree, almost smiled and said pigeon blood is good for those suffering from epilepsy, his village upbringing mocking my city-bred urbane sensitivity.

In some ways he is right - while superimposing my human emotions on the remaining pigeon and dwelling on its misery, what I really failed to see was the remaining pigeon was alive despite being an easy prey.



That thought made dinner possible that day and makes this blog writable.