Do the blind dream of rainbows? The other day I dreamed of friends coming over and making me drag out my purple bicycle; and then we cleaned up the rusty old thing, filled up the tyres and got it into the streets after seven-eight years or such; and then I’m remembering the thrill of cycling, the exhilaration of zooming through the intricate lanes in my locality with the wind on my face, and how much better it is than walking under the scorching noontime sun, and how you never sweat and your shirt never sticks to your body, and the pleasant ache in your legs; and then Baba buys me a new bicycle because I’ve really outgrown the old purple bike and because even the best — the really fast and sleek — bicycle is so much cheaper than a car; and then I’m cycling, cycling, cycling, swerving and turning just for the pleasure of it; travelling through bazaars and shady lanes that I haven’t visited since I was a ruffianly schoolkid with classes done by 11:45 AM and nothing to do before lunch. When I woke up in my bed — sweat-damp and uncomfortable because the day was breaking and the heat building up — my brain was still streaked with the residue of that happiness, and I wanted to go up to Baba and ask for the new bicycle right now before it sunk in, slowly, slowly, that I had never learned how to ride a bicycle. I cannot. (The old purple kiddie bicycle — which I loved but could never control — had eventually rotted away and been sold at a junk shop, after I gave up and grew older and found other things to be interested in.) I’ve never driven a bicycle, I’ve never driven a motorbike, I’ve driven nothing but a small car and the sensation of that is quite different. Where from then that impossibly vivid dream, that I keep longing to return to but I’m afraid I never will?
The last post feels duly privileged for the attention of the weather gods, who have ensured that the ugly May weather has made a vengeful comeback. Well, maybe not. But I roasted in the heat all of yesterday the day-before and missed the brief early evening shower because just then I happened to be inside a mall. Ironic, what? This heat wave burns away all delusions and I can see clearly all the studies that haven’t been done, all the work that hasn’t materialized, basically the freedom’s-just-another-word-for-nothing-left-to-lose state of mind. I feel devastatingly free. My thoughts go where they want (mostly in the gutterwards direction, I can’t deny). I cook a little in the mornings, paint a little in the evenings, just mess around with ingredients and watch them turn into other things. Icecream, ghugni, chicken curry, the odd little sketch. Reading books that aren’t on the syllabus and articles and comics on the internet. I got happily buzzed on a can of beer the other evening (ain’t I amazing?) and reconnected with an old friend whom I think I really love (or maybe I’m just remembering the beer talking) while we hung out with a couple of new friends. Reminiscing old college days, back when we were cooler and slightly less worried about the future. Back when we’d encountered fewer shitty people and subsequently were more hopeful about the state of the world. Okay, maybe not so morbid. It was actually a rather awesome day, although what we were doing was exchanging notes for the upcoming exams and got very badly ripped by the xeroxwallah and decided to skip a party afterwards. Life is just that strange.
I’ve decided to fill up the 30 Day Song Challenge anyway, even though this is nearly halfway through the month so I’m missing out a bit of the fun. But I’ll never be punctual enough to begin it on the first of any month, so what you gonna do? Anyway, so Day 1: Your Favourite Song is this:
Obviously, it’s difficult to select one favourite song, but this one comes to mind because I’ve had it with me for a very long time and it has always made me feel spoken for, so it stands up rather well to the ravage of age.
And now this means you can expect a post tomorrow, and the day after, and the next day and so on, until I get bored. This is really a rather boring meme in the insipid, unimaginative American kind of way.
Mimi Mondal 
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