Life's a party!

There are some quaint moments in everyone’s life when they feel stupid and sane at the same time. I feel sensible and sappy, in equal parts, many times. Like an Uppish, high-society party I went to, this weekend. Bellies swirled like some mid-winter tempest in the fashionable kegger, straight out of a famed Shakespearean work. Expensive arch-lights blazed in the background and flashers appeared to blinker upon glossed-over faces. American colonial-style decking, neoclassical columns, baroque plasterwork, Tudor beams. I clutched a drink tightly in my hand. Well past mid-night, babes sashayed in their bare minimals. Being a tad old fashioned -- in my mid-twenties -- I was shamelessly clad in woolens. I beamed fake smiles, like all others. I danced briefly, upon being invited by a nubile perfumed girl. My brawny buddy Barry was the center of some attraction and drew considerable female attention. Like other parties of the kind, it was first silent, then talky, then argumentative, then disputatious, then unintelligible, then altogether, then inarticulate, and then drunk. That’s where it all culminates. It was fun, nonetheless.

Driving back home in Delhi winters -- at 3 in the night – I think of what New York must have looked like a century back, perhaps. It is calm and chaotic at the same time; trucks entering Delhi bring in milk and vegetables and plastic pipes and whatnot. It is an endless stream of automobiles finding their way in. Trying to satiate the appetite of the capital city of the world’s fastest growing economy. People – and there are loads of them – sleep, huddled together upon roadside kerbs. Trying to hold on to each other’s warmth on a harsh, cold wintry night. Some elderly beggars were trying to light a bonfire. From inside the thermal confines of my car, I could see their blankets were not warm enough to keep out the cruel chill. Even in 9.5% growth. Wonder, how those beauteous babes managed!

Back home, I hit upon some lines, I couldn’t help adapt. Ya, I know. Stupid, Sam, someone may think. It is not that I don’t think of life without my distant dream. It is just that one practically cannot stop dreaming. Moreover, the thoughts are not the remnants of any party line. It's just that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what I really think. Just me.

The lines, my friends, before I drift again:

Why do I holler inside?
Why do I try and hide
Why do I still care
Why do I think you there.

Why do I love you?
Why do I think you love me too
Why do I feel pain
Why do I feel I'm insane.

Why do I want you so bad?
Why do I get a li'l mad
Why do I miss you
Why do I need you.
Why do I still love you?

Samy