At the other end of crazy, there's simple living and I occasionally imagine what a simpler life would've been like -backpacker stories from Lonely Planet and Conde Nast remind you that there're still tiny societies in Peru, Papua New Guinea and even the outer fringes of India that are essentially untouched by modern civilisation. Try to picture a world so wonderful that you have never heard of rising inflation, traffic jams or Justin Bieber. Then, you get to the average male toad, which probably has the simplest life of any creature in the history of the universe. In all their interactions they'd ever have with fellow toads, they have one of three decisions to make. If the other toad is smaller than they are, they eat it; if bigger, they flee like there's no tomorrow; if of the same size, they have sex with it -when there's a response, it's probably female.
At the end of last week, I felt a little like Stromae singing ‘Alors on Danse’. So, like everybody else in this city, I celebrated Bangalore’s new 2 hour extension to when clubs need to shut shop, with tequila shots, neon fog and lungi dancing.
The next morning, I rediscovered that Cubbon Park, with its gorgeous canopies and streaming sun beams, is lovely for a morning jog. The incredibly good air quality there is an indicator that our economy isn’t doing too well.
With improved air quality and delayed club closing times, the only additional things we need improved are the roads and infrastructure. A good way to ensure that is to make it America's problem by having the US army invade Bangalore –maybe we should tell em we have oil?
I went for an AAP fundraising dinner in Bangalore yesterday. Arvind Kejriwal, at close quarters, fully equipped with his Z-plus security, topi and broom, is 10% original, 10% brilliant and 80% nausea. Today, he announced that he might contest from Varanasi, the only conceivable reason being that he believes Varanasi has more untapped news crews. A good friend once told me, “gentlemen never discuss politics”, so I won’t get into that. Your Facebook feed is already full of well informed pro and anti NaMo posts from friends who’ve suddenly become angrier than Arnab Goswami.
I just got a text from someone who’s having a bunch of friends over for beer and a highly anticipated ‘North London derby’. I have never understood this EPL craze. Shouting wildly for “our lads” during a Tottenham-Arsenal matchup is like a group in Ho Chi Minh City getting together for a much awaited 'derby' match between Bommasandra & Baiyyapanahalli. Also, I thought Arsenal had been relegated. Apparently, saying this was absolute blasphemy and this got me deleted from that Whatsapp group. I now need new friends.
Given that I have no friends, I’ll take to blogging more.
Bob Dylan and Tim McGraw are splendid when you want to sit down to blog -my iPod is now playing ‘She’s My Kind of Rain’. In this city, rain is synonymous with traffic jams and blaring horns. But when you can get far away from that, and still have some drizzling, it can be quite magnificent. I've found everything I’ve ever wanted to know about someone on a long drive with them. Moonlight helps. Tequila helps too. When you talk to someone with words and they look back at you with feelings is when you get to the inner sociopath in them –if that inner sociopath doesn’t excite you enough, nothing will –ever. The silence between those words ought to tell you everything. From that moment onward, it gets to warm and fuzzy. We fall in love with people who inspire us to push ourselves mentally, physically and emotionally –mostly mentally, I think. Everybody has a thing.