One moment the sky is clear. The next, they descend on me. In hoards. Like Stukas from the sky.
They come out of the sun. Like any self-respecting fighter pilot would.
I lower my visor and prepare for the onslaught.
They come at me in a straight line. As if playing 'chicken'. And swerve at the last millisecond.
All except one.
Splat! And what was once a healthy dragonfly, becomes a late dragonfly. He's ceased to be. He's passed on. He's demised. He's no more. He's gone up to meet his maker. He's pushing up the daisies. He's deceased. He's a late dragonfly. He rests in peace. He's expired.
Like the milk in my fridge. Like the 'life' in my life.
Which explains why I'm on this 7 hour motorcycle journey to Chennai on this Diwali weekend.
I need to be. I need to know that I still am.
And so I took off on a Friday on Liz, my trusty 350cc, Enfield Thunderbird.
As usual I've taken hours to depart. I love traveling but keep feeling I might leave something behind. So I spend hours preparing for it.
Backpack, riding gloves, helmet, hip-pouch, riding jacket, CAT boots, cellphone, handsfree, medical kit etcetera etcetera. In a moment of lunacy, I decide to leave spares and puncture kit behind. Living on the edge. It'll only add to the experience.
I'm ready to go. Lock my house and climb on to Liz. Who is angry with me for neglecting her for over 6 weeks. And shows it by kicking back. Nearly missed my knee banging on the handlebar.
I caress her sweet-spot. The fuel tank. Just below the logo. And whisper sweet nothings into her rear-view mirrors.
Kick again. This time she catches. First gear, and Elvis has finally left the fucking building. About fucking time too.
Hosur traffic. But I don't care. I've a cigarette on my lips and a song in my head.
Chris Rea. Driving home for Christmas.
Outside Hosur I stop for a bite. French loaf from 'BreadZ' (Hate the Z but love the taste) and cheese spread. Heaven. Food always tastes good when it's more than just nourishment.
Crossing a town. Can smell Ittar and cordite from the crackers in spurts. Love it.
Start wondering why people like smells associated with their own religion, and despise those of other religions.
How can belief reign on your senses?
Dislike or like by association. Always a problem.
Something like the 'appam' i get in church, during the lent season. It's a pot luck thingy. Every woman in the congregation makes it and brings it to church so people can have it, along with black coffee, after mass.
Now don't get me wrong. I love appams. Just not ones made by bad cooks. Every housewife in a 20km radius, regardless of taste buds, makes them and adds them to the kitty. I'd love to have my mother's appams. But I get Mrs. Thomas's instead. It hasn't risen. It gums up in my mouth and has as much taste as a sponge. Besides, it doesn't contain cashews and dates. Like my mom's. I see Philip over there with the date studded one. I make like I don't like it.
"Don't waste it." my mom says "neercha aa" (It's holy).
Ok! I'll eat it. Just don't expect me to like it. I'll eat it cos it's blessed and because it's tradition. But do I have to like it because it is?
I mean, I believe in the lord. Do taste buds too? Is there a church for tastebuds? Imagine having to baptize every part of your body to align with your faith.
"I christen thee George Koshy's tongue. And you George Koshy's lips." And so and so forth.
It's a mystery.
My ex is my first clue. She loved 'Chanel Allure' until we had a fight one night. Ever since then, she hates it. Because it reminds her of 'that day'.
Can't you simply love a smell, a shade, a feel without your memory or conditioning influencing your choice?
Is it a sex thing or a religion thing? I believe it's a personal thing.
We're taught to not question things that are remotely connected to faith and beliefs. No matter how riduculous.
Like touching your books with your feet.
I used to get whacked for keeping my books on the floor and reading with my feet on it. "It's Vidya" (knowledge). I was told. "She'll curse you."
I'd desist from doing it if the books came free and the lessons just eased themselves into my brain without studying. Here I have to buy the confounded things with money, spend hours reading it and memorizing it. And am expected to worship it too? Fat chance.
I take care of my books now. Not because it's religion, but because i read them religiously. Because I want them to last.
Like the Conan Doyle, limited edition complete collection, with original illustrations. Like my RAF Navigation handbook from the 1940s. I love them cos they deserve it. Not cos I'm stuck with them for a year and will help me get into college.
Reaching the outskirts of Chennai. Cross the Kuwam river. It stinks to kingdom come. And my sister says Chennai is happening. With just 3 pubs and hot weather, I fail to see how.
But I'm happy. I've left the stench of advertising behind. Everything else is just Chanel Allure.
