Monday Hues

I am wearing a deep and sustaining shade of blue. I blame it on all the love stories I've been reading. From a collection called "My Mistress' Sparrow is Dead" (Jeffrey Eugenides Ed.). The stories are awful. Awful in that they are lovely, of course. Lovely in that they make you feel awful in so many ways. They are stories of love and then some. I think passion best describes the theme. The kind of passion you wouldn't think one could possibly articulate. The kind of misery you would never have thought could be so eloquent.
And the pain? It is the kind that you didn't think you were capable of feeling. It comes from a part of your body (some mysterious organ perhaps) whose existance you were hitherto unaware of.
(Not my pain.. Mine is bearable. Mildly annoying. Annoying because happy is the only way I've ever been. Happy is the only way I know how to be. You realise how inconvenient that is. To have to reconcile a feeling you've never allowed yourself to feel? The brain fails to process it. Doesn't know what to do. For updates on changes in my mental disposition, watch this space.)
The pain I talk of is that experienced by the characters (thankfully) in the stories. What sick pleasure writers must take in drowning their characters in such gloom. Secretly venting out their own frustration be it real. Or worse, invented for art's sake.
And as for the reader? The poor unsuspecting fool who was duped into purchasing the vile publication by an aesthetically pleasing cover page and an extremely charitable blurb. And of course the promise of experiencing love, albeit vicariously. Love, with all the smiles and hugs and caresses and holding of hands. The sleepless nights, beating of hearts. And love, with all the anger and tears. The sleepless nights, beating of hearts.
And the poor reader.. paralysed by woe. Woe is me that I will never find that sweet everlasting love. Woe is me that when I do find it, the initial sheen will invariably wear thin. That which was once such a source of simple pleasure will (one can only hope later rather than sooner) become complicated and tedious.
Woe is me, that I traded an early morning jog for an early morning blog.
*
I am suddenly feeling much better. The agenda for the day has been laid out. It will be a long one, much like the rest. But my enthusiasm inspires much confidence in my boss's sweet and forgiving heart. My inclination toward effort more than makes up for the stupid questions that stubbornly make their way through my mouth. The work, she will get done. It will take time. But it will get done. Phew...
*
I have seen more dead rats in my 7 months in Mumbai than I have in my entire life. I can roughly identify two key reasons. Either, Mumbai has more rats or Mumbai rats are less sturdy and just kick the bucket without much fuss and fight. Neither of the two prospects is particularly appetising.
The third explanation (mine favourite one) is that rats simply choose to die more public deaths. And not just because of lack of space. The whole "Mumbai has no space" thing is really done to death. And irrelevant in the context of tiny creepy crawlies and their larger, creepier and mammalian cousins. If there is space for anything in this city it is for rats to crawl into and die. No, the rats are unafraid, they are vocal, loud voluble (voluminous too).
I dedicate this post to the dead rat i saw on the way to work this morning. All set to be devoured by a nasty crow. Its death may have gone unlamented by the rodent community but it did not go unnoticed by the universe. I saw it. I was there. Just me and the odd crow.
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I encountered an extremely bossy old lady on the bus. It amazes me how bossy the old and infirm can be. But she was more than just bossy. She was just at peace with herself. An advanced stage of realisation of self.
For one split second I wanted to be old and wrinkly. To zoom to an age when all the worries of love have been done and dealt with. An age when the stray dead rodent doesn't inspire extended musing.
*
Enough of that. The work day is well past begun. Now I am young. There is much toil on the menu. There is much love to be made. Much money as well. A full life waiting to be lived.
Us drones can be remarkably poetic at times. I blame it on the stories we read.
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I wrote this earlier and am posting it now. Managed my time quite while in between. Yay!