I watched a storm. Alone . till 4 am.
There were other solitary storm gazers. A former group of storm chasers. "The same skies, but different horizons."
I surrendered my thoughts . to whoever .
My Thoughts wore its own identity as a collar. I was just the cuff links.
Zorba., the Greek. The story of my book. And the story inthe book. Which is more important ?? The words of the story are separate, but converge as I write this. There are afew lines which raise their hands from the classroom of my bookshelf. And I don'thave to reach out for the book, but they tell me anyways . Asked Zorba : "What's the use of all your damn books if they can't answer that?--They tell me about the agony of men who can't answer questions like yours?" and I nod gravely, turning to the Thoughts with no expression.
Zorba speaks again, and I smirk to myself. "You think too much,that is your trouble. Clever people and grocers, they weigh everything." Hah, dear Thoughts... do you have an answer to that?
A mixture of Sting, Jack Johnson and Mark Knopfler plays... a little line stands out, a little bit of melody, a few playful chords. My ears register what is being played. But the Thoughts.
The Thoughts race to a song, artists and lines that have notyet been played, and have been played in the last track.
I can type faster. I make spelling errors. I think jumbled. my fingers and the rest of my muscles and joints dont work as fast as Thoughts. the Thoughts Zip. i struggle to catch up on the keyboard. But tyes..... I only think what I have been taught.
Once again, a hoi polloi screech from my scattered and settled bookshelf. i ignore it.
I have been taught too much. I know , only what I know. What about things I don't know. Is my mind to over weight with knowledge as should be?
A chick flick. I wouldn't mind holding hands someday . The Thoughts mocked : Really Sajani, you would?
Sajani: ha ! erm.... You think?
A man in the balcony above: bald. Thought decided to go funning : Sajani , how bald can you get.
Sajani : dear Thoughts, where shall you be if I chicken strip my mind bald?
Thoughts : But Sajani, you used to think that bald is Hot.
Sajani :dear Thought, you Thought bald was hot. I wouldn't know, if it weren't for you.
And so onandso forth. The Thought had no identity really. It was gullible putty.
Sajani heard this :Jack Johnson sang Japanese. And Sting playedtagore songs. Really, you see, the Thoughts had no mind of its own.
And the stuff in my room. Such a burden, all of a sudden.Made the Thoughts such a boring person. Yet Sajani marveled how manipulative those books, those poems, the movies and the music were. How much they influenced the Thoughts.
Sajani looked at the Thoughts. And wondered why they never did a Bhangra cum hip hop. Why Did the Thoughts imm bring to mind a an Ariel-like wispy ballet floatation. Why was everything from them books?
Sajani to Thoughts: Have you ever tasted Gudangs and Coffee off someones lips.? Do you what a Dolphin feels like ? Do you know if car grease likes being where it stays? Do you know if Sugar crystals die to dissolve?
But The Thoughts raced away towards the Lights of the SkyScraper building. The Road ribboned itself below, glistening. Surfing , was the activity it called out.gliding. O dear ,lose the dictionary, Thoughts. this is NOT a time for Vocab.
And Sajani sat in her balcony. The building opposite. The geometry and the structure assured her and made her feel safe. To see that there will always be 35 storeys. Geometrically square boxes. Long balconies. The lines , invisible,yet the effect is so bound. It never wavers.windows and doors and shafts and elevators all bound within parallel lines.
Thoughts swooped back at her: "parallel lines are always equi distant apart at all points, and they never meet, or converge at a point......." said Sajani to Thoughts : Of course they meet, dear Thoughts, but you wouldn't know because the books don't tell you where, and neither have I.
A song comes to me. This is where Thoughts return to me with superman - swept- swoosh and told me that im thinking of Banana Pancakes. Shoo !!!
35 storey. 350 stories. The colors of the curtains. The people who sit on their balconies. Some in darkness. Some with the lights on and in company. Close enough for Sajani to just about figure out figures. Far enough for the eyesight to admit defeat.i can seethe lamplit drawing room, but not the lamp. And all the doors open into another level of strictly rectangular black . But the Thoughts return momentarily again: "what dyou think that balcony....." SHOO !!!
And Sajani settles back. A last line from Zorba: "If a woman sleeps alone, it puts a shame on all men.".
Sajani chuckles. Sajani watches the storm. Sajani feels cold. Sajani savours the Solitude. Sajani thinks of past people, situations and a jumble of colors, music and beats... of the Past.
The Thoughts. Sajani does Not know. They shall return morefull of itself. With a Typical Bong's affinity for the Russian Literature and Beatles. ( often A Pseudo interest and quarter baked , 80% raw knowledge ofthe Inside ( of the book) stuff.)
Sajani sighs a secret satisfaction that she hates the Beatles and feels nothing but Vodka of Russian. And really, neither is really her drink.
A scotch?? That IS the answer. But herein the Thought come in with a name and aphotograph. Go AwaY !!
The Storm raged. Rainless. Drain-zzled. Sajani smiled at the word.
Zorba. The Sun of the Gecian. The food of the Earth. Salivation.The SeaSalt. Where did sea salt come from.... Aah yes. Zorba will still scream away himself hoarse.
What was that, Zorba? "Why do the young die? Why does anybody die?" O really you darned Thoughts... go show off somewhere else.
but of course .... what Sajani's ears heard was Billy Joel. or was it the Thoughts who heard Joel ???
Sajani breathed. Mind vacant. Dumb blonde like. Yes, her hair was perfect, and her barefeet were perfectly attired for the night. Perfection in dumbness. Insomnia was her bestfriend. Her most Private time. After Guy was asleep, InSomnia and Sajani would stay awake in the darkness. The Gudangs were a distant taste.
And soon half the hour passed. What remained was half the dawn birth.
The Thoughts returned swiftly, silently,glidingly. And with all the intellectual Bong Snootyness it could gather, threw at Sajani :
"What Chekhov saw in our failure to communicate was something positive and precious: the private silence in which we live, and which enables us to endure our own solitude."
Sajani grinned at what was so in her. She had many friends.The Snob Thought , the Insomnia, the Silly handholder, the Gudang taster.
All of them were but a musical instrument for the Storm at a 4 am.
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