Monday, May 28, 2007

Notes from another city

written, in bits and pieces, at night in a hotel room at bangalore, between the thirteenth chapter of the master and margarita. it's not entirely fiction, for i didn't make up all of it. neither is it quite faithful journalising, and it has nothing to do with literature. well i can possibly call it a letter. of the sort i used to write to people i loved, before we walked away and became cooler and forgot everything.

---

So let me take you down that alley. Off the ever-bustling road, the business district, away from the English-speaking cosmopolitan crowd, far from the crowd, on an afternoon of clouds and no breeze. Your mouth is red from gulping wine since the morning in the hotel room, alone, in your underwear, deliriously reciting neruda to the patch of rainsky from the window. Your throat is dry, your lips parched, you long for a stretched-out kiss to moisten your stinging tongue. So let me.

This city is very green, unexplored and green, it makes you drunk. Those cool shady patches that you discover, where you sit for hours singing, drawling lines from dylan and leonard cohen, in your drunk voice, your eyes distant like a madman. Here, you don't understand the language they speak. Yes, they will possibly answer back when you address them in the universal, formal tongue, but when they speak among themselves, all you can register is the distinct music of how the words fall, quite differently from your own mothertongue. And you adore it... it's a strange kind of freedom - this not having to hear, know, understand what you don't need to. Not running the risk of spoiling your perfect afternoon by the sudden furious urge to punch the face of the guy in the street who just passed a remark about your woman's breasts. Not experiencing that nauseating feeling of overhearing the people at the streetside shop whisper about Bong wankers as you slurp through your food. It's freedom. You love the way it tastes in your mouth, you savour it till it's intoxicating and sweet.

And so let me take you down that alley. Off the ever-bustling road, the business district, away from the English-speaking cosmopolitan crowd, far from the crowd, on an afternoon of clouds and no breeze. Let me take you down that alley, to that hidden, special book shop in the corner, down its dark, high firstfloor shelves of old musty volumes... there, under the gaze of rows of yellowed Petrarchs and Byrons and Beowulfs,

let us make love.

12 comments:

The Inquirer said...

The first para & the 3rd para started of with the same kinda line... cyclical is it? Intended I might add, but may be not, for u seem to have had that stream-of-consciousness kind of writing, where the writing leads u on, not the otherway round... is it so for u?

oo so u also like Neruda toooooo... have had one too many moments of madness with Neruda on my lips... infact u may wanna chk out 2 of my posts (fictional stuff) called "The Beautiful Army of Sadness", which obviously has that fragnance of Nerudian drunkenness in it!

PS. The last line of yur post was sudden & sure did stump me.

Elendil said...

Jesus Christ. I am in love with this little blog post. This is beyond brilliant.

oliver said...

inquirer: it's more of stream of unconsciousness, rather. these hotelroom nights, itellyou. and the main blog is this, though you may find it less interesting :)

prayag: that's because the man is me. the woman is me too. the sexinoldbookstore fantasies are mine as well. it's all a little bit of unadulterated drunken self-love.

Shamash said...

this post be serenely beautiful..
somwhat like adding a touch or magical to the realistic things that have happened garcia marquezish....

:)

saptarshi said...

Loved this.I want more!

Jijo said...

It initially strongly gives out an extremely urban essence, but contradictorily, and appreciably so, it is this urbanity perhaps that this piece subversively moves away from. Ofcourse, then again, it is not just about that...and says a lot of things without stating much at all. Certain very Joycean features noticeable - Stream of Consciousness indeed. however, take that as a compliment - coz I dun really doubt Your Originality...it's There, very much so, and succeeds in making it's presence strongly felt. The Last Line definitely comes as a Lubitsch Touch. Sth that's really got an extremely strong visual appeal...strong enough to spark off one's imaginations to start with, and much more than that. Art is, most often, greatly Personal to an extent, but Great Art is what Helps People relate and thus becomes Universal. I have no qualms about saying that this one, at least when it comes to Me, does help Me relate...at least makes Me want to...

Arse Poetica said...

Your post reminds me of the most beautiful, most strange and the most wistful moments of my life.I will not venture on Joycean Narrative, or Magic Realistical waddyacallit.
I will just tell you that somewhere on some boulevard of myriad sunsets and a thousand hopes, where martinis meet mud pies,and champagne is free, where the daal is always of the right consistency...
I will embark on the same path of drunken delusion...

Elendil said...

Gah. Some of these comments are so flowing with shit I feel like running to the loo. Force of example. :P

In fact it's becoming a shit flinging contest. Ha!

Elendil said...

*reads 3rd last comment*

*reels*

*loses (stream of) consciousness*

oliver said...

i'd seriously appreciate if mutual issues from ju classrooms are kept out of my blog. thanks for all the points of view, by the way.

Life's Elsewhere said...

Can you please help me reach myself to a copy of "the master and margarita" please?

Life's Elsewhere said...

Glory! What a blog! Everything is perfect, from the charged words - of course - to the Klimt header. I always knew that women are better poets and it is validated...
I have two pages of your blog (that means all those posts) saved in my rich little hard disk and will savour your words later. I have browsed each one of your posts though...
Sometimes, life seems to be better; the worse life left at day, dragging identities and liaisons to which one has latched oneself and the night reading words by others and feeling liberated till those words lull us to a better sleep...
Thankooos!!!