Hypergraphia

I long for Hypergraphia. I am tired of explaining my mood swings to others, and justifying it to myself. I am tired of everything. I am tired of reading. I am tired of drinking. I am tired of behaving normally. I am tired of being social. I am tired of remaining awake. I am tired of falling asleep.

The right knee is hurting again. That means I cannot run. Two nights ago, I was feeling terribly lonely. I sent smses to five people, asking them for a hug. One replied. The other replied the next day. One sent a blank sms back. And two didn’t reply at all. Hugs are premium, and people attach all kinds of meanings to them. Even hugs are not free. They are tagged, bound by cardinal rules of societal norms, used as a tool for barter by people. I don’t want them anymore.

Will be travelling tomorrow. Need to get out of this wretched city for few days. It is better to be among strangers in a stranger city. The people there don’t know you. They have no expectations. They will leave you alone. Even when there is a conversation, there will be no background to it.

I hate backgrounds, too.

I want to do this: flee to the mountains. Cook a nice meal. Lie down on a haystack in sunshine. Listen to Agha Shahid Ali reciting his poetry. Converse with the old postman. Put my head under a brook. Light a pipe. Play with mud.

Write feverishly, in long hand.

Hypergraphia.

Just another day

Today has also passed by. I got up in the morning, and went for a run around the neighbourhood track. While I was at it, five airplanes flew overhead. I wondered who was in them and where all did they arrive from or were going to. Then I sat for a while on a broken bench. At my feet lay two empty bottles of mineral water and an empty packet of potato chips. Someone must have had something to rejoice for or feel sorry about. Or he must have been drinking just like that, just like me.

At ten I went to a dentist friend who has taken up the task of ridding me of all dental ailments. He injected some local anesthesia, and suddenly my right cheek and a portion of tongue went numb. He then drilled into a tooth and filled it with what tastes like white cement (I think). He then offered me a nice cup of tea, and we talked for long about retirement plans and back-strengthening exercises.

Then I went to office, and read a few newspapers, edited an article, and checked few websites. I also browsed through my e-mail. Then I had a few spoons of rice with potatoes, politely declining a colleague’s offer of sharing a mutton Biryani.

Towards evening, I went to my favourite bookshop, and bought three books. Then I went to a café which I used to frequent earlier with a beloved, who I think still loves me but is no longer mine. I declined many offers of the girl at the counter to have coffees laced with chocolate and ice-cream. Instead, I had my usual cold coffee sans any embellishments. Something open up within, and I wrote furiously for about forty minutes. Then I experienced hot flushes and started to shake.

At first I thought it was due to a strong dose of caffeine. Then I thought I was having a heart attack. I thought of calling a few friends who I knew were drinking beer at a nearby pub. But then more than fifteen minutes passed and I was still alive, and I could still hold a pen between my fingers.

The feeling still hasn’t gone completely as I write this, and it is already midnight. I intend to resume reading Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons after this. The Internet at home is not working. So, I shall be posting this in the morning from my office.

If you are reading this, that means I am still around.

I haven’t had a drink since five days. I think it’s just withdrawal symptoms.

Or may be I have just grown old.

Life is a half marathon

The well of my stories has not dried up – I have many stories to tell you. Like Anupam Kher says in Santosh Sivan’s forthcoming film, Tahaan, set in Kashmir: Mere liye to zindagi ek dastaan hai.

But it’s just that I am increasingly struggling with right words and a right beginning.

I also have a book to finish and at least two major assignments are to be done from Kashmir. That means I will have to go through bundles of documents on issues like Naxalism and mining in the next two days. In between, I will also have to write mails, make phone calls for appointments, take print outs of flight tickets and money from the accounts department.

Two days later, I will have to be in Kashmir.

I am also seriously pursuing running. When I began a few weeks ago, after throwing a brand new packet of cigarettes out of my car, I could barely run two hundred metres. Afterwards, I would clutch my chest and, sometimes, hold my waist for supporting my back. Now, I can run up to two kilometres. So, between running and walking, I do about eight kilometres every day.

This Sunday, at six in the morning (Yes, I get up at six these days!), along with a mountaineer friend, I went to the Lodhi gardens, and ran the entire jogging track thrice. Later, we had a buffet breakfast at eight at the nearby American Diner inside the Habitat Centre.

I intend to run a half marathon before this year ends.

Some friends have asked for a better pic of my bookshelf. I am finding it a bit embarrassing to do so. But, let me tell you, I have bought eight books in the past one week, which includes an anthology of poetry and A Blue Hand by Deborah Baker.

So far as reading is concerned, I have just finished Hari Kunzru’s The Impressionist and regret not reading it earlier. I am now reading Herzog by Saul Bellow. I like Bellow very much and am desperately looking for one of his novels called Humboldt’s Gift. I have also been searching, in vain, for Heinrich Boll’s Billiards At Half-past Nine.

If you find them anywhere, please buy them for me.