Hangover

Is it natural to break into "She moves... IN MYSTERIOUS WAYS... It's all right it's all right, alll rightt" at 10:30 AM at your workplace? Or go humming into "You've got to get yourself together, you got stuck in a moment and you can't get out of it" when the usual afternoon sleep attack strikes? Last year around this time (October 4th to be precise) I went skydiving and was then very sure that nothing on earth could have a longer lasting impact on my life than that. I figure out that I might have been wrong.

60000 people turned up in Gillette Stadium this Sunday to watch Bono, the Edge, Larry Mullen and Adam Clayton do their stuff on stage and every one is sure to have been afflicted by the U2 virus as much as I have. What a night, what a stage and what a show! In a true re-iteration of their rockstar credentials, not a single member of the audience sat down for the entire duration of their 2 and a half hour stint. There were seats for the taking but who on earth would want to sit when there was a such a spectacular display of concert lighting and infectious music being played. The stage itself was a creature from outer space with psychedelic mutations that need to be seen to be believed. The colours, the images and the effects complemented very ably the powerful music. How crazy must it feel to be part of such a legendary rock band? The fans, the adulation, the money, the freedom to explore only what you enjoy in life - all definitely beyond the pale of the daily office worker, their core fan base.

Going to the concert really sucked out a lot of energy from my innards. I was pooped but still pleased. For a change, this was a music hangover and I almost am wishing for it to stay forever - that silly kind of lazy haze that I currently find myself frolicking about in.

Build up

"With or without you"

"Angel of Harlem"

"I still haven't found what I am looking for"

"All I want is you"

"Where the streets have no name"

"Walk on"

"Elevation"

"Mysterious ways"

....

And so on goes my playlist right now, randomly looping and repeating itself till every guitar stroke is an expected guest. It is so difficult to grasp onto the reality that I am about see U2 perform live! After a bad day at school, after a term paper sure to be flunked, when the really kickin' kicks of a hostel party binge raged through heads - their music has been a constant solace and inspiration. Tonight at the Gillette Stadium, 70000 voices will all be swelling into the songs everyone of them knows by heart, all tied together by their awe and worship of the 4 guys on stage & their unique ability of tapping into the melody of their lives sometimes gray, sometimes green but always in tune, always in sync.

Opening U2's act will be a Scottish/Irish band Snow Patrol whose song "Chasing cars" is a beautiful shade of melancholy. When I first heard the song on a Wednesday night in Someplace Else being performed by a Calcutta band Span, I was instantly sucked into it. "What is this incredibly awesome song?", was my first thought. In fact, it was the first original MP3 song that I had ever purchased. Completing the circle, I shall hear them today... this time live!

To catch U2 live in the Irish heartland of Boston is a rare privilege. In the build-up to this landmark event in my life I am getting really nervy. There's just one word to describe how I feel right now... blessed!

Turtle hunter

I had a part in saving a turtle's life this past weekend but like the crocodiles that the late Steve "Croc Hunter" Irwin had committed himself to saving, it didn't seem too pleased about my timely intervention. It is so tough to gain appreciation these days; be it from man or animal. It may have something to do with the fact that we put it back to the same side of the road from which it was plodding its way across to the other side. But there was no definite way of telling of whether it was headed from the wetlands on the right of the road to the waters of Lake Nippenicket on the road's left or vice versa and we had to make a judgement call. What was for sure though was that if it stayed in the middle of the road where it was when I saw it, it was going to be meat paste very soon.

The sun had peeked out for the first time in the weekend on Sunday afternoon and we had seized this opportunity to kill time outside of home than inside it. Route 104 is a scenic drive thanks to the little ponds that occasionally pop alongside apart from the fanatically up-kept houses basking in the fall afternoon light. When we arrived at Lake Nippenicket, a grandmom and her toddler granddaughter were already standing hand over hips with a large turtle chilling out in the middle of the road. The creature did not seem inclined to respond to the grandmom's gentle prods with her umbrella. And this thing was huge!

It was time for the men to step in. I grabbed one of those foldable chairs wrapped in a round bundle and gave my hard shelled friend a shove with its tip. I was to find out that turtles turn around real quick and hiss real loud when they snap at perceived aggressors. Thankfully I was just out of range of its reputedly finger snapping teeth. The vibes of my good intentions were apparently not strong enough. A very short-lived idea of lifting it by its shell crossed my mind before I saw the razor sharp claws that it had on its flippered feet. I had clear memories of how abrasive the claws of our tiny little pet turtles felt like when I had to move them around. With a turtle at least 10 times their size I wasn't taking any chances. The "men" decided to hang back putting bravado aside. A crowd of couch potato animal lovers had gathered around the creature by this time, each as indecisive about the future course of action as the other.

A senior citizen in his early 70s appeared out of thin air, shovel in hand, scooped up our armoured soldier in one smooth motion and poured him over on the side of the road away from the lake. He was positive that it was the wetlands that the turtle was headed to not the lake, how I cannot tell. But when the turtle did not show up on the road again for a couple of minutes (after such brusque handling, not surprising at all), we had to assume that experience does count when reading the mind of a giant lazy turtle. Everyone else just patted themselves on the back for the moral support provided in this rescue mission and carried on. The Discovery Channel it seemed could only teach you so much.

Clear cut

Today seems like a good day to make this argument. 36 years old and as superhuman as ever, the little genius from Bombay worked his magic again in the most artistic and epic sport that human beings have ever thought up. The blade twirled, the boundary boards got smacked and one man did his job of playing exhilirating cricket with a casual air only a few blessed cricketers of his level can. It was the turn of the Sri Lankans to feel the heat this time but they ought to feel special at being chosen for this particular extempore. That is the primary basis of my claim that India is better than the US. It's just two reasons and they are reason enough for me.

Number one is that the US does not appreciate cricket and number two is that it is unaware of who Sachin Tendulkar is! Even in the world of ignorance, this is the most unforgivable of crimes. What kind of a country worships the Tom Bradys and Kobe Bryants while living a life bereft of the most engaging sport in the world (especially when India is winning) and of the marvels of nature that play this game with such fluid authority. Maybe the US will catch up eventually but right now it sure has a long way to go!

Pulsar song

Deep in an Calcutta alley, lies the den of the beast,

Blue is its hue and darkness brings its feast,

Empty roads, desolate bridges

All so neglected, all easy meat.

The timid world has felt itself choke,

On the snarling engine and through the glowering smoke,

Pass as it must, by gently sleeping homes,

Never a trace of peace where the creature roams.

Tram tracks glint in the yellow sodium light,

Potholes await in vain to trap the surging might

The wind is an adversary persistent and curt

The road is a ribbon waiting for the spurt.

A motorcycle but it is to the eyes of the world,

Yet are jealous looks cast, and swear words hurled

What if anything could provoke such animosity?

It's because on a motorbike, you ride away from reality.

Perspective

3:30 AM on Monday morning and the fire alarm in my apartment complex goes off. The red lights flashing and the intentionally ear-wrenching alarm are enough to make a dead body stuffed in a closet come running out of the building let alone me, an overworked-underpaid employee who is in a state of light sleep in expectation of another tough week at work to begin. Work as of now is nowhere on my mind. Being burned to death is not my preferred way of getting off all the tough bits that life has yet to throw at me.

I jump up in my shorts and T condition, scramble to grab my glasses in the dark and tumble down the stairs, my personal laptop (The office laptop can burn in hell for all I care) in one hand and my digi-cam in the other, apparently the only precious items that my sleep addled mind could think of in the half minute of time that it had. I was glad just to step outside the confines of my wooden death-trap of a building.

It is evident from the time that I enter the parking lot that this is a false alarm as I am the only person who has made the effort to come out of the building. About 15 seconds later, the Gujarati guy who lives upstairs comes out looking like he had to leap out of a 10th floor window to escape the 'fire'. About 2-3 minutes later, Parker the beagle comes ambling out with his master in tow and that's about it. This is sometime in early October and autumn nights in New England can get chilly. I become aware of this weather update as I watch the firemen enter the building, come out wearing relieved smiles and shut off the alarm.

I on the other hand am far from smiling. I've never seen the look of a serial killer outside of a movie screen but I dare say the firemen are seeing it on my face right now. A couple of them stop smiling. In 3 hours time, I must suit up for work and I feel the need for atleast 6 more hours of sleep after being so cruelly jolted out of my disturbed slumber.

Though I cannot force a smile on my face at the way the situation eventually turns out, I am definitely appreciative of what all this boils down to. In a moment of a really real crisis, all that matters is that you are alive and good to see the next day. These are the basics that cannot be done without. Everything else is of secondary concern. It helps a lot to gain some perspective on what's really important once in a while.

Complicated

It is a very creepy thought to pick up and I wonder why I am writing this at all. I was reading about this Swiss organization called Dignitas which has a very specific market in mind (Though it is required by Swiss law to be a 'non-profit' organization). It is a group which specializes in assisted suicide. The Swiss government believes that amongst all the other freedoms that a person possesses, there should also be the freedom to pull the plug on one's own life if one chose to and so it went ahead & gave it to them. Aged men and women from around Europe come to Dignitas to face death with dignity, their bodies tortured by terminal diseases or pain beyond the capabilities of modern medicine.

In a way it is an act of extreme mercy on a person from whose existence the light of joy has faded out and will never return but it still qualifies as murder. Old age must be such a difficult and lonely place to be in. The life you had built for yourself was now a relic of the past, torn down and built over by subsequent generations whom you had helped raise to competence. Now you are most likely the beneficiary of a polite tolerance more hammed than natural. With the overutilized body acting up in every possible way, it's a place nobody wants to be but has to end up going. It's a tough life but that's the way it is.

What if everyone of a certain age were given that option? Wouldn't so many of them end up taking that option, abandoned as some of them are by their own progeny or worser still, feel like some kind of a leech on their offspring's family and happiness? I have met a lot of old people who are brimming over with a zest for life even more so than me, and an equal number of them whose every morning groan is a precursor to yet another day of incurable aches and unrevivable hopes. Life is a gift indeed but how much it feels like one when you are 90 and bed-ridden is highly debatable. Yet it is so horrifying to see someone being given that choice and choosing not to walk on, choosing to stop and melt into a sleep of peace.