I am afraid I must write this quickly before another Sunday dissolves into another long month that I cannot catch up with. This has been the busiest beginning of year. I didn’t notice BIFFES, META, BQFF nor any of the weekends that came after. I don’t remember the last time I sat in Parisian and read a book, don’t remember the last time I went to BCL, don’t remember the last time I took myself out for lunch (this is Swiggy’s fault)
Too much has changed and a lot more is going to change. I am not comfortable assessing if these changes are going to be good or bad. What I am sure of is that I am looking forward to another version of myself.
I thought I would quit going to Biffes this year because of Orion Mall. Turns out I can resist moping about endlessly if there is promise of 3 hours of stuffing my face with caramel popcorn and watching A abuse Titus. I can’t complain even though half my salary was dumped in cab fare and food because I caught some stunning movies.
Volcano, Corn Island, The Brand New Testament, Passion of Augustine, Gabo, Dheepan, Endless, and 3000 Nights are some movies I am struggling to remember so I can write about them.
Meta happened and happened well. Despite my dipping energy and random people’s capacity for malice, we were able to pull it off. I was on two panels this time and I must say I liked both of them very much. Part of reclaiming my space at Meta happened after one such panel. As I have come to discover, spaces can have more meanings than people. And Meta has become a space for me that has quite aptly gone beyond people.
It is easy to say this now but the ten days took quite their toll on me and I began to get perspective only towards the end.
And before I could sigh away the many lasts there were at the last day of META, BQFF arrived. Googly on white rum, I rode to Vasanth Nagar to catch Lawrence, anyways at Alliance. It felt familiar and nice to lay on the white mattress and watch movies in a half-sleeping half-crouching posture. It reminded me of normalcy and home. It reminded me of last year and how after averting a fiasco, I went to Goethe to watch Mommy’s Coming — all of us lying next to each other, shoes carefully hidden under somebody else’s, half my head resting on my bag, the other half on S’s shin. S and M giggling and slapping their own stomachs when daughter and mommy did the nasty. S’s disgust at the size of penises and A’s everlasting confusion about life in general.
It’s a Sunday. I am sleep-deprived and severely dehydrated as I write this but looking around the quiet and empty department calms me in a way that nothing has in a long time. Not even Old Monk. I need a new routine. I haven’t done Yoga in three months, haven’t done anything on my list in a year. Grr.
In other news, we said bye-bye to Faulkner and jumped to Roald Dahl, Ruskin Bond and R.K. Narayan this week. I don’t know why. It made sense to read short stories after the torture that Faulkner put us through. I am waiting for vacations this year. This is strange because I don’t usually think about them until they arrive but all I can think of now — after three months of 2016 –is that long stretch of laziness with little dots of travel here and there – come soonly, May.
I need to get back to reading and writing in a more sustained way. This month has been cray-cray.