A crowd, especially a younger one, is not exactly my idea of spacing out. I have avoided the place diligently. I am no CCD fan, this is my second visit in 4 years, and I go in skeptical.
Nobody would be mistaken if they were to suggest writing a book is so much similar to sailing out in a backwater. You could choose to boat through the familiar waterways, taking in the landscape very much seen before but not lacking in the aesthetic sense, meeting the old faces and fishing nets,
I remember it was a greyish dawn; the room was a pale shadow, and our breathing assumed a curving hum. In some distant world which took shape as a tableau around us, we walked hand in hand, as rain sloshed down our backs and sunk into the wet grass.
For sure, nothing materialized in terms of romance. But we did progress into an exchange of ideas that can be, at best, termed as sublime and surreal.
There is only so much of reality that we can bear. When it becomes overwhelming, we turn to what we love, for that world that lives beyond our mind’s edge.
Thiruvananthapuram is life-size only when it comes to its tongue-twister name and when compared to its flamboyant cousin, Cochin in Central Kerala, it assumes the facade of a lazy city, still clutching on to its last 20th century moorings.
He could have easily been lugging lumber in some forest camp in the eastern interiors of Kerala. Or lithely carrying foreign tourists, with their sun-burnt legs stretched impossibly around his rocking spine, up the winding walkways of the imposing Amber Fort in Jaipur.
The IHM Chronicles Series
On My Nightstand
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