I can't stay put on one thought, can't think beyond the surface about anything.
From the absurd theatrics of selecting the President for the country, to Dhoble's Shakespearean antics, everything is surreal.
Mumbai Unite, Mumbai Unite, Mumbai Unite!!!
Adam Bedi, Nisha Harale Bedi, Viren Shah, all those hundreds of awesome DJ's who drowned in their craft, turning the table, spinning the wheel, those creative friends of mine who shout from every platform, media, padestal and tower, remain unheard because their music ended with the whip of terror justified in courts of the Indian law which sent frightened girls to remand, and a terrorist on flight.
Nitish opposing Modi, Mamata marching on the Government she supports, Jayalalitha and Sushma, it looked like politics is now a place reserved for either the goon or the fool, not the artiste, nor his muse.
Newsrooms fill with highest thinkers, editors, spokespersons, frenzied news reporters and sports commentators, modern day Brahmins commenting and paving the path for the silly Kshatriya's, wondering if Paes and Bhupathi will make up or go their own way, in which case, who will kiss Rohan Bopanna?
Is it about the Olympics?
You can make entertainment, or be itself, the only legit industry, unrecognized but providing a bizarre dignity to individuals or collective people who can be jokers themselves, or make them dance.
Which is this industry, and which not, the confusion on the epitaphs of all those who stay breathing, having let the dead go?
Accidents, alcohol, drugs, murders, traffic snarls, potholes, hunger, pain, all come together in collages at the push of the button with the remotest click and wailing widows at the banks of the Ganga with weeping wives on television collide with sound in a cacophony of chaos.
Bob Dylan, Marley, Morrison, Hendrix, Gandhi and Lincoln pinned on walls of screens that stare at the quotation drama unfolding in homes, offices, roads and cop stations.
Life imitating art, copying fiction, cheating reality and screeching to a dramatic halt, which is real and which is naught?
I'm about to go crazy but a semblance of dawn rises every time silence prevails in the dead of the 'delayed' monsoon night.
A wait begins for rain to drop, fall, pelt and flood but nothing of the sort happens and the dark shatters to pieces as the light at the end of the tunnel traps the eyes in the blindness of a black haze.
It's another day when many people die, kill and are sent to prison innocent, while most of those who committed crime and walked openly threatening peace, grin and uncork their wines to raise a toast to desperation and anguish, trauma and despair.
To their own livelihood.
This is that nation where children cry and the young fall to the abysses of acid and cocaine, to trance electronic and psy, to rebellion to revolution, to song and lyric, in Parvati Valley, in Goa, at railway stations and airports, awaiting a miracle.
Where they hoped to end their sane, as the unleashed terror upon them of the state and the underbelly consumed their appetite and gave them their daily dose of comedy, tragedy, drama and a potboiler.
Where it was predicted that when rain falls, everyone would come out, on to the streets and dance!
I'm amazed we're still alive.
The plane had crashed, but we never died!!!