Memories in Melodies

Not that homesickness is confined to a particular season, but I end up missing home terribly at this time of the year. Among the countless things that bind me to where I will always belong, is music - old Hindi music and ghazals, in particular. Given that both my parents enjoy it immensely, and that music always had a place in the background when all of us were together when I was growing up, it is hardly surprising that I have an innate love of melody too. College and my time on my own added new genres and more variety to what I like...but there's nothing that can quite take the place of old Kishore Kumar, Lata Mangeshkar and Mohd. Rafi songs...or of the soulful ghazals by Ghulam Ali and Jagjit Singh. I seem to have inherited my father's love of Gulzar's poetry, my mother's knack for remembering lyrics, and both my parents' flair for humming and singing softly as they go about their work. This evening, I suddenly found myself humming Katra Katra from Ijaazat, an old Hindi film. So I thought I'd share excerpts from some of my favourites :) Somehow, they end up saying a lot about life...happy songs! :)


Katra katra milti hai, katra katra jeene do
Zindagi hai, behne do,
Pyaasi hoon main pyaasi rehne do...
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Aane vaala pal jaane vaala hai
Ho sake to ismein zindagi bita do, pal jo yeh jaane vaala hai...
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Ae zindagi, galey laga le
Humne bhi tere har ek gham ko galey se lagaya hai, hai na?
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Diye jalte hain, phool khilte hain
Badi mushkil se magar duniya mein dost milte hain...
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Koi roko na deewaane ko
Mann machal raha kuch gaane ko...
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Tum itna jo muskura rahe ho
Kya gham hai jisko chhupa rahe ho...
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Tera mujhse hai pehle ka naata koi
Yunhi nahi dil lubhaata koi
Jaane tu, ya jaane na...
Maane tu, ya maane na...
[Yes, I know this one came back into the limelight recently :)]
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This one is from Marasim, an album that Gulzar and Jagjit Singh collaborated on. It released when I was in senior school, and I have very vivid memories of listening to the songs with Papa as he drove me to and from my Math tuitions (I am seriously mathematically challenged!). I would chatter nonstop, breaking off every now and then to ask him what a particularly difficult Urdu word appearing in the current song meant. He would explain the meaning if he knew it himself; otherwise, we sat and deconstructed the word and tried going into its etymology to arrive at its meaning. Pronunciation in Urdu is extremely nuanced, and my father insisted I pronounce words right, often having to say a word as many as eight times himself for me to get it straight! Now and then, I’d deliberately mispronounce a word, just to hear him say it again, perfectly and with endless patience.

Haath chhoote bhi to rishtey nahi chhoda karte
Waqt ki shaakh se lamhe nahi toda karte...

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I remember, in particular, these lines delivered by Gulzar himself at the end of the song. An exquisite metaphor wrapped in beautiful, simple, poignant poetry, addressed to a weaver and rendered in the voice of a much-admired poet:

Mujhko bhi tarqeeb sikha koi, yaar julaahe
Aksar dekha hai tujhko taana buuntey
Jab koi dhaaga toot gaya, ya khatam hua
Phir se baandh ke aur sira koi jod ke usmein
Aage buun-ney lagte ho.

Tumhare iss taane-baane mein lekin ek bhi gaanth-girah
Dhoondkar bhi dekh nahi sakta hai koi.

Maine toh ek baar buna tha ek hi rishta, lekin
Uski saari girrhein saaf nazar aati hain mere yaar julaahe…

Mujhko bhi tarqeeb sikha koi, yaar julaahe…

Translated, it reads:

Teach me your method, friend weaver.
Often have I seen you weave your threads together…
Every time a thread breaks, or runs out
You knot the loose end or tie it to another
And continue with your weaving.

Nobody can spot any of those knots in your weaving, though -
even if they tried.

The only thing I have ever woven is a relationship
But all its knots and loose ends are so clearly visible, my friend.

Teach me your method, friend weaver.

I could go on and on...but there is hardly any point in listing about a hundred and fifty songs :) Old music is something I frequently turn to when I miss home, but it has the dual, rather paradoxical effect of making me feel better and more homesick at the same time! Which are your favourite songs? :)

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P.S. This post is dedicated to Ma and Papa. Aren't parents the most wonderful people in the world? :)

Hmm. I see.

For those who refuse to believe what they are going to read now, I have documentary proof. Wire INR 60 into my account so that I can scan the cards in and send you a soft copy. As of this moment, I am broke.

Where were we?

Glasses. Thank you.

I have been wearing glasses for eight years now. When the telltale headaches and blurred vision first began in tenth grade, the prescription read: Left -1.25, Right -1.5 --- 6/6. Over these last eight years, those figures on the prescriptions have varied, rising and falling and staying constant till, two years ago, when I went for my annual eye check-up, the optician gave me a pair of glasses with a power of -0.5 in the left lens and -0.75 in the right. And because my employers were footing my medical bills [;)], I went ahead and requested anti-reflective coating as well. Hey, don't judge me...I was also spending 10 hours a day in front of a computer screen working for them!

Ask any constant user of vision correction glasses and he will tell you that it's always a good idea to head to the optician's when your head begins spinning if you so much as read the label on a bottle of shampoo. It has been happening to me for some time now, so I figured a visit to the neighborhood optical store was in order. I went this afternoon.

The optometrist examined me and my glasses and declared that the right lens of the specs needed changing from -0.75 to -0.5. "The power in the right lens has fallen", he added for good measure. "And this anti-reflective coating needs reinforcing. We'll have it done by the evening. It will cost you 1,650 only."

Gulp.

"Unless it is an emergency", my father's words rang in my head, "always get a second opinion on any medical issue, especially when you're away from home and the family physician."

"Right. Thanks", I said, picking up my things. "I'll be back later."

I fled the store and wondered what I should do next. It made sense to get a second opinion on the change in the power of my lenses, especially because the wrong glasses can do damage that goes beyond splitting headaches. So I headed to another optician further down the road.

This one emerged from behind his gigantic machine and gave me a grim look.

"The power in both lenses has risen by 0.25", he announced. That wasn't all. "Your left eye is beginning to show signs of defect in cylindrical vision. You already need spherical correction, obviously."

Uh, what?

Now, I do have a vague idea what cylindrical and spherical is. And it shouldn't surprise me that my eyes are beginning to show more signs of defect. As my grandmum declared when I first obtained glasses, it is surprising I didn't need them earlier. Defective vision runs in the family. Apparently, the last person known to have perfect vision all his life was my grandmum's great grand-dad.

"Two thousand four hundred", this man declared with grim satisfaction. "If you want new frames, those will be charged for separately."

Thank you. I said I would be back in the evening if I decided to place an order.

Stepping out, I spotted a third optician's signboard about fifteen stores down the road. In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought as I hiked down. Might as well have him telling me something else needed changing.

"These spectacles you currently use will do just fine", the doctor said, switching the machine off. "Your vision is exactly what it was when you got those made. However", he lingered, eyeing my glasses, "it's been a while for that anti-reflective coating. I suggest you get it replaced."

"Twelve hundred", the clerk totted it all up.

"Thanks. I'll be back in case I need to place an order", I said. Paid the fifty bucks for the testing and escaped.

And that's how I decided that I'm sticking with my current pair of glasses. If three opticians have three entirely different opinions on the state of my eyes, I guess it's safe to assume that these old things will live yet. An hour of traipsing through Kamla Nagar, 190 in testing bills and a headache that had nothing to do with my vision...kind of a costly reminder that it's time I stopped being too lazy to fetch my glasses and put them on when I sit down to use my computer or read myself to sleep.

The finale to the adventure came when I was telling my sister the story. "Hmm", she remarked, "Given that those three exhausted all the options among themselves, I wonder what a fourth optician would have said. You want to visit the big store at Hudson Lines?"

Of this, that and the other

There's a nip - more than a nip, actually - in the air. The sort that skims lightly over bare arms and raises goosebumps. The cold is just new enough to be pleasant, and just sudden enough to take you unawares. And when you hug yourself, trying to huddle up against it, you feel warm and cosy and snug, and break, instinctively, into a smile...Old Man Winter remembers us, after all!

Just as you remember him. Just as you remember the shaft of sunlight that stole into your room every winter morning with delicious warmth. Just as you remember the thrill of being allowed to sleep till seven because school began at nine in the winter session. Just as you remember drawing trees and smiley faces - and graduating to signing your name - on the bathroom mirror when hot water baths steamed it up. Just as you remember New Year's Eves at home, when the warmth from sweaters and shawls paled before that of togetherness. Just as you remember scooting across your room barefoot to get the slippers you forgot somewhere else in your house, giggling as the cold floor bit the soles of your feet. Just as you remember marvelling at the first rosebud of the season, so tender and timid and beautiful and brave. Just as you remember wondering, from November to February, how you could ever have needed electric fans and refrigerators (and, for the rest of the year, how you could have done without them). Just as you remember cuddling up to an indulgent parent or sibling, enjoying the blessed warmth that relationships bring.

Just as you remember consistently missing 8.40s all through third term, the firmest determination notwithstanding. Just as you remember the sense of achievement that came from lugging a bucket of hot water all the way from the boiler to the first floor with minimal splashing. Just as you remember becoming a permanent fixture - with or without your books - on the College lawns every afternoon every day of the week, and all of Sunday. Just as you remember the fragrance of orange peel on your fingers every lunch break. Just as you remember the walks to Nirula's and the moongfali-wallah's after dinner every evening, recognising friends in hooded and sweatshirted figures passing by, and greeting them with a smile and a "Hi" that was invariably accompanied by a spiral of smoky winter breath. Just as you remember huddling with three other friends under a blanket meant for one, watching Pretty Woman for the fourth time and swapping notes on Mr. Right, then burrowing in with books and notes, shameless guilt for unprepared-for tests written large on every face. Just as you remember how completely you fell in love with the city no matter where you saw it - Daryaganj, the Red Fort, the University, CP, South Ex...Delhi's soul is never as beautifully consummate as it is in winter.

Just as you remember walking with friends to the nearest dhaba for hot, butter-soaked parathas and milky tea. Just as you remember lazing in the living room, spending whole Sundays doing precisely nothing. Just as you remember laughing as you tried, unsuccessfully, to block a chink in the window pane with newspaper. Just as you remember being, just being, with people you may or may not have been the closest pals with, but who were an undeniably integral part of your life. Just as you remember staring at the moon through the December fog, startled out of inevitable trances by a flock of white birds flying across it in perfect V-formation.


All part of one life, even if it does seem to belong to a distant other that seems too fragile, too perfect, to be true. All part of a life that promises as much as it has brought.


My sweatshirts smell of mothballs and memories.

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Before I sign off, there's something else I have to write about. A very simple gesture that made my day and lifted me, single-handedly, out of the blues.


The last few days have been difficult. I didn't sleep very well last night, and found myself beginning today running late. So I skipped breakfast and rushed to the department. Class was demanding - MIS is always demanding of concentration and patience - and there was a meeting right after the last one, which meant forgoing lunch. The meeting left me irritable and - I hate to admit this - angry. All of which means that by the time I got back to my room, I was tired, hungry, mad, blue and in the throes of a bad headache, which did nothing to improve my mood. I decided to give the cold hostel lunch a miss and headed out without quite knowing where. My feet took me to McDonald's pretty much on their own, so in I went, thinking some iced tea, a McVeggie, and a glance at the day's papers would do me good.


I left the counter with my tray - with my burger and iced tea on it - balanced on my right fist (yes, a loaded tray on my fist), in which I clutched my wallet, phone and keys. Standing near the ledge which held the drinking straw dispensers, I tried pressing the lever with my left hand. Now, I knew this was a bad foolish idea, I knew I should probably set my tray down before I got myself a straw, but I was already put off by other things...so I didn't bother with what was, technically, the right thing to do. Not even when the glass of iced tea skidded to the edge of the tray. I simply focused - in my scattered way - on the dispenser.


The glass toppled and iced tea spilled all over the floor.


Chagrined and wanting to kick myself, I went apologetically to the counter and requested that the spill be mopped up. They handed me another glass - I wasn't expecting one and I wasn't about to ask, after how stupid I had been - and the floor was mopped promptly. Tray balanced exactly as earlier - I think I thought I'd be more careful this time so the need to carry it more sensibly didn't occur to me - I tried reaching on tiptoe to the newspaper on the rack a foot above my head. Again, the right thing to have done would have been to set the tray down, pick the paper up, retrieve my tray, and head to my seat. But no. I stood there, glass and burger halfway to tilting over, trying to reach the rack. Uncharacteristically impractical. Says a lot about how blue I was...when, out of nowhere, a hand over my head lifted the paper from the rack and held it out to me.


Looking up, I saw one of the security guards from outside the restaurant standing on the lowest of the steps to the counters, smiling politely and waiting for me to take the paper from him.

I broke into my first spontaneous smile in three days.

I thanked him warmly, feeling very, very, very grateful for that simple gesture. He didn't have to do it...but he did. And he didn't expect profound gratitude for it, but I was profoundly grateful. Not just because he saved me and the food from another disaster, but because - and I still can't find the words to explain how or why - he suddenly made me feel a lot better. Lighter and happier and better.

To people like that gentleman at McDonald's...for simple thoughtfulness that can lift whole clouds and make so much difference...thank you :)


I expect I'll be a regular here in the next few weeks (at least till last-minute panic for sem-end exams sets in...and I'll probably end up blogging about that too :). This weather tends to do that to me! So long.

Scatter Diagram

Can you imagine no love, pride, deep-fried chicken

your best friend always stickin' up for you

even when I know you're wrong

Can you imagine no...five hour phone conversation

the best soy latte you ever had...and me?

This is one of the phases I dread getting into. Before you read any further, be warned that this post is being written in an unusually blue, pensive, near-maudlin mood, and is likely to blot the sunshine from your room for a couple of minutes. If you'd rather not attend a gloomfest right now, feel free to let your cursor hit the top-right corner of the screen :)

Where was I? The phase I dread getting into - allowing the past to get the better of me. I don't know if it is the weather, the smoky, wintry-smelling air, the time of the year, or just a series of badly-timed conversations and recollections - or sheer solitude. I doubt if it is this last, because, as a rule, I guard my silences and spaces rather fiercely. I'm guessing it's something about this time of the year and all that it brings. I'm homesick, and a little worried, and also direction-less in a way I do not either understand or like. I'm missing people I don't want to miss, thinking about times I'd rather not think about, talking to people I don't want to talk to about things we're all better off not discussing.

I'm not doing anything, which is very, very difficult for me to handle. I'm as fond of a carefree life as the next person, but...this is something I'm no good at. I'm thinking about relationships that never were, people I will never see again and time wasted so ridiculously, it doesn't even merit mention as wasted time. And I don't know why I am doing this. It is just not me. I'm perplexed. Perplexed doesn't even begin to cover it.

Anyway, I spent the evening lighting diyas. I've already gone into spiels on how much I love the sight of a lit diya...but it's so beautiful that it is worth a second mention :) Something in me reacts instantly, instinctively and rather passionately to a flame...I could stare and marvel at it for hours. One astrologically-inclined friend philosophised, "You're a fire sign, that's what you are. That's why you respond so naturally to a flame, that's why you find it so beautiful...". Uh, yes, trouble is, I love beaches and waterfalls and the rain...and wild horses couldn't drag me indoors when it is breezy, and I can stare at the sky for hours on end, especially early in the morning or late at night...so where does that leave us, Watson?

'Elementary'?

I'd say.

As usually happens with my writing when I can't think straight, I've gone and written everything in my head out here. Not everything, actually. Some thoughts are the sort you shy away from putting into words, because then they start appearing a lot more significant than they seemed - or, to put it honestly, a lot more significant than you'd like to admit they are.

My head is filled with a hundred thoughts, and ninety seven of those are thoughts whose magnitude or meaning I am yet to come to terms with. I will, in due course, but it's time I signed off now.

Wistfulness

In all these years away from home, I have learnt to handle practically everything on my own. Everything - bad food, homesickness, illness without having someone to fuss over me, devastating grades, heartbreak, loneliness, bhang-induced highs on Holi, packing and unpacking - and practically moving house - twice a year, doing my own laundry (and learning, the hard way, that whites and pastels are best not bought), living on a budget, cooking my own meals, fretting over my decisions or patting myself on the back for them. It hasn't all been uphill, though...I've celebrated my proficiency at changing light bulbs, my confirmation after six endless months of probation, danced in joy over an assignment that fetched a 23.5 on 25, dealt with the impact of vague crushes, grinned like a maniac at my phone when Citibank sent me their first text, informing me that my salary had been credited to my account, felt superhuman after having negotiated three peak traffic hours to get home, revelled in the bliss of travelling alone and being officially incommunicado, been trusted with responsibilities and (heh heh :) secrets, and learnt how to tie a saree, not to mention some micro, macro and development economics, and human resource management, all by myself.

And you know what, it's tough to deal with a rough patch alone...but it's tougher still to have something to celebrate and have the people you most want to share it with, not around. I've managed both - all said and done - with decent aplomb. Oh, give and take a few inexplicable-to-the-world blue moods or hyper-excited happy dances.

But the one thing I'm still not used to is having to be away from home and family on festivals. In six years now, I haven't celebrated Holi, Diwali, the Pujas or New Year's Eve with them. And much as I am capable of handling everything else, this one thing still leaves me a little wistful. A phone call - or several - is not much of a substitute. That is not to say I haven't had some very memorable celebrations with friends in College and at work. I'd be supremely ungrateful if I said I didn't have fun and stow away some beautiful memories. Yeah, now that those friends are far away, too, the memories just get more intense and the festivals just a tad more lonesome :) I was brought up in the sort of family where Friday evenings and Sunday mornings and afternoons were earmarked for something special. Simple, but special. Holidays meant time with the extended family. Dinner time was for conversation and laughter...and festivals meant celebration. Small rituals - spring cleaning, food particular to the occasion, having the gulal or crackers ready, planning the drive around the colony - went into the making of beautiful Holis, Diwalis and Dussehras. And if something like that has been part of your life for as long as you can remember, it's part of who you are.

Which is why I still give my room an especially thorough cleaning before a festival. Also why I make it a point to go shopping for garlands, diyas and sweets, and then spend a couple of hours doing up my room. It's why I stand in the balcony and watch families celebrating, and thank my lucky stars for having had the chance to know what that kind of celebration is like. It is also why, in spite of the nostalgia and the homesickness, I know I will enjoy the festival and be happy and thankful, because that is what festivals are all about.

Diwali is around the corner, so it is time my room got that spring cleaning I was talking about. And there is something so eternally beautiful about a lit diya, it is hard to put into words. It's my favourite festival ritual - lighting diyas. So here's thanking all of you - family and friends - who have given me reasons to feel festive...and here's thanking you, God, for the aforementioned family and friends! Happy Diwali, everyone...and have a beautiful year ahead! :) :)

The Unforgettables - I

1. Rain in College
2. Walks to Gwyer Hall in winter, breath forming smoky wreaths
3. Casa 7, Gurgaon
4. May 7 - 13, 2008, Mumbai & Goa
5. Breezy evenings at L-7/3
6. Power cuts at K-14/20
7. Early morning rides to work - the road empty, glistening and beautiful
8. Sunday lunches from August 2007 - June 2008
9. Walks on the terrace of 32 U.B.
10. June 20, 2007
11. December 9, 2007
12. Kandisa at 2 a.m. in an empty Allnutt South
13. That feeling of triumph at having finished packing at the end of first and second year. The struggle to get the trunk downstairs. The attempts at tricking the Office into believing there were only 3 articles of luggage in the LCR.
14. The breathless dash to Allnutt South at 9.58 p.m.
15. The stars from Andrews Court
16. The shades of green in DLF 2
17. Impromptu lessons in Marketing at MGF Metropolitan
18. 10.30 p.m. phone conversations - the ones that have become a habit
19. The French window in the five-seater
20. Holi 2008
21. Univs 2006



To be continued.

At breakfast today, someone switched on the TV in the common room. The screen flickered on to reveal VH1...just as the video of Green Day's Boulevard of Broken Dreams began. That song brings so many memories back.

Can you believe that I actually walked out of a class still in progress? I did, just now. I can't believe I did that - walk out of Organisational Psychology class, for heaven's sake! I live for the behavioural aspect of this discipline that I have chosen to study. But then, all this only goes to show how badly I needed to leave. I couldn't take another minute in there.

All this is not usually like me. In another way, though, it is typically me. I guess I should just take the rest of the day off and go for a walk on the Ridge.

A Love Note - and a Confession

Hi,

So I guess it's time I came clean. I thought this last year and a half had put enough distance between us for me to be able to look at you objectively, for what you are, and smile formally and walk past you. I couldn't do it. One look at you and I knew I was a goner - like I'd always been with you. You'd known all along - right from that moment we'd parted...right from the moment, in fact, that we first met. I'd been the one pretending it was all over. Oh, who was I trying to fool anyway? You know, now, that you're my weakness, so I might as well tell you the truth.

Do you remember how it all began? I do, like it was yesterday. It was something new, just like my new job and new flat. Everything began together. I still remember walking into Barista on my third day at work, just before I left for home. That's when I first saw you. I remember hesitating before I walked up to you...

All I remember after that is how I sought you out whenever I could. On a good day when I felt sunny, on Mondays when the thought of the week stretching ahead left me blue, when I was confirmed after probation, every time I was low or exhausted or simply irritated with a boss who could do little else but find fault, you were the one I sought out. I'd come running into the coffeeshop and find you there, waiting. And I would smile. In you, I found something to smile for, something to cherish and dream about most of my waking hours. I found myself losing myself in your nature - such a beautiful blend of opposites. Crusty and business-like on the outside, you sometimes had me fooled even when I thought I'd got to know you reasonably well...but all doubts vanished when we sat under the stars and whiled away time before I had to go home. That was when I was reassured by how sweet and soft you have always been inside. You've always been nutty - but then it's who you are, and I wouldn't change anything about you for the world.

Which is why it was so difficult to say goodbye when I resigned after I was accepted into this school. I remember my eyes misting over as I beheld you one last time, allowed myself those last few minutes of happiness, that last delighted smile. We could meet again if I chose to...but I chose to end it there. The Barista outside the office was where it all began, and that was where it would all end. It made sense, I thought. It had been going on far too long. You had become an addiction...and you know how my defences are about addictions.

So I don't know why I stepped into the Barista on Bungalow Road this evening on a whim. It's been a year and a half, like I said, and I thought I'd gotten over you. I wasn't even expecting you there (although, on second thoughts, why shouldn't you be?). But there you were, sweet and warm and waiting, like always. That was it - there was no turning back. I stood at the door, transfixed, and I knew in a moment of epiphany that I had only been harbouring needless illusions all this time. I never really got over you. I don't think I can. So I walked up to where you were, and my eyes must have given me away, because the man behind the counter smiled politely and said, "Good evening, Ma'am. Would you like a brownie?"

Mr. Fudgee the Brownie, I love you. I always will.

Yours, always,

Crossworder

P.S.: I wish Barista had named you something else, though.

Leaps of Faith

There was this focussed, decided, determined, frizzy-haired girl who drank the occasional cup of coffee and got all her curls chopped off every ten weeks. Then there was a lost, bewildered child-woman, who would do anything that gave her some definition and identity for the confetti that had spilled out of her happy jar. Occasionally, as she gathered the confetti into damp fistfuls, she'd look up determinedly, muttering fierce promises to herself.

The next thing she knew, she was several years into adulthood, focussed in a lost sort of way, sure of only a few things - but very, very sure - and had discovered a new philosophy she liked to claim as her own. From twelve cups of coffee a day, she went to the other extreme and decided she'd never depend on a cup of anything to perk her up or keep her awake. She is still clueless about what to do with her curls, but they have a mind of their own now. And she likes to walk around with a tub of Play-doh, the book she's currently reading, and a small notepad and her crayons in her bag, for when time takes her unawares. Over several years, she suddenly found her best friend (they have the ugliest fights, but then both agree each was the best thing to happen to the other). They were neighbours and were hardly acquainted before this. Beat that!

I don't know how many of you remember this Lakme ad from some 18 years ago. It had a series of shots of Aishwarya Rai as (what was then) the perfect picture of urban chic, and (what still is and will always be) the ultimate essence of spunky, happy, vivacious girlhood. They had the refrain from She's Got the Look from Roxette's Look Sharp! in the background. I remembered the music - and I discovered the song recently. I don't know why, but I love the number. I could dance down the street to that one!

Has anyone out there ever done this - decided against doing something, ever again...and gone and done it on an impulse? I do it more frequently than I care to count - or than is good for my morale. And then, I stay mad at myself for quite some time...till I start getting mad at myself for being mad and wasting time and energy and not doing something more productive. That's how it goes...and then (no, don't say anything yet, I know a lot of us do this...what I'm asking you about is going to follow) I do something equally stupid...stupider, if possible, so that I can get mad at myself at that. That distracts me from the first bit of lunacy. Then I just get fed up of being mad and go find something productive to do.

The other day, someone said, you know, you ought to befriend and keep in touch with people you can ask for help later. I thought that wasn't only selfish and pig-headed, but also really sad. What, all your friends are people you may or may not like or have something in common with, but who can do things for you? Eh, I'd like to think I'm more self-sufficient than that. Not a saint, just self-sufficient and perpetually short on patience.

And so I wander down life's lanes, going wherever, doing whatever. And when I am - often, deliberately - clueless, I sit and write a post about this, that and the other.