It's Alive

A beginning is the time for taking the most delicate care that the balances are correct.
                                                      - from Manual of Muad'Dib by the Princess Irulan

I woke up to leaden skies and an unaccountable hankering for bacon. Actually that's not true. No hankering for bacon is unaccountable on account of it being brilliant. So off I went and treated myself to eggs, bacon, sausages, waffles, juice and coffee. Even got some work done in a desultory sort of way.

In the evening, a run. The aasthaana kitten sat on the driveway wall and stared incredulously at me. It rained in T. Nagar. A globular, almost malevolent sort of rain which mysteriously stayed west of Mount Road. So the run was no problem, a pell-mell huffpuff through Kotturpuram and IIT. Somewhere, a coppersmith barbet called in the prescribed manner for it. Near the hostel, 3 mongeese crossed the road with great intent, mother mongoose and a couple of mongoslings.

On the way back, T. Nagar bus stand was like Watson's London; the great cesspool into which all the idlers and loungers of the city seemed to have been irresistibly drained. A child of some sort saw the half full Gatorade bottle in my hand and started beseeching me for it saying "Juice anna, juice." It clutched at my legs, almost fell at my feet. I tried to push past, and it persisted. So I shoved it away to the side. I am not sure why I did this. Or maybe I am. The damn thing costs too much.

Meanwhile the rain had started up again, now each malevolent drop was like an uncomfortable question, all cold and remorseless. When it let up, I pushed on down Burkit Road. A pretty girl struggled with her (doubtless semi-globular) umbrella near Venkatnarayana Road. Perhaps she saw me staring.

Perhaps she didn't.

I bought chicken and came home and ate it all up along with a couple of episodes of Breaking Bad. Really, the only question of great pith and moment is: Should one's blog be like Sartre's? Or should it be like David Dhawan's?