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Vizag.
I had quite forgotten how much I was in love with my native place.
You see, in the self-centered existences we sift through, there are some fragments one seriously choses to undermine.
The above realisation (the one above the above one, really) is one such figment.
I am a Telugu by birth. A Telugu Brahmin, as my mother would nod approvingly. And, in spite of the language and caste betrothed to me, I have never felt at place here. The feeling of passionate attachment never surfaced. It was an obligatory ritual to spend vacations here, something I never had a problem with. In fact, to be honest, have quite enjoyed. Thank you very much.
But yet, in spite of its brown-paper packaged happiness, I never once gave as much a thought to my fondness for the city of my birth.
But there happens to be, deep down , the base for senile love rooted in its imperfection. Imperfection that formed the crust of childhood.
Sugar-coated imperfection.
Of mango pulps being thrown about.
Of men, women and children alike, glaring at your jean-clad legs.
Of evenings spent discovering the wild mystique in touch-me-not plants.
Touch-me-not-else-I'd-wither plants.
Touch-me-not-else-I'd-grip-your-idle-evening-recollections plants.
There in its raw, crude nudity, lay the city of my birth battling old-world cynicism and new world construction with one go.
Staring awe-eyed at the plunging necklines available at Rs. 50 per seat.
And also at demureness and sanctity.
In hot humid afternoons losing themselves in the parched souls of the soothing wet earth.
Unflinchingly meandering from carnatic music to new techno-something-pop-something-folk-something tunes.
And yet, year after year, vacation after vacation, remaining painfully obstinate.
Oh, the empathy springing up for its bare-naked innocence, the empathy!

High Infidelity.

If it was only a subtle mention that took you back, it would have been fine.
Alright, even.
But it wasn't so.
Like the subtle chill rushing through your bones, and emotions as flustered as the waves ebbing their way through, and as the layers of unasked questions overlap the feeble mind, a mere touch would transport you back in time.
And a mere colour. An expression even. Everything that's present may take you back to past.
And almost each and every peculiar expression, emotion, possession is a reminder of one's moments, those buried underneath everyday shallowness.
'cause all the good in the world is never enough to eliminate the pain, that one always keeps rooted in those places visited in solitude.
Or maybe, I'm too naive to realise that someday niceties shall be magnified enough to shroud all the doubts of faith and honesty. And for now, as pain chooses to remain obstinate and the erstwhile would choose to indulge in vanities and mild obscenities as was demanded of him.
'Cause one can go on and on as to how faith is never to be lost.
As we lose ourselves in the currents of beguiling words and deceptive intentions.
And then questions are asked as to why I love The Shins the much I do. It's because they stir those very asleep thoughts, all at once, forcing the bluff to open itself and revel in its nudity.
And then again, some might ask why I love Fleetwood Mac the much I do, 'cause they serve an alternately important purpose, they are mine and mine alone, and they do not stir up a past.
Thank you for understanding, Nick Hornby, you beautiful thing.

I wish I could write blood,
and spew venom that's slowly forming base,
in those darkly coloured veins.
And as hysteria creeps in,
and pain is but an emotion stabbing at your heart,
Death is a sweeter medicine,
and love is but the evil.