Communicating via electronic means is so impotent. A colon and a bracket to say you are smiling? A "ha ha heh heh" for your laughter? What about the shadows under your eyes? The way you just clasped your hands? Did your mouth change its shape? The sound your rumbling stomach made? Will I ever know?
Where did this sudden urge to demean electronic conversations come from?
Okay, I went for a Spanish puppet show. "Histories of Half Sole" directed by Carlos Pinero. This animated little man narrated the story of Red Riding Hood with shoes. He spoke Spanish. It was gibberish to me. But the performance was captivating. Stimulating. Amusing. Entertaining. A Delhi winter evening with its characteristic chill. A smattering of people in cheerful spirits. I sat there. I felt the laughter around me. I saw the yellow lanterns cast their light upon us. The quaint words he spoke were notes suspended in a symphony. I almost touched happiness. The sky was a inky blue. The stars were modest enough to let the moon bathe herself in their glory. I couldn't/wouldn't/knew I shouldn't peel my eyes away from the scene before me.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
I am in a smoke filled conical glass building. People are swishing their drinks in slim-stemmed glasses. Weather-disregarding tiny dresses are skirting well tailored trousers. Above it all, percussion carves its sound to me. Bodies sway untamed, helplessly, beautifully. The music pumps life into their blood. A fake smile. A hearty joke. Long Island Iced Tea. Polite conversation is made and discarded. I am asked a very pertinent and amusing question, "You do know that you are weird right?" That makes me grin goofily. Music rises above us all like a halo over our heads. I look up. I only see my reflection in the cold glass.
We are zooming past the the night. Racing against the wind, amid a string of lights, the flyovers a concrete blur of architecture. Gurgaon glass buildings never looked more intimidating, never more eerie, never so magnificent in their silence and darkness. Music throbs in my heart, I watch the moon and her silly game of hide and seek with the clouds. When will she learn? Wherever she hides, that untamed aura will not leave her. Its the albatross around her neck. Her Achilles heel. Her wrath. Her glory. The car stops at a noisy place. The dhaba is bathed in the smell of hot parathas, sweet tea and laughter. "Raju! Chai aur chaar keema parathas". I shiver a little. At the night. At other things. I send a message and curse aloud.
What is less stimulating than an electronic conversation? Typing out my laments.