Fauxliage - Vibing

That "Truman" feeling came over me again today, as I had a cuppa chai in Ambirka Chowk with a friend from UP. The junction wound down slowly; the dogs were out and the kiosks were closing up - even traffic seemed a little less chaotic than when I had been there earlier.
As I contemplate how my life must be part of some divine comedy, I recall Rajaram's words: "After all, God's create the universe for our enjoyment, right?"
Scarves and saris flutter in the distance, a bright orange turban leads a flock of goats across the road, safely to their death; a world waiting for the monsoon languishes in the heat of expectation and daily disappointment.
"Very filmy, yaar, what you are saying is from the heart".
Indeed.

Sitting in a cosy tavern sipping sweet tea out of a little plastic cup, we chatted about L, about how I had *ahem* loved (yes, I said it) her since the first time I saw here, 9 years ago. This is accutely different from the sort of love that I fall into ±5 times a day in Cape Town.

Is it too late? Are our lives taking us further and further away from each other as I struggle with my disillusionment with relationships? Or am I in love with the idea of her; am I in love with what she represents rather than her as a person?

Whatever the case maybe, these remote wanderings are futile. The opportunity has past; the romantic must be buried.

We went to the GMRT in Khodad a few weeks ago; during a downpour that was more a cameo than a beginning - the rains drenched the roads and the unsuspecting masses and one could almost feel a sense of muted, restrained joy.

The joy was shortlived, however, as the clouds receded into the distance, bringing back the heat, the antithesis of growth in this crowded place. The sprouts broke through only to lilt, slowly and with a sense of uncertain hope.

The rains are late, almost a month late; the foreigners stand around with their umbrellas waiting patiently for the end of an uncomfortable summer.

We make our way to Khodad; I sleep for some of it, but am taking in the sights, careful not to stick my head too far out the window lest it be knocked off by a good's carrier.

It almost seems as if the earth is reaching her hands up to the sky; you can see it as the blue turns into a mucky orange, you can smell mud and newness.

Even now, 3 weeks later, we await the monsoons, we await newness and reinvention. A girl here told me about how they get drenched during the first rains (ceremoniously or unceremoniously, you never know in India); I imagine that its quite difficult if its spluttering out like this.