Bangalore, 4th day. Morning. 10:45 am. Bright sunshine outside on the balcony. Coffee. Self made. Canned heat on the earphones. On repeat. Had that headless feeling a while back, sitting on this chair, accessing this laptop on this table in the middle of this living room. Music playing in my ears. I could be anywhere! That headless feeling, the feeling that the life in the head often becomes much bigger than the life that the physical self inhabits. And that unwittingly the satisfaction for life starts shifting towards satisfactions in the head as opposed to satisfactions that the physical self relishes. (That headless feeling was felt most while living and working in Calcutta, the least in Bombay. Also, surprisingly very low in Patna.)
Snow Crash called it the Metaverse. The collective online space is a dead-on, of course. But I am sure there is a personal subset of the Metaverse that everyone carries across inside their own dainty little heads. A sort of Earth calling metaverse port. A converter of thoughts, motivations and happenings from the outside world into a metaverse compatible version. And vice versa.
Don’t behave like you don’t know what I am talking about.
Right now, the predominant feeling though is of being in GP’s flat at Dona Paula in Goa. Not thinking. Blank. And liking the slow movement of time from morning till night. Watching it peacefully.
I am however at my sister’s house, waiting for my luggage from Bombay to arrive. Have been waiting since yesterday. Concerned (note, not worried) about the number of new breakages on my motorcycle this time around, if the television would have survived the shoddy packaging. But a distant feel. Very distant. (Update: Luggage has arrived. By and large looks okay from the outside. Tea has been spilt (from the container). The bullet’s lights are all broken, but that was expected.)
Did my own bit of sleuthing for a problem that had me puzzled and I just could not figure it out for a while . Yesterday, I could not log-in to my gmail account all I could. Gmail has always been sort of a primary and unique password thing for me, so I was sort of surprised. Then after a couple of frustrated trials, clicked on ‘Can’t access account’. Yet again, I was surprised, irritated but thankful for the number of checks they make before they let you in. It involved sending sms codes to the mobile number you have entered in the account information. So well, long story short. Changed password. Next morning (today), cannot access gmail again, this time from phone. Entering the password again and again, and same lock out. I could have changed the password immediately again. But found it very weird for some reason. Could have blamed it on being high last night, but then again it was very weird.
Discovered after a while that the left shift key on the keyboard to this laptop is un-operational. It wasn’t taking the password last night because the shift key was not working. Then when I changed the password, it took the new password without the use of the shift key, and hence this morning I could not access the account again because I was accessing it from a keyboard where the shift key was working.
Geez. One little bloody invisible key. You see but you do not observe.
Stuff that I had ordered online over the last month or so had been waiting for me, when I arrived in Bangalore. The Kindle (in a lime green cover), the 1800 bucks fountain pen (haven’t written with it yet), the Sandisk Sansa Fuze portable music player.
On the second day that I was in Bangalore, Sharma and me made a long pending purchase, of the DSLR camera, and a car music system. Spoiling myself? Following the time honored tradition of spoiling self sick after quitting a job? (Bought my first Parker fountain pen after quitting the first job, my first laptop after quitting the third). Time shall tell.
Finished reading Aman Sethi’s A Free Man in a day. It was fun to read (very quotable, deliberate?) and a quick, brisk read, but it was unmistakably poverty porn. The ONLY reason it worked the way it worked is because you cannot imagine yourself living like that, with that much money to wrangle. Nothing wrong with that, nothing wrong with tasteful poverty porn. Also as far as poverty porn goes, this is subtly and beautifully done. Aman has weaved himself into the stories very well, and the stark difference to his own life is also beautifully part of the book. The episode of his wallet being stolen is as much a part of the soul of the book as any of Ashraf’s ravings. And definitely very gonzo. Reminded me of (my own) a haryana visit. And in a very weird way, of Upamanyu Chatterjee’s books. I would certainly recommend this book.
Have started reading James Clavell’s Shogun.