Days are over, those guileful days of senselessness. Torpedo days of the suburb. Hundred kilometres north point from the city. Southern Globality enamoured in petrol bomb. Someone throwing a love –letter to his beloved. We kept calm. Easy habit of playing truant. The breadth of longitudinal friendship. By them I knew the elliptical horizon. Sun never goes down for the teenage half baked analysis of global situation. There were many he’s and they. Routine check up before the class. Cigarette counters end note, flying with them. The red greyish building, some illustrated Romeo player, half hearted poet laureates, distant cousin, sinning with her with the backpack admixtures, love of falling apart, news of sudden rain and no moving around. There was no enveloped kiss for me. I loved to shove the daily bread, butter with sand and dust. Half flavoured ice-creams, wisdom of distant ships carrying dreamy Vasco-da-Gama. No colonial hitch ups could make me stranded. The quarter with Dalia plant represented the Soviet embassy. Rains occurred like they did in Philippines or Hong Kong. Our base city was London or age old Jerusalem.
There were new stories floating with the sailors. They discussed with me and myself how to make a passage journey through the hilly counterparts of the vast galore, the endless seas. Djibouti, Mombasa, Beirut and thence Bombay, back to square one, hundred meters above sea-level. I wish I was not-at-home, daily. The rickshaw puller transcribed the journey for me. Thousand pullers later caught my eyes. Third worldism visible at the corner, long live Chairman Mao. Mother as the lonesome organizer, I hit the chord with hashish and ham. Fourteen year old wisdom utters can one be a revolutionary and lover at the same time? Nut cracker instincts. No one is aloof or lonely here. “Here clouds hang on like cows in field”. No one emblems together, yet they are never apart. Local bus or local train. Discourses from Truffaut to Derrida. Locality survives through its own dissolving. The International.