Let the Games Begin.

He who overthrows every unforgiving obstacle vanquishes fear and curry withdrawals. An ancient South Indian (specifically, a Mangalorean) wise man said as he stood at the banks of the Shambhavi (Mulki, Karnataka) while feeling the gentle breeze in his Chevy Chase. I am a living example of this paradoxical yet deep rooted phrase. After fighting (or let me rephrase it as warding off) a sixteen hour flight out of JFK and finally landing in BOM, I live again. The last two days have been a little busy convincing myself that I am superior than ever crustacean that has ever walked the bed of Powai Lake and bears witness to the never completing fly over constructions, this side of the water body.

The muddy roads blossom out of the horizon with a battleground like penchant thanks to the municipal heroes who have treaded this very crust with asphalt boring jets and left the surfaces to bewail their defeats. The echoes of rickshaws and gentle cussing from the charioteers ring in my ears as I hum a dirge composed in the localized Marathi poetry. Of course, the composer was an unknown rickshaw driver who upon a hot afternoon while resting his feet high up on the console of his three wheeled leviathan had concocted this bevy of words and ostentatious colorful language to ward off evil spirits and taxi drivers. Trails of dust rise and settle tracing the movements of a dance baptized in melancholy and misery akin to the matrimonial parables spread apart by ten years of unhappiness.

I love Mumbai. I was born here. I will die here. I will also get into a street fight here. What I won’t do is play ball with the local mass transit overlords who flaunt their hairy chests beaded with Miss World wannabe Reshammiya’s tunes that harmonize with nasal overtures and cacophonies erupting from the acid laden bellies of ruminating four legged dung producing cattle. I am here to stay for the next month or so and I will draw a line in the sand and carve my name in the dirt with a bloodied finger that is stained with the liquid erupting from the mortal’s chasm where the heart would reside once upon a sunny time.

Yes, I have arrived. Here my drums echo the arias of victory as the earth shakes under my thrusting steps and skies tear apart with the quickening from my bloodshot eyes as I declare war on every silly serial maker that has dared to lift his pen and have it taste the crustiness of a parchment bearing the seal of Star Plus. Follow the tremble of my fists with thy defeated gaze as I shake them upon the eye of the storm unsheathing my broadsword and letting out my bellow declaring a blood curdling offensive. Think of all the possible countermeasures that will be met with excessive force and a wall of strength so gigantic, even Gods will sip their Pepsis’ slowly as they watch the onslaught of this warrior covered in war paint and dressed in Puma sweats.

Anyways, enough of the Viking-like testimony of the events etched into my mind. Now, let’s have a good time, shall we?