My problem with writing is before beginning to write I begin to read.

And by the time I am done with my reading, all that I wanted to write about not only feels terribly unimportant and trivial, but my head is crammed with so much more, that all I can do is take deep breaths. And make some more tea.

So, walking back from the seminars this afternoon I met someone I am getting to know a bit, but I don’t know if I will know him much more. He is a bit shy. And likes to get his back scratched.

Somehow, cats seem to find me wherever I am. I have, for four years, thought of writing about the bizarrely friendly cats of Mahim, who rub their heads against the legs of perfect strangers and purr contently when lifted (instead of clawing the skin off their hands). Then there were some cats I encountered on my last stay in England. One of them was called Monkey. Monkey? In Pune, of course, there was Puni, who sauntered in through the open door — tail held high — one day. And in Calcutta… ah well, we believe cats find their way to our house my following directions on their address books.

And then, coming back to my room here, I read about the depressing state of affairs in the world (some too far for most to care, and some close enough but most still don’t care enough to do anything about them). And then I see some smiling faces on Facebook (they are always, somehow, smiling, isn’t it?), bemusement at some recent political mess, some inanities, some links to interesting pieces, smatterings of ‘activism’ (if that’s what you call posting, sharing, and liking status updates about actual activities that you are not attending yourself), and the news that yet someone else you know has had a baby. The world is just the way it has always been.

People are leading lives that they know and are familiar with, making a (decent?) living, trying to find comfort and hope amid constant change and threats of uncertainty, while becoming ever increasingly players in a mechanism that continues to crush them in body and spirit.

It is strange, if you think about it. This self-defeating struggle for survival.

Last evening, I spent a while at a coffee shop on Trafalgar Square.
It had been quite a few hours that I had left Oxford, travelled to London, met a former senior colleague for lunch, browsed through the National Gallery, and, having nothing to do till a lecture at the BBC House, found myself doing something I do without much effort: Sitting with coffee at a café, which, almost as a criteria, has a large window overlooking the road.
Perched on a high stool, facing one of the many traffic signals that encircle Trafalgar Square, I heard a man next to me tell his friend, “Why does everyone seem to be running?”
Now, where have I heard that before, and about which city?
Looking at the throngs that crossed over from one side of the street to another, in tune with the alternating green and red traffic lights, huddled against a nasty, biting wind, trudging towards the Underground station, it felt all so familiar. The mass of humanity, the evening rush, the day’s fatigue, the promise of home an hour or so away, the unfriendly weather… some things are just the same, no matter where you are.
Yes, the streets are so much more clean, and the air is so much more clear. But some other things are so much still the same.
On the way to Oxford late at night, I saw a large hoarding ad for an investment company. It had the photograph of an Indian man on a cycle, wearing a large Rajasthani turban, a small boy riding pillion, holding on to a laptop. They were riding through the dusty and sunny countryside. Seeing that ad on a highway from London, made me realize all over again where I really want to be.
After all, rush hour feels pretty much the same everywhere I guess.