Half a page of scribbled lines

June 19, 2012 at 7:10 pm (reflection) (, , )

It is 9:20 pm on a Monday evening. The office, replete with motion sensitive light fittings, is now lit by the lone live light above my head. There are absolutely no fluctuations in the pressure field in the room – the lone ranger threatens to go off, rendering the entire room, floor, and perhaps building dark. I wave my hands violently to prevent this , my eyes all the while remaining fixated on the dancing numbers in the spreadsheet open before me.  I key in the last formula, and the mathematical and logical bindings work their magic, producing a single number which I append to the output deck with a flourish.  I pack up my laptop and notebook, and do the three tap touch before exiting the building, leaving a trail of lights switching on in my wake.

Even the cabs seem to have called it a day rather early today. I hop into an auto-rickshaw that will take me half the way home. Using the ticking fare meter and my rather accurate perception of standard time units, I attempt to estimate the speed of the auto while I go fishing in my bag for my earphones. I crank the volume up a notch, just enough to drown out the sound of the blaring horns, and hit the well worn “Play” button.

In a matter of a few seconds, I have relapsed into a Floydian state of being. It is a strange feeling, quite distinct from anything else I have experienced. I feel almost removed from reality, with the airy instrumental layers generating thoughts in my head and initiating unspoken dialogues between myself and myself. I feel both unbalanced and completely aware at the same time. I have begun to see the world through a different lens, but the rest of the world doesn’t even take notice. It is like looking down at people on the street from a window, knowing full well that although they can see you back if they turn around, they won’t.

I mechanically ask the auto-rickshaw to pull over at the planned stop, and quickly go through the motions of lightening my wallet. The random number engine driving the Shuffle function on my phone has decided to throw “Time” into the playlist now, and I decide that today will not be a customary “Lead-me-home-Google-Maps” day. I feel like getting lost.

I begin the walk home. As the ambient keyboard sounds and the congos blend into the powerful vocal lines, I feel a shiver run down my spine. Nothing gets me quite as emotionally captured as an intense Floyd experience, and I can tell this is going to be one of them. I  push the limits of my already substantially dilated vocal range and sing along, completely undisturbed by the fact that anyone within 10 metres of me can hear me in spite of the noise. I hear  every track distinctly. I view vocals as just another instrumental track – I do not process them as a sequence of  linguistic elements, but just as sounds. Strangely enough, I believe I still know exactly what they mean.

She sees me from across the road. The brief moments of hesitation are palpable, but only fleeting. Her lips mouth “waiting for someone or something to show you the way” in perfect synchrony with the music being pumped into my ears. I journey on and she joins me. I register her voice blending into the already dense mix of the audio track and my overly loud voice, but nothing seems to be dissonant. She has no earphones on, but the knowing look on her face has me convinced that she has the nimble bass lines, the cymbal-heavy drum lines, the rich organ textures, and the wailing guitar tracks committed to memory.

We trudge on, walking in beat with the music, taking any potholes that come in the way in our stead, while actively noting the implicit pun generated by our doing so. “Home, home again” – Gilmour, she, and I proclaim in unison, but my steadfast refusal to use maps today has us in front of a coffee shop. “Do you take your coffee with one sugar or two?”, I ask.

I had started out the journey intending to get lost, but I’m not certain I was any more…

The above is an almost completely fictional account. Should there be any applicants interested in making this a reality, please find a suitably creative way of telling me as much and we can take things from there.

On a side note, this sudden burst of activity on my blog was a direct consequence of me overcoming my metaphorical pig. My metaphorical pig (Lidzoo)  hampers productivity by convincing me to listen to Floyd instead of recreating/creating music, watch plots evolve on TV instead of writing some of my own, and to type into chat boxes instead of blogs/documents. But I think Lidzoo’s getting a bit lonely, so I’d better go indulge him a little bit.



  1. Ash said,

    Epic blog entry sid.. just dont understand why this woman is talking to you when you clearly have headphones in your ear. Moreover it’s a little creepy that she follows you home. #NextTimeGetHerNumber

  2. Merin said,

    Haha! I’ve missed this. 🙂
    Excellent post. Absolutely loved it.

  3. Meh said,

    I wouldn’t be surprised even if this was true. Or seemingly true. With floyd painting on your psychedelic canvas, there’s a thin line between reality and otherwise. Brilliante post!

  4. akanksha said,


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