I had tried to read a graphic novel a few years ago, and put it back within a few pages – and assured myself that they are not for me. I didn’t miss them either – content with reading prose the way I have always done.
But a couple of weeks ago, I chanced upon “Watchmen”. It is a Hugo award winner – and therefore I decided to give it a try. It’s just over an inch thick, and I gave myself a week to finish reading it.
To make a long story short – I couldn’t keep it down at all; I stayed up until the wee hours and finished it in one sitting. It has the power to immerse you into itself and spit you back into reality after the last page. Like a Stephen King novel, you may say.
Looking back, I think I consumed it like I eat ice-cream, gulping great dollops like there’s no tomorrow. For the next reading, I think I’ll go through it like my wife eats chocolates – savoring every tiny morsel and licking her fingers clean.
Ozzy had to move a little to make some room on his pedestal – Jimi Hendrix just showed up.
15 years ago, I learned a secret that would change my life forever.
Deep inside the maze, buried in a corner, is a small room. A small, dark room, filled with many mysteries. Ants marching in a line. A dewdrop hanging off a leaf. A sunset after a long day. Insignificant to the lay person, these nevertheless have the power to reveal their mysteries – all you have to do is to get in the right frame of mind. Close the windows and the doors, shut everything out, and turn on a good record.
And that’s what I did. Experimented with a lot of genres and artists. Traded tapes with friends. And compiled a set of albums that just transport me away. Black Sabbath are no doubt the masters of the game. But then, there are others too – Metallica, Bodom, Danzig, to name a few.
And Pink Floyd.
I had all but forgotten them for all these years, when I fished out Dark Side of the Moon a few weeks ago. I listened to it for a couple of times, and then moved over to The Wall. Over the last three weeks or so, I’ve been listening to it over and over again, just not getting enough.
In the Flesh / Hey You / Nobody Home / Comfortably Numb – it’s just a treat waiting to be licked clean, ingested, absorbed into every fiber of your being.
I’m hard pressed to find anyone else who has dealt with nihilism in so exquisite a fashion.
Some thoughts that I picked up on the Internet a long time ago…
Pleasure is when you finish your day ride, and reach in one piece. You
are the smallest vehicle on the highway, and you survived.
Pleasure is when you take off your wristwatch, and see a band of
Pleasure is when your motorcycle and you move as one single united form.
Whatever shape the road takes, whichever end of the compass it leads to.
Pleasure is when you use your hands, arms, thighs, knees and feet to
Pleasure is when you take off your riding jacket for a break and feel
the breeze dry your sweat.
Pleasure is when you sing to yourself on an empty road. You are the
world’s best rock star.
Pleasure is when your rear wheel slides and you bring it back, when the
front wheel lifts and you take your time bringing it back.
Pleasure is when you cut through air, at 50 kph or 100.
Pleasure is when you reach a place you never been before, and someone
you have never seen before asks you for a ride. And comes back grinning.
Pleasure is when you wave to village kids, and they wave back.
Pleasure is when you almost, almost fall. But don’t.
Pleasure is when you fight the wind, and win.
Pleasure is when you get up that narrow path for the view you never
Pleasure is when you view the world at an angle.
Pleasure is when you eat bugs at 90 kph.
Pleasure is when you look at a dust-streaked face in the mirror after a
500 km ride.
Pleasure is when your pillion moves with you.
Pleasure is when your throttle hand has calluses.
Pleasure is when you jump a speed breaker.
Pleasure is when you stop to help push a stranded car to the side of the
Pleasure is when you stop at the smallest of towns, and somebody asks
you technical specifications.
Pleasure is when your book of roadmaps gets dog-eared, rain-splashed,
Pleasure is when you give a stranger a lift.
Pleasure is when you have battle-scars.
Pleasure is when you can feel the cool morning and the hot afternoon,
the light rain and the damp fog.
Pleasure is when you leave four-wheeler traffic standing in a jam.
Pleasure is when you are free. Open. Independent. Liberated.
Pleasure is a Royal Enfield Bullet.
- Kala Patthar
I know – they’ll be more than re-re-re-runs, but then again, they were amazing.
And it’s been a long time since I was transported back to a long time ago.