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7:45 AM [Below written yesterday evening]

7:13 PM Well this is nice. I get home to discover there’s no electricity, just like when I left in the morning. Apparently it’s been coming and going frequently all day. So here I am, sitting in my room with the screen for lighting as well as a single candle on my desk. (I’ve turned off the wireless receiver and lowered the contrast as much as possible to extend battery life.) It almost makes me feel rustic (were it not for this electronic device I’m typing on right now).

Obviously we take electricity for granted, a 5-year old could tell us that. I remember the last time this happened. I stepped outside, trying to find deeper meaning in the darkness of absent streetlights. I looked up at the stars and strained real hard, but I found nothing. All that came to me was the question of when the damn spark will return. I even sat outside, trying to feel the silence and the darkness, but it’s all bogus, what they show in the movies. There are no moments like that in real life: soft music playing in the background while the protagonist broods over love scorned, unaware that his love was never really scorned, that the problem was she loved him too much.

It’s 7:20 and I’m still waiting, running out of things to say. The change in atmosphere isn’t inducing activity in the mind; it’s not bringing new and fresh material to me that I don’t get any other day when the lights don’t go out. What the hell am I supposed to make of this significant (if temporary) change in my life?

I could watch a movie, or a show. Let’s do that. Boston Legal it is.

8:01 PM A pathetic little man whom everyone despises. He latches onto everyone and everything that comes into his life. He can’t stand on his own two feet until someone tells him it’s alright. This man is so over the curve of respectability that you make a trip around your globe of emotions and return to a place where you respect him out of sheer wonderment. How does he live this way? How can someone be so short of pride, so unconcerned with what the world thinks of him? How can someone go around being so weak that he’s made strong because he’s so empty that you can’t take anything from him?

A breathing, walking reservoir, spat upon by everyone but the few who know. They envy him his lightness to no end. Oh how they’d forsake their million-dollar mansions and heavy lives to be as naught as he!

10:01 AM I need to get out of here. Being here is taking me nowhere.

7:30 PM I remember the cold barren of Saskatchewan in February 1992. We were living in a motel room until we found our first place in Canada. I remember the Philips CD/dual-tape player we bought in Amsterdam on the flight over from England. It was a behemoth and I was excited to use it. I remember the few CDs we had that we “forgot” to return to the Coventry Public Library. I remember hearing Jagjit Singh’s ghazals when my Dad played them, and wondering why he listens to it. It was slow and had no beat, but since I couldn’t do anything about it, I just listened.

I remember these things because now I listen to the same ghazals, with genuine interest, and it’s no secret where the taste developed from.

In a separate memory, I remember after we moved into our apartment and my parents would go out for shopping. They’d take my brother along because he was too young to stay with me. In particular I remember one sunny afternoon when I was by myself. I remember looking out the living room window which faced the alley where all the cars parked, and there was really nothing to look at.

On the big Philips stereo I’d play the only pop CD we had, some compilation mix of Hindi film songs. After a while I’d determined one or two favorites that I’d play on repeat. I don’t think I could stand to hear those songs today if not for their sheer sentimental value.

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