life in a bubble..

I'm six years old.. at India Gate.. on a picnic with my family.. the guy blowing bubbles comes along.. preceded by a whole lot of shimmering spheres that refract the stark yellow lighting into a million rainbows...
i run into them.. dancing amidst the bubbles.. ecstatic to be surrounded by their fragile beauty..
trying to catch those transient carriers of rainbows and fairies.. wishing i could keep a few.. just a little while... keep a rainbow in my hand.. Hold those shimmering ethereal things with me forever..

but they burst as soon as i touch them..

I cant have what i yearn for...
but i keep jumping anyway.. trying to catch hold of tehm.. please god.. just one little bubble to keep with me..

why do we keep trying to hold on to things that are so fragile and unkeepable?? why do i despair for what i cannot have??

"Rainbows and fairies dont really come and sit on your hands baby..."
why cant i remember this as an adult??

midnight mass... and 2 am walks...

i attended the midnight mass on christmas eve at the St. James Church!

okay... so i've told EVERYONE i went to St. james.... BUT the night did NOT end there... coz after singing silent night and oh holy night in a high falsetto..(and i thank god that my voice hasnt gotten totally ruined) we decided to go enjoy the beautiful night outside...

St. James's Church....



oh come all ye faithful.....





H, me n S, two colleagues of mine.. had gone to the church to cover the mass for teh christmas story... all of us live in the general north campus area so we thought it would be fun.. but then H said she had to go south for a christmas party... so that left me n S.. he's the photographer btw.. n me in my carol induced high suggested that we walk back... from St. James to college.. at 1:30 am...

and we did... walked from St. james up mall road to college.. clicking pictures on the way.. coz i had my little digicam as welll.. n he had his SLR ofcourse.. n we were having a rather animated discussion about photography and what a picture can truly capture the mood... these are the pix I took...


lampposts and trees.... mist on the mall road..


got home at 3 am after the 4.5 km walk that left me frozen.. took a break on the way for chai n cigarettes at the kashmere gate bus adda.. a hot glass of tea at 2 am on a freezing december night is a heavenly thing.... and then walked up the mall road amidst the mist and mystery of the night.. hoping to god that none of the speeding trucks would crush us.. and wondering if it was a good idea to throw a lit cigarette on a CNG container at the petrol pump...
oh n the last 500 mt stretch on university road where half the streetlights were broken and the ridge formed a scray jungle on one side. no thanks to u S.. for scaring the bejeezus out of me.. H would have probably screamed louder than me though...

to S.. here's hoping that we have many more such random walks and photo sessions..
hopefully we shall not freeze our asses off next time..

I shall not weep...

coz i will focus on the good in life...

i had a brilliant night... post finding out about.. what'd u call him noor?? oh yeah... post CL phase of the night was truly awesome.

I went for midnight mass!!! at St. James'.!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i'd wanted to go for sooo long.. but then midnight isnt a time that i'm allowed to go out of the houuse... were it not for work.. and the freak fact that i was actually listening to other ppl in the office car instead of being kllost in the telephone..

it was beautiful.... i remember goin to the Sacred heart cathederal last christmas in the afternoon with everyone from ppg... n we all wondered how it would be like if we were actually present on occasion...

n this time i got it...

the silence, the candles, the smoke from the incense.. the sound of a hundred whispered responses...

it was peace as i have never known... except after a large mouthful of bhang on holi.. or in the crush of the jostling crowds at bihariji temple at vrindavan.... thousands of people cahanting together... lost in something they only half understand...

maybe religion isnt really that bad after all... its when you try and push your sensibility on others when the problem rises..

last night the pastor's message was simply this... do not be afraid.. love everyone around you..

and god will protect you



my tears dropped on the altar railing when i knelt to be blessed...

song for every occasion???

You were all the things I thought I knew
And I thought we could be

You were everything, everything that I wanted
We were meant to be, supposed to be
But we lost it (but we lost it)

All of the memories, so close to me
Just fade away

All this time you were pretending
So much for my happy ending

well.... bits thereof anyway.... goodbye goodbye.. parting this time is no sorrow at all...

the myth of pavlov

even dogs and mice learn to not repeat the behaviour that leads to punishment...

why dont humans do the same????????

why do we try to find loopholes out of laws, and work around the rules.. and think that hiding our heads in the sand will mean that we're safe and the danger has passed.....

why do pinpricks hurt worse that the thrust of a sword??
why does a huge shock numb faster than the small hurts...
why do things accumulate in my head and heart till i feel i will explode...
why cant things heal..
why is it that i feel this way..
why is it that somethings just dont go away.....????????

there is no such thing as forever

depressed.. yes.. about what?? donno
why?? lets just say the homecoming wasnt as i thought it would be.. the first touch the first kiss.. all rather tame in comparison to all that i had dreamt of in the loong days of being alone.. u know how it is right.. u build up something soooo much in your imagination that the real thing seems pale..

why is it that the songs go on and on about a happily ever after...?? telling tales of how even after years and years.. the lovers fall right into each other's arms and proceed to be happy for the rest of their lives...
what no one mentions is how things change.. how everything changes so much that you dont know what to do or say or think...
when your perfect life seems suddenly to have collapsed like a pack of cards and you dont know how to put it back together.. when the new creation is not what u had built in the first place.. and you dont know if this will stand either..

when nothing seems to comfort you anymore... except solitude..
i once sat atop a high cliff wanting to jump away from my solitude.. now the silence comforts me somehow.. being in my own head doesnt feel like i'm trapped..
talking to myself isnt quite as bad as it used to be...

dare i say.. this too shall pass???

i loved this book once.. for the hope, the surety of love that it portrayed... "A Bridge across forever" .. no matter how circumstances change.. "the one" for you will always be there...

why are there so many lies in this world??? why does nothing remain sacred and true??

why does hope get crushed again and again till you begin to wonder if there was any point in having dreams at all...

Love stories and love songs.. "endless love"...

what the fuck is forever anyway???????

doodh ka jala chach bhi phoonk phoonk kar pita hai..

why is it that sometimes things get so bad that even thinking about it hurts??
that a casual mention can leave you gasping for breath...
that you cant explain to yourself why something bugs you so much when there i no concrete reason to..
logic cant always answer every question.. and things just get worse if verbalisation of thoughts is something that will end up hurting someone eventualy..
wat are we?? the thought police???

dooodh ka jala chach bhi phoonk phoonk kar pita hai.....

नन्हे जिस्मों के टुकड़े लिए खड़ी है एक माँ..

एक तू ही भरोसा... एक तू ही सहारा...
इस तेरे जहाँ में॥ नहीं कोई हमारा॥
हे इश्वर, या अल्लाह॥ यह पुकार सुन ले॥ हे इश्वर या अल्लाह हें दाता॥

नादाँ हैं हम तो मालिक॥ क्यूँ दी हमें यह सज़ा
यहाँ है सभी के दिल में नफरत का ज़हर भरा॥
इन्हें फिर से याद दिला दे सबक वही प्यार का...
बन जाए गुलशन फिर से काँटों भरी दुनिया...

watch over thy children dear lord..

what is wrong with the world???? terrorists are spraying bullets and tossing grenades into hotels and hospitals... senior policemen are dying and no one seems to know what to do aboout those damned bastards who're killing ppl left right and centre...
now the hindi channels are showing soemthing about a vessel that was caught by the navy and randomly tossing out terrorists' passwords.. what kind of heartless desperate sickos shoot hapless children and old ppl in hotel lobbies???

and people are making jokes about how the terrorists got to the port coz the coast guard were too busy watching the India england match to see what was goin on on the seas....

इश्वर अल्लाह... तेरे जहाँ में.. नफरत क्यूँ है.. जंग है क्यूँ....
तेरा दिल तो इतना बड़ा है.. इंसान का दिल... तंग है क्यूँ....
कदम कदम पर सरहद क्यूँ है ...सारी ज़मीं जो तेरी है
सूरज के जो फेरे करती... फिर क्यूँ इतनी अँधेरी है॥
इस दुनिया के दामन पर इंसान के लहू का रंग है क्यूँ...

ramblings of a lone reporter... India Gate at night

Random nighttime shots of India Gate... the place is soooooo dreamy on a winter evening... these were all taken today between 6 and 7 p.m.. I took a lovely long walk down Rajpath following the path that the republic day parade takes...
Consumed: 1 papad ( love the ones here), a plastic cupful of tea and a cup of Kwality's Vanilla ice cream... i didn't know they've started putting bits of what tasted like chocolate spongecake in it... it was soooooo nice.. and.. a little packet of roasted chanas n meethi kheel.... yum...

can't believe a walk alone that late in the evening could be so much fun..

pictures... taken all over the place..

hm.... i havent put these in any particular order.. but ive described wat they are....
n i want comments from you guys...


well... this pic doesnt seem to get rotated... but its a sunset at rajghat...

experimenting with the exposure time on the camera...

people getting on the metro... exposure time set to X2 of normal.. dont really know how the settings work.. but i like the effect.. n yes thats a foot.. n a couple of people's legs in teh foreground..

smoke coming from the fire at National School of Drama on 19th nov

the NSD office after the fire was put out...

sunset at Rajghat...

a rather blurred view of the burnt NSD office.... the light is from a high intensity torch that the police guys were carrying..

to all those people who profess to be my friends..

you fiends! yes i mean you! all those who say they are all proud of me for being a journalist n all... but NEVER seem to get around to actually reading any of my stories IN the paper unless i get the paper to u n make you read it...
now... abandoning my resolve to not put the name of my paper or any of my work on a forum like this.. i'll just give you dolts a step by step of how to read my stories.

Method 1: if i tell you that i have a story out TODAY!!!! go to www.indianexpress.com, click on city news, select Delhi and leaf through it till you find my name as byline..

Method 2: if u're too lazy n forgetful to remember to see my story the day i tell you its out.... go to www.expressindia.com and simply search my name... n for heaven's sake spell it right... and u can see all my old stories....

n while i'm at it... this is what finally went in the paper about rahul gandhi's visit to College..
http://www.indianexpress.com/story/384436.html


i'm pissed off with teh sheer number of people who saw that damned picture in TOI but didnt bother to see the story!!!!!

OH MY GOD!!!!!!

Rahul Gandhi came visiting at our beloved St. Stephen's in an oh so obvious attempt to clear his name... considering that he had told the media that asking questions was not a task that stephanians looked at with any favour.. it must have come as a shock to him how the assembled teachers and even the principal happily sat back and let the students ask the great scion any question they wished.... for some reason.. he kept repeating that asking questions was good, and the country needed more people who were unafraid to ask questions... it did not seem to occur to him though.. that he was there today to ANSWER the damned questions... instead.. he simply added rhetorical questions of his own to the questioners who by the end became totally befuddled by the man in white firing questions at them...

an example..
Student: sir i come from a village and there were no english or maths teachers in the school. however, i managed to pass and got through to St. Stephens... but theer were many students who could not get through any good college coz of the problem of no teachers.. We're talking about the nuclear deal and gas pipelines while there are large section sof the population deprived of the basics. Shouldn't the government take steps to help the villages?
Rahul Gandhi: i have travelled extensively in the villages.. and i see that there are several problems with education... why do you think are the reasons for that????
S: um.... sir.. in my village the sarpanch would simply take the government allocation of 5 lakhs and spend less than 50 thousand... but shows that the entire money has been spent.. they just swallow the money.. its the same with the district level officers...
RG: yes... but dont you think that the problem is that there aren't enough colleges to absorb the number of village students who come out of the schools?
S: err..... sir the children dont get enough facilities to pass school that they would come to college..
RG: yes well... we need to understand that the village is a very different environment. we need to empower the villages and they will then transform the future of the country...
(audience: huh??? what on earth is he even saying?? dude wake up!! there are no teachers at the guy's school!)

example 2
Student: sir we organised a peace march yesterday against the violence done by the ABVP at the public meeting where SAR Geelani was invited. but though we invited about 400 people.. only 50 came.. and that was because..
Rahul Gandhi: hey.. you organised a march and no one came.. so thats your failure isnt it..
S: but....
RG: no... dont deny it... everyone fails at something everyday... I fail at something every day too... u just get up, and say i gotta move on..
S: no sir... the reason why a large number of people stayed away wa because we were threatened by the ABVP people who said that they would throw acid on the women if we dared to take out teh march..
RG: well... you should design a confrontation in a manner that they cant threaten you... or have strength enough to not be threatened by them..
(Audience... WHA.................??????????????)


ohhoo... i have to now leave the internet centre coz the guy in charge wants to lock up... but rest assured ppl... this entry is gonna be longer...
there's so much more he said taht was outta this world.... i donno WHJAT i'll put in th epaper for tomorrow...

random pix..

well... as the title says... some pix ive taken....

.. these are ones i took on a day when the inverter had conked off and i had to light diyas in the house to walk around...

a woodpecker visited my garden....

random walk at lodhi garden..

generally......

one of those days when ii generally decided to stay in office till 1030 so i could take the cab back home... i'm done with work n its only 930 rt now so i have an hour to kill... n being in one of my silly moods.. i dont wanna read the only book that i have in my possession.. Robert Ludlum's The Aquitaine Progression.. which, though engrossing, like most of ludlum's work is.. is tooo slow moving for my taste right now... wat i WANt as of this moment is to sit in a movie theatre and watch some silly movie and munch popcornn,... i'm waiting for dostana... John abraham looks SO delicious in the promos.... damn it... why did i have to use that word.... ????
i'm HUNGRY!!! n there's nothing available in the office canteen n i'm too lazy to get up n go to the dhaba outside to have paranthas.. too bad they dont have a phone in delivery system... considering the number of over worked journos around. they'd do a roaring business... er.. MORE than they already do...
let me tell u sumthin bout this dhaba... its owned by this nice sardarji who somehow remenmbers EVERY person who eats there by face n the paper they work in... he may even remember your name if u eat there often enough.. n he makes all sorts of paranthas.. n is open till MIDNIGHT!!!! however... what i crave right now is a nice slice of cheeeeesssyyyy pizza... but slice of Italy, which seems to be the only ppl who deliver stuff to my office is a bit pricey for my wallet right now... havent had time to visit the ATM...bless whoever it was who invented the idea of an ATM machine... i bet she's dancing around in the elysian fields right now with even the furies showering blessings and money on her... it does sound like a woman's idea... why bother waiting in the interminable lines at the bank, or for dad/hubby to open his wallet when u can get money anytime anywhere with a lil swipe of the card..
speaking of cards... i just realised that the ONLY day i get free before Diwali... is teh sunday when my entire khandaan will descend upon the house to have the diwali lunch... dont get me wrong... i LOVE my family and will not be cribbing at all when they all come... but WHEN do i sleep n shop n do all the diwali kinda things???? my friends are having a party at Z's on saturday night... teh office party is the same night... but thanks to teh lunch, there is an unshakeable parental veto on saturday night partying... HOWEVER.....
I'M GOING FOR THUNDER ON FRIDAY!!!!!!!! i think... IF there is no pressing office work... AND my boss agress that going to school to do a 'story' on western music competitions in delhi schools is a good enough idea to claim attendance at work... dont think i'll be able to put this on teh office tab though.... its not even a good story in my own head... BUT i'm still gonna go... even though it involves a two hour bus ride.. coz i'll be meeting a few old frenz and will get the opprtunity to sit in ye olde school canteen n have the chole bhature that make my mouth water at the very memory... hm.... funny thing is that most ppl from school would probably roll their eyes n say that they weren't even that good... its just that i have fond memories of that canteenm n the chole bhature... AND the band room right next to teh canteen where i've spent most of 11th and 12th... ssssiiiiiggghhhh... wish sap n sid were there too... hopefully malik will be tehre... n sasthi n kalsi n bhumi... i'm drowning in nostalgia.......

talk tonight

sometimes adreadful lonliness takes over... despite a life full of things to do... u miss talking.. one thing that is missing seems like a gaping hole in life... staying up half the night... wondering what to do... just coz its a habit now... n i dont know how to get rid of it...
donno why i'm mentioning this song in particular... seems apt somehow..

Talk tonight- Oasis
Sittin' on my own
Chewin' on a bone
A thousand million
Miles from home
When Something hit me
Somewhere right between the eyes

Sleepin' on a plane
You know you can't complain
You took your last chance
Once again
I landed, stranded
Hardly even knew your name
I wanna talk tonight
Until the mornin' light'
Bout how you saved my life

You and me see how we are
You and me see how we are
All your dreams are made
Of Strawberry lemonade
And you make sure
I eat today
You take me walking
To where you played
When you were young I'll never say that I
Won't ever make you cry
And this I'll say
I don't know why
I know I'm leavin'
But I'll be back another day
I wanna talk tonight
Until the mornin' light'
Bout how you saved my life(You saved my life)
I wanna talk tonight(I wanna talk tonight)
'Bout how you saved my life(I wanna talk tonight)
'Bout how you saved my life(I wanna talk tonight)
'Bout how you saved my life(I wanna talk tonight)
'Bout how you saved my life I wanna talk tonight

realisation

i realised today just how far i can hate... and how much things change when you yank away the base on which they are built..

trust..
the shards of broken trust can pierce you at teh unlikeliest of times.. something that was so inherent a part of me is now gone.. and i cant recognise what i has been riped away from me..

doubt.. once banished.. now reigns supereme...

goodbye

liberated...

after the end of something taht you said was your life..

after taking me to place where never thought i would be..

after turning my world upside down.

enjoy your liberation.. let me enjoy my hatred

goodbye

shobho bijoya

The expanse of the flood engorged Yamuna seemed dwarfed by the sea of people on its banks today. The immersion of the Goddess Durga and Dashami celebrations today created a carnival like atmosphere on the Ghats where the Idols were being consigned to the waters.
Delhi is in the grip of festive fever and that was visible in the energy displayed by worshippers at various Puja Samitis in Delhi. More than 300 registered samitis exist in Delhi with a countless number of smaller, unregistered ones. And the local population, Bengali and otherwise, was out in full force to bid goodbye to the goddess.
At Pandals across Delhi, the idols were lifted onto trucks to the sounds of the Dhak (drums), cymbals, bells and pipes as people threw gulal and sindoor in the air and danced in front of the idol. The Chamur (decorations) on the drums swayed with the movement of the dhakis (drummers) dancing to the beat of their drumming.
Several thousand people gathered at each of the Ghats opened by the government for immersion. At the Okhla Barrage, Kalindi Kunj, people had come from as far as Dwarka and Gurgaon for the Bijoya Dashami celebrations.

truth and lies

what comes close really?
slowly your eyes left me there.. like life leaves a dying man.................
............. but as the man said.. when u've got nothing..
U've got nothing to lose...

i've read these words over and over again... written years ago by someone's hand.. when u've got nothing, You've got nothing to lose.....

I had everything... and ive lost it.. for no fault of mine..
because i couldnt see the truth behind the lies.. because i closed my eyes and let myself be tugged away beyond my own control.. because i didnt hear a cry for help where i should have..
because i refused to remember that prince charming was also a toad before the princess kissed him..

fairytales and stories.. half truths and white lies... accepting and rejection... whatever for???????
for the sake of hope.. That a happily ever after really exists...

welcome to the real world baby...

To my childhood memories

This one's for Ati n akku...
I went to Rajghat yesterday... had a bit of time to myself coz sundays a really light day at work... n my office is almost close enuf for a walk..
had wanted to go there for years.. ati do u remember... uncle had said we'd all go there again once he was better... ive wanted all of us to go since then. relive our childhood.. when three little girls woke up at 5:30 am on holiday mornings to go to rajghat and play.. balanced on a single scooter with uncle... its weird.. neither my dad nor akku's ever went there.. or maybe i just dont remember.. the only time i remember any other adults being teher was when all three mothers came too... the dads didnt though..
Rajghat is the resting place of mahatma Gandhi.. n i was there 2 days after the Independence day.. but i wasnt there to remember the father of the nation.. i was there to remember the man wo i placed in next place.. actually same place as my own father.. the one who accepted a rather rude, violent little girl into his home and family because she was his daughter's best friend..
U know whats so weir... i dont remember us EVER actully going to see Gandhi's Samadhi there.. i remember climbing up to the top of teh hillocks and rolling down again.. n playing games like taht all morning... travelling almost 10 kms each way for the fun and games.. never seemed taht long a ride somehow.. it felt like it was taking forever to reach tehre from my office yesterday.. but the childhood memories i have seem like we got there in a jiffy.. after a delayed start from teh house as us girls bickered over wo'll sit where on the scooter.. ati won the coveted front standing place ost of the time... mostly coz she's the youngest and consequently the shortest... though that doesnt exactly apply now... she's as tall as i am.. n akku's taller. Me, the oldest of the three, am the middle one height- wise...

I climbed up the hillock.. n the day was so beautiful... cloudy and cool.. stood there for a little while.. thinking bout teh hazy memories of rolling down the hill competing against each other.. wanting to be the first one to reach the bottom..
I'd taken it as a promise from uncle that we'll all go there again as soon as he was better.. god didnt quite agree with our plans i guess... ive wanted to go there since the day uncle died.. if only as a memorial to him... all three kids go there again.. n remember how we used to play there years ago.. started crying sitting on a bench.. for the father figure who was the reason for my presence there... and for the two friends, sisters who i've barely had time to meet in the last year.. we've all grown up, gone our separate ways.. even though ati n akku are in college now and in north campus most of the day, my job's such that i havent been able to meet them... studies, activities and boyfriends have left us with precious few moments to spend so much as talking to each other...
It just feels like something's one missing from life... the closeness, the madness, the happiness of childhood are gone.. now when we meet, we talk like old ppl reminiscing bout our past, or talk of serious topics, life and college and careers and families.. we're not that old though... its just taht we've grown up a bit fast... i'm the eldest.. n i'm only 20.. but we can still talk bout watever comes to our heads.. lst time all three of us were together was more tahn a month go.. an hour snatched between college admissions for ati n office for me... we sat around discussing the future.. n giving each other relationship advice.. it was sorta strange for me to talk to ati bout HER relationship.. she's like my baby sister,... n now she's dating too.. it was usch a shock for me.. i was like.. URE TOO YOUNG TO DATE! n she's a whole year n a half older than i was when I first started "going out" with someone.. she's older than i was when i had my first kiss... n yet i freaked at the idea that some guy was with my baby sis... its weird how i get all protective bout her.. start lecturing her even though ive been thru the same situations and done worse than she has...
I sometimes wish i could go back in time..
to the barbie dolls and the dress up games..
to nightspends and midnight kitchen raids..
i miss them all so much..

This one's for you guys....

MY SACRIFICE- Creed
Hello my friend, we meet again
It's been awhile, where should we begin?
Feels like forever
Within my heart are memories
Of perfect love that you gave to me
Oh, I remember
When you are with me, I'm free
I'm careless, I believe
Above all the others we'll fly
This brings tears to my eyes
My sacrifice

We've seen our share of ups and downs
Oh how quickly life can turn around
In an instant
It feels so good to reunite
Within yourself and within your mind
Let's find peace there
When you are with me, I'm free
I'm careless, I believe
Above all the others we'll fly
This brings tears to my eyes

IS THIS WHAT OCCUPIES THE COURT'S TIME?????

This story has been put in a paper and now even my paper is trying to investigate what the real story behind this idiocy of putting a pet dog on trial is... is it a way to keep land grabbers at bay and save a poor widow.. or is this simply an example of how low the justice system in India has gone....?

ive been taking pictures!

now... these are pictures ive taken in the course of the last week as i've covered various events as a reporter.. n happened to have my little digicam with me... they weren't good enuf 4 the paper... but I think they're perfectly lovely..

tell me wat u guys think..

This lot is pix i took of a fire at the Pragati maidan conference hall 7.

I even went inside the building... these are the embers falling from the first floor where the fire was... i went up to th efirst floor too.. but the heat was too much n the firefighters saw that i was all nervous so they told me to get back down... everything was still smoking though the fire was out.. and the water that had collected all over the floor was also really hot..

These are pix i took while on the bus back home.. its the Moti Masjid at the red fort with the sun setting in the background... i LOVE these pix..

The next ones are the pix of the partial solar eclipse on the 1st of August... I went to St. Columbus School to see what the kids were upto there.. n one of them very kindly lent me a filter... so i could take pix too!!

hmm.. n these are a couple i took while stuck in a traffic jam today... It took me TWO HOURS to get from college to Sirifort auditorium... was stuck at ISBT for almost 20 mins and then outside the National Science Centre for almost half an hour... i'm SO glad i wasnt driving coz i wouldve wanted to shoot myself... it was bad enuf sitting in the back of a car checking my watch every few mins...

a step out of the ordinary

hm... since i cant possibly spend so much time on the phone.. i think i'll describe the first two days of my newfound professional life on my blog for the benefit of my friends.. since i'm AT the office rt now and my contract forbids me to mention my work on the blogosphere, i think i'm gonna have to get aroud it by being slightly vague.. in any case, those who are reading this already know precisely where i'm working.. for those who stumbled upon this blog by chance.. suffice it to say that i'm in the journalism business, employed at one of India's leading newspapers, and as recently as two days ago shifted from the boredom of the editing desk to the agony of being a reporter..
love shows you the agony and ecstasy of things.. so they say.. "THEY" be damned.. so I say.. coz this job, which has been a dream for years, in reality has shown me both sides of the proverbial coin..
if i thought sitting around waiting for ppl to file enuf stories to be passed down to us lowly trainees for editing was bad.. the last two days have DRAINED me of energy..
yesterday as the MPs of India debated on the trust vote, i had to go chek out what the party workers at the head office of one of the major parties opposing the government were doing in the office... what no one told me was that the road that this said office is located at is a one way, with restriction on stopping any vehicle at any gate for more than about 30 seconds.. so while i got there comfortably in an auto, getting an auto back to the office wasnt quite so easy.. a couple of hours later, i was asked to go back to the same office.. and while i was there got a lead about a demonstration being held condemning the money- for votes scandal in the parliament. since i was only bout 2 km away from the parliament, this intrepid reporter decided to go check it out.. forgetting that the damned thing was in the WRONG direction to the traffic flow.. the upshot of it was that i ran about 700 odd metres in the blazing heat at 5 pm along a road lined with sentries, and got into an auto at the intersection.. thank god for roundabouts.. the autowallah however proved clueless regarding my destination.. and as anyone who'se ever tried to find their way around all those confusing intersecting round roads of central delhi will know, if u dont know the EXACT location and preferably a few landmarks of the place u need to go to.. u can get rather lost.. well.. thanks to a few good samaritans on the roadside, i reached my destination, took in the events, and climbed thankfully into a bus that would drop me right outside my office... after a whole month of getting home after 1 am, it was nice to reach comfortably at 9:15 and have dinner with my family..

today was a much more tiring day.. i guess i'm gonna have to toughen up a hell of a lot to continue in the job..
had to take a looooong bus ride all the way to noida, n then when i got back i saw a political rally in progress and decided to follow it... got into one of the cars participating in the rally n ended up all the way in shahadara... took me almost 30 mins and 50 bucks in the Auto to get back to my comfortable airconditioned office and collapse in a chair... worst thing.. the stories i went chasing after werent even important enuf to go into the paper.....
The day taught me what NOT to do when looking for a story.,.
1. DONT LEAVE the airconditioned confines of the office to cover an event before finding out what mode of transport is available to get to to the said event and back... yesterday i found, much to my despair that the organisers of the event i took the long bus ride to NOIDA to sent a car to pick up the journalists who were invited... running into the Radisson hotel looking like u've just tumbled out of a DTC (which IS exactly what uve just done) can make u feel extremely uncomfortable in the midst of a glitzy launch event...
2. DONT care what you look like when u get to wherever it is that u've been sent to get a story... as long as uve got clothes on your back and your hair doesnt look like a bird biult a nest in it.. its FINE... u're a REPORTER for heaven's sake.. NO ONE CARES how u're dressed... seniors at my office even told me how they just went off to party after a tiring hectic day without bothering to change.. the press card does the trick..

3. NEVER let your phone balance run out... u dont want to be stuck somewhere wondering whether its worth your while to even pursue the "story" further.. and u cant call the office n confirm whether it wouldn't be better for u to simply return.

4.NEVER just go off to see whats goin on... landing up at a major party's media cell on a day when some superemely important political event is on , without any idea of what u will ask is NOT a good idea.. u'll only end up feeling rather embarrassed..
5. and this is THE most important.... DONT expect to find a story wherever you go... u might go chasing after something for an exhaustingly long time only to realise it was really not worth the wasted time... BUt it IS.. since its teaching u what NOT to go running after..

ah well... I think i've learnt a few lessons...

The Butterfly effect

The butterfly effect is a phrase that encapsulates the more technical notion of sensitive dependence on initial conditions in chaos theory. Small variations of the initial condition of a dynamical system may produce large variations in the long term behavior of the system. So this is sometimes presented as esoteric behavior, but can be exhibited by very simple systems: for example, a ball placed at the crest of a hill might roll into any of several valleys depending on slight differences in initial position.

why i feel this way?? coz something i thought would not mean anything suddenly has become the cause of a major hassle.. truth and lies, hiding and exposing.. why cant i ever figure out when to keeep my mouth shut n when not to???????? i said something that i shouldn't have ages ago... n didnt say something i should have.. today that comes back to haunt me.. n its taken on a much much larger meaning and importance than it could ever have..if only i'd done something different..

'if only'... thats a phrase that'll rule my life for as long as i live right?? things i've done that cant be undone, unsaid.. things that i've left unsaid that cant come out now.. decisions that i sometimes regret but sometimes think its better to have things as they are....

saying something that i didn't think mattered much.. brings up a terrifying spectre of broken promises and lack of trust.. a little thing as far as i was concerned.. something that really couldnt matter to me.. n today its shaken the ground under my feet..
as the theory sez... a ball being rolled down a hill can roll into any valleys.. so can one sentence be interpreted in different manners and elicit varied responses.. some expected, some unexpected...
i thought saying something tonight would be okay... but its only opened a pandora's box....
n i havent quite managed to keep the insect of foreboding from escaping...

COPIED FROM THE HINDUSTAN TIMES WEBSITE

EDITORIAL WRITTEN BY BARKHA DUTT, JULY 11 2008.

CAMPUS CHRISTI
A couple of months back I was moderating a TV discussion between writer Amitav Ghosh, and a perky, outspoken bunch of university students. One of them popped up with the invariable, but clichéd question: Did Ghosh believe there was a ‘Stephanian school of literature’, given how many famous authors seem to walk off its shining green lawns?
Amitav and I, both from ‘College’ (if you want to spot a St Stephen’s alumnus, that’s the surefire sign — there’s no article or pronoun when we talk of our campus years; it’s just ‘college’ — cringed slightly at the presumptuous tag. But then he went on to say, what many others — bureaucrats, businessmen, journalists and artistes — have said before.
“College,” he said, was where he met the most extraordinarily bright and, perhaps, the nicest people he has ever known and its diversity and ideas shaped him in an indelible way. This, from someone who has also studied at Oxford, taught at Harvard and lived in New York.
I knew exactly what he meant in the implicit bonding that only a shared experience can create. But, if usually, meeting someone from College evokes a quiet pride, this time I felt a mild panic and deep sadness. Was this going to be the last time someone would describe those deliciously textured and passionate years in a way that was immediately identifiable across generations? Was the St Stephen’s ethos — built assiduously over 127 years — now terminally ill? Would College ever be the same again? The Church, you see, is killing our alma mater. The monstrous culture of quotas is all set to swallow its soul.
First, the (ominous sounding) Supreme Council that controls St Stephen’s, increased the reserved seats for Christian students from 40 per cent to 50 per cent.
Then, finding that many of these blocked seats went empty over the years because of a lack of qualified candidates among minority students, it drastically pulled down the cut-off marks needed for admission to 60 per cent. So, while, every other student passing out of high school needs anywhere in the range of an 85-90 per cent score in the board exams to even eye three years at St Stephen’s, being Christian means you can walk in with a much lower grade.
These were decisions that ripped through the heart of college, pushing its faculty, students and alumni onto different sides of ugly battlelines. Soon, the contentious principal who began the process had to exit, but the college was left headless and steeped in petty politics and volatile internal divisions. It’s so ironic for an institution that was always accused of being elitist because it did not even participate in the Delhi University students’ elections, preferring instead to create its own student body.
Those days, our defence used to be that we didn’t care to be soiled by the muck and dirt of campus politics. Who would have thought then that the same institution would end up being mired in controversy? Two ministers in the present union cabinet — India’s foreign secretary and the head of the country’s Planning Commission — are all Stephanians. How ironic then, that at this point, the College doesn’t even have a principal — it has been orphaned by an appalling lack of leadership.
But unmindful of the storm raging all around it — a storm that could bring more than the building down — the powerful mafia of Bishops that control St Stephen’s (supported by others within the college) are going ahead with another outrage.
Now they want to reserve faculty seats for Christian teachers. The administrative body that controls the college has quietly instructed heads of department to fill vacant posts with Christian candidates.
Just recently, a former gold medalist student, who wanted to come back and teach at College, was rejected for the job in favour of a Christian alternative. Teachers have protested, argued, dashed off angry letters — even gone on TV to make their point — but the stern men in the purple robes have the ruthlessness of the old Crusaders. They really couldn’t give a toss.
And why should they? They have an inspiring role model in the Human Resource Development Minister who just this month ordered India’s IITs to reserve teachers’ seats for Scheduled Castes, Scheduled Tribes and OBCs. Not one of the IIT directors was consulted before the dictatorial memo was circulated asking that the faculty quotas be implemented with ‘immediate effect’. The IIT teachers have attempted a few, feeble street protests, but they all know the die has been cast and there is no looking back now. When Brand IIT can be mauled beyond recognition by subversive politics, why would anyone care about a small island of excellence called St Stephen’s College?
For very long now those who oppose reservations have been branded as ‘casteist’ and ‘elitist’ by the quota-pushers. But actually, the debate engulfing my old college has precious little to do with caste, class or egalitarianism. In the name of religion and Christianity, St Stephen’s is being pummelled by bigots and autocrats into the very opposite of its essence.
Yes, St Stephen’s is a ‘Christian’ college. But back in the day, what that used to mean was that the choir and the cross, and the little chapel at the back would be the setting for an ensemble cast of hundreds of people from different faiths, backgrounds and castes, to make a home for three years; a home that we never wanted to leave. And its Latin motto — ad dei gloriam — ‘For the greater glory of God’ — always made perfect sense. It was hopeful, inspirational and filled with the grand possibilities of Life.
Now, we can just sit back and watch another institute that India was proud of being destroyed in the name of God. And we can’t even turn to faith and ask that they be forgiven, for “they know not what they do”. The tragedy is they know exactly what they are doing. And you and I can do nothing to change it.
(Barkha Dutt is the Group Editor, English News, NDTV)

nightmare in rainbow hues...

don't expect poetry or any ethereal discussions on the phenomenon of nightmares or anything remotely intellectual... not that any of my posts are ever that... this thing is a straightforward rant at the lack of taste and elegance in ANYTHING u might expect to see in a market full of clothes...
A short backgrounder first... those who already know me intimately.. u've heard this before... so u may skip to the next para.. if, that is, u really want to read the same thing i've been moaning about for quite a while now... i dont go shopping all that often... my shopping is usually limited to a coupla new tshirts/kurtis/dressy tops every season.. or a pair of jeans roughly once a year coz thats just about how long it takes for me to either get bored with it or ruin it somehow.. For the last coupla months..every time that i've bothered to haul myself to the market, i've come back empty handed with aching eyes at the sheer number of BRIGHT sequinned things with weird colours and funny stones all over the place... WHAT is the world coming to????? that people think dressing up means draping what seems like the entire rainbow(and then some..) of colours on yourself n putting a few bright sparkly things in even weirder colours on top of it..??????

why i rant today?? ah yes... i just spent 3 hours looking for a sari to wear for my sister's wedding.. n now i have a pounding headache.. n NOT because its sunny in delhi.. oh NO... but coz there was just SO MANY SHINY THINGS!!! today is not the first i've gone on a sari hunt... the last 2 weekends were spent in a similarly futile search for pretty things.. except that THOSE were for my beloved Sis n i didnt really have to spend time analysing every sari that was spread out, like i had to today... from South Extn mkt to chandni chowk to kamla nagar n every mall we could find... we've been scouring every place we can think of for more than a month now.. n its been really hard to scrape together enough saris for the family and the bride.. WHY is every sari one can find in the market covered with stones?? or sequins, or worse, BOTH?? dont people make simple elegant WEARABLE saris anymore?? the only stone free saris were the heavy kanjivarams and assorted silks that befit ONLY the bride.. what of the rest of the women in the family?? either we look like badly designed chandeliers or dig into mom's old clothes chest.. which ofcourse contains things she would NEVER let me wear coz they're too heavy/old-style = inappropriate for an unmarried little girl like me to wear.. WTF!!!!!
sample this... i walk into this old renowned shop in Kamla nagar, say hello to the aged uncleji sitting there n ask to see simple yet wedding- appropriate saris in a particular price range.. in his infinite wisdom he dispatches an underling to get the "achchi wali, modern saris".. well and good.. mom, dad, me and kid bro(who tagged along for some unknown reason) sit waiting in anticipation, looking around at the rather exorbitantly decorated saris that adorn the mannenquins around us.. i point to one of those.. but its deemed too heavy for the kid sis of the bride.. dont wanna upstage my sister now do i??
meanwhile.. the assistants come back with an assortment of materials and colours perched on their shoulders..(i'm using rather flowery language aren't i?) n proudly spread out the wares.. soft chiffons and flowing georgettes and even a coupla silks n stuff... lovely shades of blue and green and pink and orange.. ON EVERY ^#& *#!*^#!ONE OF THEM!!!!!!!! there was a chiffon sari in a gorgeous shade of blue.. flowing into a palla of pink... WITH YELLOW AND RED STONEWORK on it!!! i mean.. REALLYYYYY!!!!!!!!! then there were the so called 'designer' saris.. a red n black with red flowers on it.. AND the flowers were bigger than my entire HEAD! and there were black sequins outlining the flowers!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! n that wasn't the worst of them... the ABSOLUTE WORST i saw was a brown n orange chiffon sari... all flowy and lovely to touch.. with a geometrical parallel line pattern on it... and there were HUGE BLACK SQUARE STONES on it!!! I wanted to throw up right there!!!!!!!!!!! n my kid brother seemed to delight in pointing out the weirdest shades and designs n telling me to get those... n it was practically the same thing at 3 other shops we went to... the humid n hot weather, plus my age makes it rather impractical to wear heavy silks which seem to be practically the only things that are NOT full of stones..
3 hours, four shops, and countless thoughts of murder later, i found ONE sari that i loved at first sight... thank god...
the only problem is.. the wedding is 3 DAYS of ceremonies.... siiiiiiggghhhhhh.....

saiyyan by Kailash Kher

The lyrics of this song may raise the hackles of some of my more feminist friends... but i LOVE this song... the tune is soooooo dreamy... n even the lyrics describe the madness of love sooo beautifully...

Heere moti main na chaahoo
main toh chaahoo sangam tera
main toh teri saiyyan
tu hai mera ....
saiyyan ... saiyyan

tu jo chhoo le pyaar se
aaraam se mar jaaoo
aaja chanda bahoo mein
tujh mein hi gum ho jaaoo ...main ...
tere naam mein kho jaaoo

saiyyan ... saiyyan

mere din khushi se jhoome gaaye raate
pal pal mujhe dubaaye jaate jaate
tujhe jeet jeet haaroo
yeh praan praan varoo
hay aise main nihaaroo
teri aartee utaaroo

tere naam se jude hai saare naate
saiyyan ... saiyyan

banke maala prem ki tere tan pe jhar jhar jaaoo
baithoo naiya preet ki
sansaar se thar jaaoo
tere pyaar se tar jaaoo
saiyyan ... saiyyan

yeh naram naram nasha hai...
badhtajaaye
koi pyaar se ghungatiya deta udaa
ab baawra hua mann
jag ho gaya hai roshan
yeh nayee nayee suhaagan
ho gayee hia teri jogan

koi prem ki pujaarun mandir sajaaye

saiyyan ... saiyyan
heere moti main na chaahoo
main toh chaahoo samgam tera
main na jaanu
tu hi jaane
main toh teri
tu hai mera
main na jaanu
tu hi jaane
main toh teri
tu hai mera
main toh teri ............
tu hai mera

The Crystal Ship- THE DOORS

Before you slip into unconsciousness
I'd like to have another kiss
Another flashing chance at bliss
Another kiss, another kiss.

The days are bright and filled with pain
Enclose me in your gentle rain.
The time you ran was too insane
We'll meet again, we'll meet again.

Oh tell me where your freedom lies

The streets are fields that never die.
Deliver me from reasons why
You'd rather cry, I'd rather fly.
The crystal ship is being filled
A thousand girls, a thousand thrills
A million ways to spend your time

When we get back, I'll drop a line.

sometimes u just feel like there's nothing u'll like more than to just run away from everything.. but things keep u tied to where u are n what u are...
i guess what they say IS true.. there really Is always a song for every mood...

FOUND ON THE NEW YORK TIMES WEBSITE

June 13, 2008, 11:53 am
To Beer! The Cause of, and Solution to, All Life’s Problems!
By Leslie Wayne
Beer-powered cars.
An idea Homer Simpson can get behind.
That is what Molson Coors Brewing Company will be providing to the political elite at the Democratic National Convention in Denver in August. Beer, it turns out, can be turned into ethanol and used to fuel cars. This alternative source will be on display at the convention, which is trying to promote its green bona fides.
There is, of course, the obvious question: Why would anyone want to pour good beer into the tank of a car?
For starters, it’s not actually good beer, but beer that is “lost during packaging or deemed below quality standards,” according to Coors. Since 1996, Coors has been converting this waste beer, as it is called, into ethanol and generating about 3 million gallons of waste-beer ethanol a year.
The happy cars getting an injection of beer in their tanks are to be provided by General Motors, designated as the convention’s “Official Vehicle Provider.” G.M., a major sponsor at both conventions, will be showing off its fleet of cars with biofuel capabilities and hybrid technologies to lawmakers often been dubious about Detroit. A fleet of 400 G.M. cars will chauffeur around members of Congress, Democratic officials, state party leaders and other Democratic V.I.P.’s during the four-day extravaganza.Coors is a “Presidential” level sponsor of the convention, meaning it has paid over $1 million and, in return, promised access to prominent Democratic politicians. It has also been named the “Official E85 Ethanol Producer” for the Democratic convention, referring to the term for motor fuel that is 85 percent ethanol and 15 percent gasoline.
If beer is going into cars, will there be any left over for all the partying by delegates and the Democrats’ corporate sponsors?
Coors says: Yes! In a press release, Coors said it would provide beer for various Host Committee events, pre-convention meetings, V.I.P. gatherings and the media briefings. So convention delegates and visitors can end up being just as happy as those G. M. cars.

Without You

The Guns n Roses song November Rain is based on the short story "Without You" by Del James, available in James' 1995 book The Language of Fear. That short story describes the misery of a former multi-platinum blues-influenced rock star, who reminisces over an on-and-off-again relationship. (wikipedia- November Rain)

this story really made me think bout how priorities can sometimes get totally messed up and relationships suffer coz ego gets in the way.. how people who really love each other can end up hurting each other more than anyone else ever could.... how after a while you come to realise what you've done or not done but the time's already gone past and there's really nothing you can do to make amends.

WITHOUT YOU
Although he wanted to share the dance, Mayne could not bring himself to interrupt such beauty. Her well-toned body swayed childlike, peacefully, slowly moving to the rhythm. Her innocence was enchanting, her beauty breathtaking. Mayne knew she’d be angry at him for sneaking about, watching without letting her know, but the teenage voyeur inside his adult body encouraged him and didn’t care about the consequences. Besides, this was for his eyes only. Her eyes sparkled, reminding him of the ocean, vast with beauty and mystery. A slight breeze danced through her lion’s mane. A full-length see-through dress covered her shapely body and a light glaze of sweat made her glisten. She seemed too beautiful to be real. During this split second of visual euphoria, Mayne conceded that she was the only woman he ever truly loved. Her eyes flickered. She must have heard me, he thought as she turned toward him. He didn’t want to ruin the beauty, only to enjoy it. Her thick lips smiled sympathetically. Then the song started growing in volume.

A sharp twinge of panic shot through him when he realized which of his songs it was. Cold sweat seeped out of his pores and dread consumed him. His vision spiraled as reality distorted. Breathing became difficult, complicated. Desperation attacked and twisted every muscle in his thin body. Much worse than the pain was his fear. Insuppressible anxiety swept through him as he started toward the stereo. Everything lost its natural texture; the walls, the floor, the air became surreal. The louder the music, the more difficult he found it to move. He had to remove the compact disc but his feet felt like large concrete blocks. He couldn’t move fast enough. She already had the pistol’s barrel against her temple.

BLAMM!

Mayne awoke covered in sweat, a mute shriek still lodged in his throat. The past six hours had been spent in a drug-and-alcohol-induced coma that he put over as sleep. Sleep was a rare commodity and was impossible to achieve without some assistance. It didn’t matter whether he slept six hours or six minutes, the nightmare always managed to creep in. No sleeping pill or antidepressant could spare him. He had written the song and was forever damned by it. With unsteady hands, he wiped sweat from his brow and rubbed his fingers against the satin sheets. His silver and gold bracelets clinked together. Rolling onto his side, he stared at the digital alarm clock on top of the black night table that had a built -in refrigerator as its base. On top of the clock was a half-empty pack of Marlboros. He stared at the green digital numbers but they made no sense. It really didn’t matter what time it was anyway, his time was other people’s money. Next to the clock was something more important than cash or time. Slowly he sat up. Tortured eyes scanned the black marble tabletop, searching for any leftover precious brown powder. There were burned matches, bent cigarettes, and empty bindles, but no dope. It didn’t matter. He could always have more delivered. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mayne reached down and opened the night table’s refrigerator door. Inside were several Budweiser’s, baking soda, and a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon. He grabbed a cold can, killing half of it in one sip. He did this every morning. Instantly, his aching head began to feel better. Although he didn’t want to admit it, the time had arrived to rejoin the living. He knew he had to be at the studio soon but didn’t feel up to it. Besides, the recording of his latest album, Alone, had been finished over a month ago. The album was now in the final mixing stages. If Mayne liked what he heard, he’d approve it and the record would be released on schedule. If not, it would have to be remixed until he did approve. So then, what the fuck did they need him for? He procrastinated for as long as he possibly could before finally standing up.

Much like his bedroom, the bathroom was a disaster area. Discarded clothes, creams, trash, cassettes, and towels dominated the view. Using radar to locate the bowl, he found the porcelain, fought off the urge to puke, and relieved himself. He reentered the bedroom, not really feeling human, more like a robot dressed in rented flesh. There was a dull pain in his abdomen that he’d grown accustomed to. It, like many other flaws in his health, could be attributed to his excessive life-style. Besides his jewelry, Mayne only wore Jockey briefs. He stumbled over to his dresser, removed a pair of custom-tailored black leather pants, and changed. He found a dark purple silk kimono hanging in a walk in closet and put it on. In a dresser drawer was a gram vial of cocaine. Scooping with the long fingernail on his right pinkie, the tattered musician snorted eight blasts of rock ‘n’ roll aspirin. The kimono felt cool against his warm flesh. He wondered if he was feverish and concluded he probably was. He was always run down, as if with a perpetual fever. That is, of course, until he got his chip. He finished his beer, tossing the empty can in the general direction of a wastebasket that was already crammed with empties. Staring into a full-length mirror, the run-down recluse didn’t recognize the reflection. Sure, the long blond hair and tattoos gave him away, but he looked so frail. Mayne looked like someone who was ready for hospital pajamas. His once attractive face was blue, taut, and expressionless. A scraggly beard covered his chin and his emerald eyes were no longer authentic gems, but rather costume jewelry. He needed a drink.

For the past fourteen of his twenty-eight years, he’d spent the majority of his time inside a bottle. Teenage beer and wine parties turned to vodka and rum at nightclubs, which in turn evolved into straight whiskey. Exiting the bedroom, he said a silent prayer to his patron saint, Jim Beam, asking that there be some in the liquor cabinet. An illuminating golden glow surrounded the thick blackout curtains. A small war had gone down in the living room the previous evening. Full ashtrays, assorted liquor bottles, empty and half-empty packs of cigarettes, and beer cans were strewn everywhere. Several CD covers were caked in cocaine residue. Mayne tried remembering who had been partying there and couldn’t. An empty pack of Kool cigarettes meant that one of his many dealers, Jamie Jazz had delivered something. It didn’t take very long before he made the connection between the empty bindles in the bedroom and Jamie. Jamie (pronounced Jay-mee) was typical Hollywood trash who hand delivered coke, toke, crack, or smack to troubled celebrities, exploiting their vulnerabilities. Mayne searched for more clues as to who else had been over partying but came up blank. He slid behind the bar that was adjacent to the kitchen and opened a cabinet. There were several unopened bottles of assorted white liquors. A nervous surge shot through his small stomach. What if there was no whiskey? He shuffled the bottles around until he found the proper one. A sigh of relief escaped him as he twisted the cap off and made a mental note that he needed to restock. The whiskey’s aroma was his equivalent of fresh brewed coffee. "Here’s looking at you, love," Mayne said aloud, raising the bottle to his lips.

Like every day, one sip led to another. After several sips, he started feeling right. He put the bottle on the counter and made it to the refrigerator. If he was lucky, he’d be drunk before the day started. He removed another Budweiser and went back into the messy living room. There was a dull hum inside his cranium. He couldn’t differentiate whether it was cocaine-induced or the central air-conditioning. If only he could remember what day today was, then he’d know if a maid was scheduled to come by. She could bring booze. The musician sat on the couch, picked up the phone, and dialed 411.

"Operator. What city, please?"

"L.A."

"Yes?"

"What day is it? Mayne asked sincerely, lighting a Marlboro.

"What?"

"What day is it?"

"Sir, I’m an operator."

"Ma’am, you’re Information and I asked you a question," Mayne corrected her. A snide laugh escaped him. After a silent moment, she answered his question.

"It’s Wednesday, sir."

"Thanks," he said, and hung up. There would be no maid service today. This was not the way he wanted to start the day. He polished off the beer, finished his cigarette, and snorted more cocaine. After several confusing seconds, he remembered where he kept the large green garbage bags and began straightening up the mess. Moving around the large one-bedroom condominium, he picked up anything that wasn’t bolted down and threw it out. Bottles and empty food containers stretched the garbage bag to a point where it threatened to rip open. After ten minutes of straightening up, the apartment began taking shape. Besides this condominium, he also owned one in Manhattan and another in Houston. He rarely frequented his Hollywood Hills mansion, or for that matter, his house in Maui. Both brought back too many memories of her. It was in the Hollywood Hills house where he and Elizabeth Aston had spent most of their quality time. As his thoughts began betraying him, thinking more about her, Mayne instinctively went to the bar and retrieved the whiskey bottle. He could think of her as long as he had a safety net. With all the money, fame, and success he had attained, it was the simple things like friendship and love that were the hardest to keep. He never meant to hurt anyone, especially those closest to him, but for some reason that’s who he usually hurt the worst. He never set out to be malicious, but by living under a microscope with the world scrutinizing him, any wrongdoing, public or private, tended to blow up in his face and often wound up as Nightly News. Personal flaws and fuck-ups are not allowed of the elite. He often suffered silently, trapped by his own fame, until he needed out of his cage. But the cage was as wide as his eyes could perceive. All Mayne had ever tried to be, right or wrong, was himself. With all the doctors, specialists, therapists, fans, and everyone in his organization trying to help him, he just sank further into his cocoon, alienating himself even more. He often wondered who he really was. Was he another regenerated social security number automatically inherited at birth or a genuine reflection of society? Was he a phenomenon or just a facade? Was he a product of his own imagination or just another brick? Would he ever understand his own destiny?

Inside his mind, he analyzed why his relationship with Elizabeth had failed more times than were countable. Like the scholar he wasn’t, he dissected situations, pondered things he should’ve said and shouldn’t have been caught doing. When it came to sex, why couldn’t Elizabeth understand that just because he occasionally strayed from their bedroom didn’t mean he didn’t love her? Sex was like role-playing. He never forced her to be monogamous but deep down he knew that if he found out she was fucking someone else it would have hurt. A lot! Even with that knowledge, he couldn’t confine himself to only one woman. He wanted to have his cake and eat it too. He tried being open with her but concluded that certain things should’ve remained secret. Sex was an ego addiction similar to the one felt onstage. Different audiences, like different partners, were more challenging and made him work harder for the applause. Like drugs, he was addicted to the rush. Even with an empire at his disposal, money couldn’t buy him love, nor happiness, nor peace of mind. Nor Elizabeth. Looking around the large living room, a very disenchanted artist absorbed the modern decor. None of these possessions except a few token items had ever meant anything to Mayne. None of this shit was real. He was surrounded by trophies of a game that had no meaning. And he was tired of playing games.

A sharp pain in his left ear sent him back to the dark corridor that led from stage to dressing room. Inside his ringing head, speakers feeding back ignited and exploded. He was experiencing another rock ‘n’ roll side effect, ear damage. The dull hum lasted only seconds but the memories of his final show with his former band, Suicide Shift, would never fade. For reasons he couldn’t remember, Elizabeth had been unable to attend the tour’s final show. The band had been on the road for the better part of fourteen months, over 285 concerts. Every few weeks Mayne had flown her to whatever city he was performing in and she’d stay for a few nights. The final concert of any tour is an important night. It was Suicide Shift’s first headlining tour and Mayne wanted to share the experience with her. It was the culmination of many miles traveled, many hours worked, and the celebration that went on afterward was well deserved. He called her several times to offer her plane tickets, trying to persuade her, but she couldn’t make it.

The gig was well over two hours of electric ferocity. Of course Mayne consumed plenty of drugs and alcohol before and during the show (he did every gig), but it was the Florida crowd’s enthusiasm and knowing that he’d be able to sleep for a month that gave him extra spark. Every time he took a solo, he tried to best any previous soloing effort. Every time he approached his microphone to sing backups, his voice surged with whiskey vigor. For him, this was rock ‘n’ roll at its best. The 4,000-plus crowd acknowledged this with deafening applause.

After the final encore, it was time to celebrate. Mayne wound up with two eager females in his hotel room. In the privacy of his bathroom he injected a little heroin. Not enough to make him nod out but enough to get him good and high. The two nubile females would only make him feel better. After struggling to get his wet brown suede pants off, he joined the nude women, and thus the revelry began. The dope clouded his not-so-good memory but Mayne remembered a very drunk Peter Terrance walking into the room. The band’s drummer had mistaken Mayne’s room for his own. In the spirit of celebration, Mayne offered him a girl. Terrance declined saying he’d find his own and left. The menage-a-trois continued. Shortly afterward there was a knock on the door. Thinking it was Terrance taking up the offer, Mayne called out, telling whoever was at the door to enter. Standing at the door with an overnight bag was Elizabeth. On the spur of the moment she’d flown from L.A. to Miami to be with him. A very bad scene played itself out. Elizabeth left broken and hysterical. That was the beginning of the end for their relationship.

Mayne snapped out of the past. His left knee popped loudly as he straightened his legs and headed for the phone. He pushed a button. Elizabeth’s number was still programmed and every now and then he pushed it just to hear her phone ring. Also in the phone’s memory was his record label, his manager, the three members of his current band, the Mayne Mann Group, and several drug dealers. After receiving no answer at Elizabeth’s, he pushed another button. His many bracelets clinked together and a few seconds later there was a reply.

"Yeah?" spat an unenthusiastic voice from a car phone.

"It’s me," Mayne said, swallowing, cocaine dripping down his throat.

"My main man," Jamie’s voice declared like a cash register ringing. "What can I do ya for?"

"Uptown and downtown." Cocaine and heroin.

"No problem. You remember what I did for ya last night, right?"

"Yeah." He didn’t.

"You owe me three bills from that shit, brother man," the dealer explained just in case memory failed. I’m sure I got some change floatin’ around. If I can’t find some I’ll five ya my Versateller card and you can get what I owe."

"Bet. I’ll be right up," Jamie said as if he was doing Mayne a favor and hung up.

"Fuckin’ prick," Mayne mumbled to himself.

He lit up a cigarette and got himself another beer. The lid popped loudly and foam rose to the mouth hole. He watched, amused, then walked over to the black-out curtains and pulled the lever, letting bright sunlight invade his living room. "Fuck you very much," he loudly announced, squinting, and raising his middle finger to the sky. The view from his balcony was vast, displaying the City of Angels below, yet more often than not Mayne kept the curtains shut, preferring not to be a part of the world outside. It was safe inside his apartment. Against a far wall, tucked in the corner so that the ivory keys faced out toward the living room, was a vintage Steinway. He spent many pleasure-filled hours on the instrument, and even when he wasn’t playing, the piano gave him visual stimulation. It was an instrument of precision and grace. Next to the piano, resting comfortably on stands were half a dozen vintage guitars: Les Pauls, Stratocasters, and Telecasters. The guitars he kept in the apartment were the ones that meant the most to him.

The buzzer sounded, waking Mayne from his drifting thoughts. He went to the intercom and pressed the button that unlocked the front door. A few minutes later, Jamie Jazz was inside his apartment. Dozens of platinum and gold records adorned the walls. Hours upon years of planning, writing, recording, and struggling had reaped these round rewards. His songwriting stemmed from inner pains and his slower, more blues-influenced songs often dealt with personal hardships. Those were the songs he was most proud of and believed might stand the test of time. The faster, more hard-rock-oriented songs often had little significance or wore their meanings on their sleeve. Unfortunately, the awards were no longer awards without Elizabeth. Mayne excused himself and went into the bedroom. Hidden behind yet another platinum disc was a safe. He removed the disc from the wall, twisted the combination, and opened the safe. Inside were jewelry, documents, over four thousand dollars cash, a freebase pipe, and a loaded .357 Magnum. He grabbed a few C-notes and went back into the living room, leaving the safe shut but unlocked. Jamie was seated on the black leather couch, feet up on the marble coffee table, looking casual in Suicide Shift sweatpants (that he’d gotten from Mayne) and a matching sweatshirt. He’d helped himself to a beer.

"What’s the total?"

"Including last night? Six," Jamie replied, fidgeting with the beeper on his waist.

Mayne handed him six bills and put the rest in his pants pocket. Judging by the look on his face, the dealer understood he wanted to be alone and took the hint.

"Call me if you need anything else," Jamie offered, exiting the apartment.

The moment the front door clicked shut, Mayne’s mind rushed into overdrive but his body refused to move. He had drugs in hand, but instead of finding a syringe, he went back into the bedroom. Something in the wall safe more powerful than his addiction had caught his eye. He walked to the safe and pulled the door open. Inside was a photo album containing precious Kodachrome memories. Placing the drugs on top of the messy night table, he fell on the bed, and began flipping through the leather-bound book. Captured in photos were images and feelings so intense that it made him warm as well as suicidal. Elizabeth had challenged him intellectually while stimulating him sexually. She’d mothered him when he was sick, which was quite often. She’d set free inner feelings that he’d often tried avoiding. Her beauty, both inner and physical, was something he wanted; yet when she was his, he did everything conceivable to lose her.

He turned to the second page. He had no idea how many times he’d masturbated to this photo. Every other day perhaps. It was just a snapshot he’d taken of her while on vacation in Las Vegas. In photo form, the wind blew her long hair away from her face and she was smiling. Behind her was the Caesar’s Palace hotel where they’d spent the better part of two weeks in the penthouse suite. It was a typical tourist photo but it was her smile that turned him on. It was so free from pain. Mayne would do anything to have her smile for him like she had in the photograph. He’d do anything to have her lips, her body again.

He unbuttoned his leather pants. Before beginning his self-stimulation, he pulled himself over to the night-table refrigerator and removed an unopened bottle of Dom Perignon champagne. The bottle opened with a loud pop and smoke billowed from the top, but no liquid spilled.

Sipping deeply from the bottle, he flipped through the photo album that was all too short, carefully avoiding the final page. He rarely looked at the last page. As always, he wound up back on page two. With the bottle two-thirds empty, he pulled his pants and briefs down to his knees and poured the remaining champagne onto his palms. This was part of the ritual. Fine champagne was something he and Elizabeth enjoyed sharing. He could still share it with her. As he took hold of his wet erection, his thoughts began to slip. It was during one of their final dinner dates that she had said something that inspired him to write the most beautiful song of his career. "I can’t live with you and I can’t live without you," he could hear her saying as if it were just yesterday. Words flowed from pen to paper faster than he could write. Mayne concluded that this was his private way of explaining all that had happened between them. The song "Without You," was not an apology, it was his side of the story. It was rock ‘n’ roll sincerity that sold over three million copies in the U.S., topping the record sales charts and putting the Mayne Mann Group on top of the rock world. He offered Elizabeth half of the royalties from the song because without her there would be no song. She politely declined. A sold-out Mayne Mann Group tour ensued. When the tour arrived in Los Angeles, Mayne desperately wanted to see her. No matter how many women he had, no matter how over her he told everyone he was, he’d do anything for her except let her permanently slip out of his life.

He’d called her a dozen times over the course of two days, leaving message after message on her answering machine. Even though she never responded, he’d left her ten All-Access passes at Will Call. She never showed.

After the show, Mayne vowed he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He quickly showered, changed into dry clothing, and left, avoiding all the backstage hoopla. He and his driver headed for Elizabeth’s apartment. Using the phone in the limousine, he dialed her from the street below her apartment. Again he was greeted by a recorded message.

"Elizabeth, I know–I hope you’re there. I’m downstairs and even if I have to break down the door to see you, I’m willing. If you’re gonna call the cops, well, call ‘em now. . . I don’t expect anything from you. I don’t deserve anything . . . Fuck, I don’t even know what I’m trying to say other than I still care about you. Words can’t heal what I’ve done but, fuck, the past is done . . . I really need to see your face again," Mayne softly explained after the beep. The words still echoed in his mind as he wondered if he could’ve possibly phrased things differently. It was too late now, he thought, already inside the building. This was one of the rare occasions after a gig that Mayne was sober. As he arrived by way of elevator at her floor, he heard familiar music. The closer he got to her door the louder the volume grew. Then his world began to spin uncontrollably as a loud gunshot echoed through the hallway. He ran toward her apartment, lowered his shoulder, and with reckless abandon crashed through the wooden door. He’d found Elizabeth on the couch, bleeding profusely, most of her head splattered on the wall behind her. On the blood-sprayed coffee table in front of her was the answering machine, a ballpoint pen, and several crumpled balls of writing paper. He stood destroyed before her corpse. How could this have happened? All he had ever done was love her. Devastated, he slowly walked over to the blaring stereo. A CD single of "Without You" was programmed to repeat. He wondered how many times she’d listened to the same song and shut the power off. Then he noticed that next to the answering machine was a note.

Number one with a bullet, the red-speckled note read.

Shaking and convulsing, his tears falling freely, Mayne began screaming at the top of his lungs. It sounded like someone had unleashed a wild animal. His shrieks threatened to break the windows. A migraine pierced his throbbing temples and his entire head was overloaded with pressure. Did she kill herself because they had failed or because he wouldn’t leave her be? Was it the song, one of the few things he’d ever done autonomously, that had driven her to this? Was this really happening? Then another thought came out mind. He removed the pistol from her hand and put it against his temple.

He was going to join her.

CLICK.

It was empty. Elizabeth had known she would only need one bullet.

Mayne snapped out of that nightmare and was thrust into another memory. He recognized the familiar room as the honeymoon suite in Las Vegas and almost felt at ease. The bed was in disarray and Elizabeth was smiling mischievously.

"What do you want to do?"

"Wha’?" Mayne responded, confused.

They’d already drunk several bottles of champagne and made love twice.

"What do you want to do?" she replied softly, daring Mayne to answer.

Mayne caught wind of her game and decided to play along. If she was giving him an option as to what they’d do next, he was definitely going to take advantage of her generosity.

"You can either come up here and tell me that you love me or go down on me."

Elizabeth’s face registered joy. Words like love were the hardest to get out of Mayne’s mouth. Once again she smiled as she began her descent toward his waistline. It didn’t take her very long to bring him back to life. Several minutes later, when she sensed that he was as excited as he was going to get, Elizabeth looked up at her man and with the sexiest expression she would conjure, softy said, "I love you."

Mayne came with a slight grunt. The powerful surge had given him something to work at but there was no pleasure in the orgasm. There never was anymore. He tossed the photo album aside and lay on the bed feeling dead, staring at the ceiling. For a split second, he thought he heard musical strands of "Without You" but it was only his imagination. His tired body lay there for what felt like a year before he sat up. At least the drugs on the night table were real. Everything he needed was on the table. Hidden beneath the clock radio was a syringe and a blackened spoon. There was a half-empty glass of water and a lighter next to it. In the spoon he mixed the proper amounts of heroin and water, and then, using the lighter, heated the bottom of the spoon until the mixture cleared up before placing a tiny piece of cotton into the spoon. With unsteady hands, he added some cocaine and his speedball was complete. Being a high-profile celebrity, he couldn’t afford to have his withered arms tracked up too badly. He usually shot into the back of his forearms or his feet. He also injected into his neck but the way he felt right now, he had no time to dillydally. Like an expert acupuncturist, he fixed into a bulging vein in his forearm.

"Cool," he mumbled, carefully examining his arm, as he felt the speedball coming on.

He fell back down on the bed. Between the drugs and his emotions, he was exhausted. It was a good thing drugs numbed away most of the pressures. He was rushing out as the drug hit him in powerful waves. It took several moments before he realized his left arm was touching something. He slowly rolled over. The photo album was opened to the last page. The last page contained Elizabeth’s obituary and a sympathy card. Tears he’d held in since that day began to flow down his cheeks. His pale face flushed as he felt his strength evaporating. He was drowning in sorrow but didn’t believe in self-pity and that made him feel even worse. He sat up hyperventilating with a question echoing inside his head. Why did she have to die? He had no answer and stood up too quickly. Why was everything so fucked? He went back into the living room. He needed whiskey.

Why?

He loved her so much.

Why?

He’d offered her half the royalties. Half. That was a financial empire, but she’d refused.

Why?

He’d tried to make amends. He’d tried being good according to society’s standards. He wanted to understand everything that had happened to them. He wanted her to love him but no matter how hard he tried, he fucked it up.

Why?

He wanted to be normal again but that wasn’t possible.

Why?

He wanted to feel closer to Elizabeth but she was dead. That tormented his fragile soul but for a split second of insane logic, Mayne concluded that his body should not be spared either.

"Arrrrrrggghh!" he growled, attacking his living room like a pissed-off brawler. Fists and feet attacked defenseless walls and furniture. He cocked his right fist back and a large hole went through plaster. He snatched an Oriental lamp off an end table and hurled it across the room. He violently threw a marble ashtray into a plaque, ruining both. Breathing heavily and drenched in alcoholic sweat, he grabbed a platinum record and smashed it, spraying glass shards everywhere. The shattered glass on the floor twinkled like sun-reflected sand. No matter how many hotel rooms he trashed during his career, Mayne had never harmed a guitar. That was strictly taboo until today. He walked over to the row of guitars, grabbed a ‘68 Stratocaster by its stringed neck and swung, smashing the mahogany body until it was little more than firewood. With each self-destructive act, he felt slightly better. He walked over to another platinum disc, readied himself and put his right fist through the glass. Blood spurted from the hand that was heavily insured by Lloyds of London.

For the first time that day he smiled.

Mayne grabbed the Jim Beam bottle off the bar and guzzled. The liquid painkiller warmed his heaving chest and eased his bleeding hand, which looked like it needed stitches. He walked over to his Fischer stereo, and, using his good hand, turned on the receiver. The digital readout was locked on a classic rock station. It was the only safe station on the dial, since it never played any of his songs. Mayne Mann was too new, too current. The station only played material from the 60s and 70s. He instantly recognized the song playing; it was Humble Pie’s "I Don’t Need No Doctor." It was raw rock like this that had inspired him to become a musician. Following the Pie were the Allman Brothers. Mayne could relate to what it felt like being tied to a whipping post.

During the commercials, he went into the kitchen to grab another beer. Out of his stereo speakers a record store chain announced its prices as the lowest in Los Angeles. The background music accompanying the record store commercial was "Without You."

His eyes stung but no tears fell as he realized that no matter where he was, he couldn’t hide from himself. Like a man on a mission, he walked over to the stereo, grabbed the receiver, and yanked with both hands. It took several strong tugs before the digital lights went off. With the receiver in hand, he stumbled backward, ripping wires and knocking over one of the large Bose speakers. Distraught and panting, he made his way to the giant sliding safety glass door that led to the balcony. He casually dropped the high-tech receiver and undid the latch that kept the heavy door locked. Fresh air attacked his senses. The cool breeze felt invigorating as he stepped out onto the balcony and looked over the edge. His jet-black Bentley sat gleaming in the parking lot directly below. He picked the receiver up, held it over the balcony, and aimed it at the car. After several seconds of wondering if his aim was accurate, he let go. Glass spidered wildly when the receiver hit the car’s windshield and broke through. He went to fetch the beer he’d been distracted from and ripped the refrigerator door open as hard as he could. It crashed open, spilling several items onto the floor. The door dangled by a hinge. Mayne grabbed a beer, chugged half, and like a strong-armed baseball pitcher threw it at his guitar collection, barely missing his favorite: a vintage ‘57 Sunburst Les Paul. He grabbed another can from the crippled refrigerator as his eyes returned to the guitars.

The guitars were like adopted children and he loved each one in a different manner.

Certain guitars held certain memories but each guitar had the ability to create magic. It was that potential he respected and admired most about these guitars until this afternoon. Now, no matter how much he loved a certain guitar, or how valuable it might be, all he wanted to do was feel pain. Pain brought him closer to reality. It brought him closer to Elizabeth. He gave the world music, very good music, and asked for little in return. A little space to create, some kicks thrown in, and how about peace of mind? Instead, he had more material goods than he could ever use, more money than he could count, and nothing worth fighting for. There was a time not too long ago when he’d fought like hell for all of this. Now that he owned a piece of the rock he wished he could give it back. The view from the top wasn’t as picturesque as he’d imagined. What he did as his artistic expression, the record company sold for capital. He’d quickly grown disillusioned with the system but what else could he do? Without the industry he couldn’t share his music. No matter how hard anyone tried explaining it to him, musical notes would never equal dollar signs. He made music because since his early childhood, he truly loved rock ‘n’ roll. It was the people, his people, he wrote music for after he finished writing for himself. So then, why couldn’t he sleep at night?

He stared at the answer.

He was going to kill his guitars. If it wasn’t for these guitars, he wouldn’t have the problems he did. And he’s save the goddamn ‘57 Sunburst for last. He guzzled the beer, raising it away from his greedy mouth. Budweiser rained down the side of his face. When the can was almost empty, he crushed and spiked it like a football. Enraged, he grabbed a Les Paul Black Beauty and dealt it a quick but savage death against a wall. He raised a rare Telecaster over his head and clubbed the coffee table, breaking both. Then he picked up another Les Paul and, swinging it like a baseball bat, clobbered a lamp and several other objects before the guitar’s neck snapped off.

"Fuckin’ cheap shit," he grumbled.

He heard something that had a bit of rhythm to it. Was there a drummer playing in his head? It took several seconds for him to realize that one of the neighbors was pounding on the wall.

"WHAT, A LITTLE TOO LOUD FOR YA?" Mayne shouted at the direction the noise was coming from.

It didn’t stop.

"YER PISSING ME OFF, ASSHOLE!"

Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock.

"Motherfucker, I'm giving ya fair fucking warning," he said.

Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock.

Mayne walked into the bedroom and over to the night table. He grabbed his cocaine and poured a decent-sized mound on the back of his hand that wasn’t bleeding and snorted. Afterward he licked residue off his fist, numbing his teeth and gums. There was a pack of Marlboros on the table. He grabbed one and lit it. He took a deep drag and listened to his surroundings.

The neighbor was still pounding. The ashtray was an overflowing mountain of dead butts so Mayne placed the cigarette on the edge of the night table. He had tried to avoid a confrontation, but the shithead next door wouldn’t let it lie. He went to his wall safe, grabbed the Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum, and charged out of the bedroom. "OKAY, HOMEFUCK, WANNA PLAY GAMES?"

Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock.

KABAMMM, KABAMMM, KABAMMM.

He unloaded three shots toward the already hole-ridden wall. The pounding stopped instantly. Again he smiled. He aimed the pistol at one of his platinum discs on another wall and blasted the shiny sphere. He aimed at his TV and blew it to kingdom come. One bullet left. He held the silver-plated pistol in awe. He could easily join Elizabeth; all it would take was one quick squeeze of the trigger. The idea appealed to him. Maybe he’d get it right in his next life. Slowly, eyes closed, he raised the pistol. The trigger teased his scarlet index finger. The barrel felt good against his temple. Readying himself, he reopened his eyes. In front of him, mocking him, were two more Les Paul guitars. There once was a point in his life when these musical embodiments were holy. The dedication and years of practicing were a labor of love. Guitars were his passion, his expression, and his ticket out of obscurity. But all of that changed with one song. Now these guitars were reminders that Mayne could never regain his innocence.

"Can’t I fuckin’ die with some dignity?" he wondered as rage consumed him.

He couldn’t even commit suicide without music somehow interfering. His shaking arm lowered and took aim at one of the guitars. There was heavy recoil as wooden fragments flew everywhere. He put a massive hole in the guitar, and then walked over to examine his accuracy. It was definitely dead, but that wasn’t enough. He picked up the remains and threw them against the safety-glass door.
He walked over to the balcony’s edge. Below, a small crowd had gathered around his ruined luxury car.

"Anybody want an autograph?" he asked, tossing out the fragmented guitar.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. I got another present!" he yelled, and ran into the bedroom.

His heavy footsteps jarred the cigarette he’d forgotten off the night table. It smoldered on the thick rug. Mayne dug inside the wall safe, grabbed a handful of hundred-dollar bills, and ran back to the balcony before his audience could scurry away.

"Don’t say I never gave you anything," he announced, letting the money fly.

Several wary spectators stepped backward but as soon as it was obvious that the confetti was currency, they rushed forward. Mayne waved to the small crowd and went back inside.

One guitar remained.

He stared at the ‘57, marveling at the beautiful colors. It was appropriately called a Sunburst. Reds, oranges, and yellows swirled in the wooden body. This one had gold trim as well as golden pickups. The Sunburst was his preference of all guitars. He had another two dozen in storage but this guitar was the first thing he bought after Suicide Shift was signed to a recording contract. It was how he’d rewarded himself for having "made it." This was also the guitar he’d written the music to "Without You" on. He approached it with caution and respect and gently picked it up. He sat down on the floor Indian style. Deep down, he was glad he hadn’t destroyed this ax. His picking hand hurt badly, but he wanted to play. Blood dripped off his hand and dripped down the guitar’s body. Enthralled, Mayne watched it run. No matter how intoxicated he was, his fingers never betrayed him, and this particular guitar always responded to his call. He began picking something that sounded like Hendrix. He paused abruptly. Something about that last guitar run shook him up and he couldn’t continue. In a vague way, it reminded him of a part in "Without You." After taking a deep breath, Mayne partially regained his composure. Multimillionaires like Mayne Mann aren’t supposed to cry. They’re beyond tears or at least that’s what society wants to believe. Mayne Mann was just Stephen Maynard Mandraich, a talented kid who could run his nimble fingers along a piece of stringed wood. He began to strum one of his favorite riffs, Thin Lizzy’s "Don’t Believe a Word." Even though the guitar wasn’t amplified, he could hear it as if it was. He let the last note ring out as he stopped and reflected. He used to love the feel of this instrument in his hands. He used to love making the strings come to life. He used to love just holding this guitar. Then his mind viciously reminded him that he’d also loved the way Elizabeth felt. He quickly rose off the floor and tossed the guitar aside. It landed with a loud DWWWAANNNGGGG.

He stared blankly at the guitar and thought of her. Both had given him so much pleasure, but he’d never been able to properly express his gratitude. He never told her the truth about how she made him feel, about how much he loved her, and when he did, the song reaffirmed that he should’ve kept his mouth shut. At least she’d still be alive. But the song was pure and he wanted to play it for her. Even if her physical body wasn’t present, he could still sing to her in heaven. He wanted to jam but was afraid to touch the guitar.

Then Mayne saw an alternative. He scooped up the almost-dead whiskey bottle and finished what little was left. It slipped silently from his hand. Very drunk, very drugged out, he staggered over to the piano. The smoldering cigarette on the bedroom rug had burned its way over to the goose-down comforter. The cover caught and flames quickly spread throughout the bedroom. Discarded clothing acted as kindling and soon the bedroom was on fire.

Until several hazy hours ago, Mayne’s life, no matter how miserable, had been something most people could only dream about. It was all an illusion, and he was one of rock ‘n’ roll’s elite, a hero. Now, he’d been reduced to his basic self and nothing really mattered. He felt the thorns wrapped around his heart and for the first time in far too long, felt human again. He’d smothered his spirituality in drug abuse. He’d stunted his health and personal growth with vice. He’d blinded himself because he was afraid to see that his purpose, his gift in life, was to be true to himself. And the only time he was able to find that inner truth was when he played his music. He softly tapped the ivory keys, making melodies come to life through his fingers. No matter how badly his hand hurt, he persisted in making music. He was determined to play for Elizabeth and all the other angels. With every fluid run, every harmony, every musical accent, his inner pain subsided a little. With each passing musical note, he became one with the music.

Sweating profusely, Mayne felt something stirring behind him. He tried ignoring it for as long as possible. Finally, he turned and saw large flames billowing out of his bedroom. At first he thought it was a hallucination but the fire was scorchingly real and heading his way. His favorite guitar was already engulfed and dying. He wanted to save it but couldn’t. He refused to let his jamming be interrupted. Elizabeth was listening. Every time his fingers pressed the Steinway’s keys, crimson stained the ivory and smeared. He ignored the small red spots, sliding his long fingers through them. Scarred-up veins bulged from his forearms a sweat ran down his face. All he’d ever wanted to do with his life was play his music and now he was. For the moment, he felt free from his demons. He built up the courage and began singing "Without You" in his natural gruff voice. The thick carpeting quickly became a wall-to-wall inferno as a giant wave of fire rose up and spread around the piano. He couldn’t have cared less. As flames swallowed the apartment, Mayne never screamed and never missed a note.