When I was younger, I used to—not enjoy, exactly, but take a certain pleasure from being low and melancholic. I remember I often spent days at a time in an unbroken mood of gloom, regret, and dislike for the world and for other human beings, - just plain, general despair. A few days after not really cracking a smile, being really sorry for myself and completely bumming out I’d recover looking pale, monosyllabic, and wonderfully refreshed. In later years I’ve had to give up this indulgence. Walking around depressed with no reason is disagreeable behavior for which friends, colleagues and family will chide you, out rightly. Plus I just don’t have the time for it anymore. Whenever I'd get started on a good downward slope of melancholy, work concerns or pleasures would distract me, and I would abandon my mood in irritation. On Saturday morning, I decided to stay at home as bad weather made shopping or any kind of socializing impossible. I sat in my room and watched as the day got gloomier and gloomier. Rain fell constantly. Outside my window heavy drops of rain landed on the parapet with thuds. I sat on my bed and listened to some soft jazz music intermingling with the sound of the rain... All of which appeared to be interesting to me at the time.
Then the call arrived from my friend reminding me that we had to meet up for lunch. So I set out to meet her and Dex. Dex is short, with dark brown eyes and a wholesome north-Indian face except that he’s south Indian. A generous sprinkling of freckles would not be out of place on it if he had them, but somehow he doesn't. They would clash, anyway, with his short hair combed flat, and the aviator shades he carries around, and the black pants and white t-shirt he dresses in. Dex and I have known each other for what feels like forever and as we wait for our third friend, history revives. At eighteen, we went on our first trip together. We used to go out in cold nights that were chill, slightly hazy; nights with a buoyant softness in the air, and maybe the scent of freshly turned earth and a gradually darkening sky that seemed almost combustible with possibility: the kind of night when you're eighteen and you’re sure that something exciting is just about to happen. For a moment the memory of those nights hit me, taking me by surprise in the midst of my lunch with Dex. In the next moment the vividness of the memory was gone. Dex knows what I was thinking about; he just doesn’t bring it up. For a while longer we sat quiet in the timeless time zone smiling at each other. After our friend arrived we became just best friends again, talking about work, a changing world and our possible futures.
It's hard to pick just one B’lore cafe, because so many have been around for so long, frequented more for ambience than for the coffee. Most of my friends love to meet at a café called Java City. It’s noisy, big enough to hold 40 people, a little scruffy and perpetually full of students. It defines what a meeting-place should be. Iced tea is the number one seller, but the cold coffees are awfully good, too. It’s at this place that I met an old friend yesterday after 7 years. That’s who this post is dedicated to.
So here are two things I learned about James Morrison. One: He’s probably got one of the best voices I’ve ever heard. And Two: His hair is perfect. His music–which I’ll admit to only having listened to a few of his songs–have clicked rather well with me and they hit me quite the way they should. Of course, that’s not exactly news to anyone, but with the highly enjoyable play list finished, it’s worth repeating: Solid stuff! Good music today at EC, but heck. That happens every month. ;)