Deja Vous

Hi! Haven’t we met before?

You’re the same vapid individual I met last Saturday night. A different face, a different person, but the same, singularly dull, uninspiring, uni-dimensional personality.

A garrulous narcissist. I don’t find you kindling any desire, any intrigue, any fascination in me.

I’d rather be among easels, ink-pots and parchment. Furry, four legs. Musical notes – with evergreen Elton John or Billy Joel hitting the keys, maybe the occasional light sitar.

Slouched on a couch, absorbed in a tome and my thoughts. With apron on and skillet in one hand, a stem of chilled Chardonnay in the other.

Among liquid surroundings, with waves lapping. On a verdant, riverine meadow, gazing heavenward. Marvelling at mysteries and unpredictabilities  in stark, resonating silence.

Or with a bunch of other old souls, joking and arguing and cursing. Loudly. Engaging in more stimulating, less superficial conversation. Without motive, without defensiveness, without exaggeration. Letting our thinning hair down.

Making unbridled love.

Anywhere but here, frankly. Because, for the life of me, I cannot either contribute to or inhale hot air. Unfortunately, the likes of (and the opportunities to meet) you abound.

So, cheers, nice to have met you (that’s a polite, social white lie), but excuse me I really have to leave now. To back where I belong.

Until the next time when the same feeling will recur of having been there before, having met the same person. Sigh!

 

NOTE – This is a crib and a sigh about the fake wannabes one unfortunately inevitably meets at unavoidable weekend soirees. In Mumbai & Delhi, I can certainly vouch for. But I’m sure it’s the same all over.