The Beauty of Incomplete...

Last week, I relinquished my standing in the masses of educated unemployed. The search I had never started was 'complete'. Life was beautiful before that. Then again last evening, life continued…

The research assignment at 'work' had reached submission deadline, the job left unfinished. I was informed then that we had an extension. Instantly hope resurfaced and a plan for tomorrow emerged…

The evening lecture at XIC was taken by a refreshingly endearing personality who, apart from being an avid theatre enthusiast and lecturer, impressed me with experience in my primary additional passions with respect to his previous vocations - journalism and advertising. I asked him whether he foresaw the death of my 'modest' attempts at stringing prose together as a result of my advent in the ad world. His reply left many questions unanswered. I am told he will come again…

Post the session; I accepted the invitation to a commonly practiced ritual within our fraternity - intoxication, egotistically satisfying mutual verbal abuse and the blatant use of self-pity as an excuse for further intoxication. The girl with kaleidoscope eyes at the table across was graciously allowing me all benefit of doubt with regards to potential as an interesting individual. So far, her interest was constrained entirely to not-so-furtive glances and she had no qualms about her expression through the same. I have been told, and through personal experience can verify, that beer is a successful enhancer of the beauty of the beheld. I tore my eyes from their very agreeable occupation to partake of my share of the ordered beverages. I 'look for the girl with the sun in her eyes' and she's gone…

A common boozum buddy then introduces me to a physically much less attractive and decidedly male to-be-PhD-in-political science. I happily find much in common in with the new entrée and an acquaintance develops on the premise and promise of laughing at each other's jokes when no one else will. After a few mutually murderous renditions of hit numbers by our common 'rock' gods, we continue with our dastardly punny digs at our fellow hiccupers. Owing partly to our contract of mutual appreciation of humour, I develop a surprising understanding of the Bengali language. Soon, he departs to catch a flight to the land of the free and the home of the grave. Perhaps I will visit him there…

In the morning, at a seminar on 'The Media and Communal Violence' I speak about the ethics of reporting and the dilemma faced by serious journalists with respect to the duty of presenting the whole truth in relation with the prerogative of presenting the facts with positive prejudice. I close with a question suspended in the dense air above the assemblers in the auditorium - "Ultimately the choice of what and how to report comes back to you. When you walk home at the end of the day, realising the implications of your report, can you sleep?" Most of my audience seem to respond with affirmative proof of their snooze capacity. In the following break for coffee, an unfamiliar but attractive peer questions the conviction in my words. I speak with her at length about the murder of the desired idealism of youth by the all-pervasive commercialisation in contemporary capitalist society. As I admit very bluntly to another colleague later, I 'faff'. All the same, I quite enjoy the conversation and am wondering whether to ask her out for coffee at one of the many pseudo-intellectual coffee pubs in the vicinity when the bell rings for the next session. As we join the 'insodus' back to the auditorium, I finally catch a glimpse of her name on her identification badge. The seminar continues tomorrow…

Post symposium, I follow the confidante I admit my 'faffs' to, as she tails the popular and perhaps once attractive news anchor and leading journalist of one of the so-called last pillars of honest journalism as he scoots towards the exit. Noticing us, he turns to us with a tired smile and follows up the words "Ah! You're the two bright ones" with the equally encouraging "I hope you know I am recruiting in Bombay next week" and presents us his e-mail address. My vocational quandary is happily reinstated…

I return home after another refreshing ritual with a varied assortment of mates who promise to see me tomorrow…

The mp3 belts out Janis Joplin - "As we found out on the way here, tomorrow never comes. It's all the same f***ing day…"

My day is almost done. 23 hours since the beauty of the incomplete began. Life continues again…

www.foolonahill.com