Sunday, April 20, 2008


I can think of MICA in numerous ways - as a dream of psychedelic mysticism, a playground of deep-rooted archetypes, a collage of anceint memories, a drama of absurdity; in short everything except an institute of Integrated Marketing Communications. I don't feel much emotions now but her enigma remains. To write about her is not however an act of catharsis. Whatever I describe here is true to the best of my subjective knowledge, distorted by time and robbed of many naive illusions. Opinions expressed here are entirely my own and may not agree with other times, other perceptions.The first thing that arrested my attention in Ahmedabad on that rainy day of June 2005 were a couple of Muslim boys with skull-caps running around jovially. I was pleased at the contrast between their innocent faces and the image of riot-torn Gujarat that had lingered in my mind.I reached MICA more dead than alive. But there was a rhythmic beauty in my gloom. Nine days ago, the woman I wanted to spend my life with had told me about her boyfriend. However my dispassion had much deeper roots. Ever since I entered adolescence, aloofness with a touch of proud sorrow had been my constant companion. However currents of great joy kept the ship sailing.

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