I write this as an appeal. I do not have too much clue how that goes, by the way. I have not appealed a lot in my life. I used to pray when I was in school but I suspect that had more to do with the zeal of the nuns than my desire to recruit celestial Christian help for my plans. I had also once fervently silently begged Gabriela Sabatini to step out of a poster and take me by the hand many years back, but I don’t think that counts here.

I write this as an appeal. For the supreme need for magic in our universe. The need to dazzle. The need to blind. And, eventually, the need to lift the burden of everydayness to a higher platform of pure stars. The drone of the ordinary is increasingly closing in on us. The din of the mediocre metaphor is blotting out any possibility of a magical idiom taking shape in our minds and lives. We are getting too comfortable in the dry heat of the Hindu continuum. The very comforting and continuous sounds of our middle class dance. Clanking and muffling, colliding and carrying on.

I write this as an appeal to shush the noise. To bring to a shattering silence the steady base of choreographed cacophony. Rudderless emotions and uncharted moves aside, there is very little that is currently making the world go ‘round. I write this as an appeal to bring to a sudden halt, sudden and rude halt, the confidently creeping progress of the din man. The humming, buzzing advance of the many headed. Plodding on and ahead like a machine full of poison petrol. The engine of nowhereness, that assures us somehow of its proficiency by eating up useless miles.

I also, in a funny way, write this as an appeal to make our Fridays better. Our weekends more colourful. Our intents more glorious. Our lives more fabulous. And, our logic less logical. If we somehow silence ourselves for a bit, we may be able to hold on to the true sound. If we somehow stop ourselves at the merry go round, we may be able to start out on a real journey. That actually goes somewhere.