alone surrounded

i'm becoming this recluse in delhi. with none of my very few friends around and working in a place where i dont seem to fit in with the people. no wonder, when the skies suddenly cast grey outside the windows, evryone but me in office is away from their desks. max i can do is open my google reader. that is if i havent been buried under work from my boss. but i do enjoy overworking these days. except looking for data. bhagwan mil jaata hai dhoondne se but data nahin milta. anyway i wasnt intending to talk about work. i meant to talk about my daily crossing of the road from where my dad drops me every morning, with indian curious eyes following me about. while i stare at this isolated forgotten house across the road from the habitat. every day. something like the front door seems to be half open or missing. and yet there is a permanent lock on the gate. and cars and trucks not meaning to move park in front of it. even some windows show the darkness inside. you would think any house meaning to be left shut like this would be at least sealed in some manner. esp like this ideal house anyone could want. with land around it on all four sides as if real estate rates around this area have overlooked this piece. and the wilderness has taken claim. so many days i stop myself from jumping across the low boundary wall on one side and exploring the place. so often i just look at the contrast in the lawns on the two sides of the wall that seperates it from the mausam bhavan. and these days, after dalrymple's writing has made me feel like a reincarnation living in the ghost city of my last life; i wonder who lived here and when. and why is it so forgotten. to be interrupted rudely by a scream from a peacock out of sight. i strain to locate it but it chooses not to reveal. and then i'm back into present day dodging one car after another. its become a ritual to ring the bell as i enter the habitat. i push it with a practised ease, feeling the carving in the wood touching my fingers. lets forget the hours spent in front of my desk for now. they are totally alien when i read the names of the trees in chinmaya. i never noticed the little globules in the old gurudatta till i noticed it was called that and also goolar. and the board on the islamic center building with the initials of the new delhi municipal corp (or the town planning?) commission in hindi. which if read aloud just as written sounds like some raaga going na-di-na-pa-pari. its so true that when you are alone you suddenly become like this receptor. im not sure if that word explains it. what i mean is you suddenly become like this observer and receiver of the littlest words, signs, objects, gestures, manners, almost evrything that this melee of people and the world around you are upto. you overhear snippets of conversation not meant for your ears and smile or even laugh sometimes on the typical nature and predictability of people. you pick up champas fallen on the ground and wonder if its the right name or whether gulchini like your mom says is correct. i even observe people and classify them into types. and then i go to do the little ignored corner bookhouse inside eatopia a favour, by looking at its books. and i find the yellow pages almost amusing and sad at the same time. together with the discounts on them. and sometimes i sit uncomfortably alone in this crowd of loud buzzing people and try and locate others like me. before getting a secluded table where i wont be stared at for eating alone. its an obvious non practise here. and then i roam around art galleries talking to myself about how anyone could call some of these pieces art. and wondering if my life could ever have taken a course in this direction.