We're all Eleanor Rigbies aren't we? Essentially...

Scene I:
Huge floor cushions, clothed in bright reds and yellows. A computer casting its iridescent glow on the face that is intent on tap tapping the key board. World Space playing soulful Jazz. The balcony door open, a gusty, cool, rainy wind blowing, caressing the hot cheek of the writer. Writer churning out the following in a frenzy, lest the words stop forming the sentences that are so desperately seeking the stage.

Act I
Piece of a conversation:
A - "That's what I wanted - to go to an office, like regular people and see the chicks. My friend and I were just discussing the other day and he asked, "so are you seeing someone?" and I go, "no", and he says, "that's why you need to go to work."

B - "So why don't you get yourself a job? Don't you want to just step out and meet some people? Don't you crave for company?"

A- "That's why I call you up."
Pause, just crackling silence.

A - "I call you up because I want to." (Yeah, right, just after inadvertently admitting that you call because a la Eleanor Rigby, lonely, and craving for company, a hurried statement trying to make amends doesn't work here.)

Act II
A lazy Sunday seems on the anvil on a late Saturday night. Sunight streams in and announces the dawn of the lazy Sunday. After an early morning (10.00 am is early morning for some ok?) call from a friend, and coming alive to the Sunday, glance rests on a piece of information scribbled by the elder - 'Have made breakfast. Gone out for a 'marriage meet' (whoa! up goes the eyebrow of the reader and a resigned shake of the head later, continues to read the rest), please make something for lunch, don't know when will be back." Hmmm! Hrmph! Aaaargh! Ok ok ok. Lazy Sunday here I come.

Act III
In between stirring of some heavenly smelling dish and mentally listing out the 'to do' list on a lazy Sunday (hrmph!!!), writer reads the paper - The STOI (Sunday Times of India) and the magazine section of The Hindu. Suddenly convulsed with sobs, gloom sets in. The snippets of what's going on in the world (there's much and there's a lot that's wrong) and the article on the writer's favourite animal, the elephant and its imminent extinction makes her sob more - Oh God!

Questions galore
Where are we heading? What am I doing? What are we doing? Is this what life is all about? Why are Bipasha Basu and John Abraham on the front page? Are they so newsworthy or have we become so shallow and vicarious that we need only celeb spiel? Why is prostitution called the 'oldest profession' and why are prostitutes treated like they were diseased? India may have the highest number of AIDS afflicted, but not all of those are prostitutes (in fact they are at risk from those who are the carriers). What if one was a prostitute, wonder how it'd feel to be on the fringes of society that pushed me into the 'oldest but discredited profession'? Why does everything including 'still life' by Cezanne or Rembrandt or Renoir have to be discussed threadbare? Why does everything have to be asked, dissected, analyzed, queried, and torn to shreds? Can't we just let some things of beauty be - film or song or painting or music or apparel?
Sigh! Depression looms large.

Snippets of Happy Home and another NGO make it all seem worthwhile. There is HOPE. It's not all hopeless.

Act IV
Humming the tunes of an old Beatle song:
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from ?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong ?

A tune that seeps into the brain leaving one with the thought:

Why are we all so lonely?

End of Scene I, Act IV

Scene II:
Preparation to sit/lounge/lie down and watch FIFA. Hooo boy!

And life goes on...