Notes on a Sunday

Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. The intense joy often gives rise to a panic attack and unbearable anxiety from the sixth minute. There is a fear. That this beautiful blinding orgasm is about to get over shortly. An emptiness engulfs, waking one up to existential questions that result in road rage. The Ninth is most dangerous when driving. And, most potent too. One often promises distances to oneself. Motivation to drive in Madras isn't easy to find -- unless, that is the only time you listen to the Ninth and is therefore the best part of your day.

When the woman one is interested in tells him about something, one is driven to it. Regardless of the said thing being an ordinary play about ordinary people in a North Indian college. Worse, being staged at Music Academy without the usual parking arrangement in the nearby school. A friend who lives close is a good option. The bad play though, has its effect. Equal to the friend's compound wall on metal.

Being driven to absolute rage is obviously the moment when the Ninth sounds its glorious best. One thanks the woman for having provided the greatest orgasm without even meeting.