Maybe.

Not autobiographical,no :D Not fiction either,probably.Just a random snippet I wrote on my way to some place,and decided to post,goodness knows Why.The drafts I actually like keep rotting away,meanwhile :/

Putting my face right out of the window isn't such a good idea after all.Because the wind does not make me want to close my eyes with a pretty smile on my face like in the Alto ads.,it rather feels like the after-effect of a hard slap.Too warm for comfort.But then we reach that point where Ballygunge station is right below-and the local train rushes away with people hanging out at precarious angles.And the maal-gadi creeps in,heaped with something which looks like what I've pictured caviar as after reading about it in Asterix.Rail-lines make even dung look ethereal.And I scrunch my nose up and ignore the horrible smell at the highest point of Bijan Setu which always makes me want to throw up,because I'm craning my neck out to see the sad-looking red flag of some independent candidate flopping away by itself on the rooftop of some apartment.The sight of it reassures me,somehow.And,uh,there.We're on the other side,already.There's the market by the road,and there are the silver streamers hanging forlornly from the one branch of the one tree,but there is this vendor who has parked his cycle right below,so it's alright really.Because the cycle,with its assortment of beach balls and buckets and cosmetics and bundles of synthetic sharee-s is a happy blaze of colours,and the silvers streamers look at home.
This is why I never roll up my windows.Because in the course of those 5 minutes,I feel happy enough to wash you clear of all your little sins.In the privacy of my mind,true,but that is the only place where they rankled,as well.Yes,you never do get me,but that's alright.I'll be the stand-by,just the stand-by,never a force-or a mind-to reckon with,to just be there,to be dealt with indulgently by you.You forgive me for being bland.So will I,I Will forgive you -for never having given me credit for any thought.For never allowing for the possibility that I could think,in the first place.
And someday,maybe,when you realise this-I'll demand my respect.And we'll have an argument,or if you prefer it,a discussion-and clear this all up-and maybe shake off the garb of this placid little agreement we have called a relationship.I love you too much to be happy with just this,you see.