I thought I had an idea
An idea which sought 'change'
And in this changing situation
I left "Don't change if it ain't needed."
Quite simply "out of range"
Thursday, February 22, 2007
~The Now~
The more I wake up the sleepier the past
All feelings suspended at half-mast
This is my 'now' like it has always been
A forgotten relic in yesterday's cast
And will this 'now' run through my life
Like a piercing single strand?
I think I should give up this sorrow
For the 'now' of today feeds the 'now' of morrow
All feelings suspended at half-mast
This is my 'now' like it has always been
A forgotten relic in yesterday's cast
And will this 'now' run through my life
Like a piercing single strand?
I think I should give up this sorrow
For the 'now' of today feeds the 'now' of morrow
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
‘To See More’
I sat in the stuffy room till I couldn’t take the parchedness of my throat anymore. The idea of water though eternally brilliant for anything parched seemed brilliant but boring. So I decided to step out. I decided to step out of the room simply to see some life, hear people talk and move. And that is exactly what I did. Looking back it seems that it was not the throat that was parched. Quite obviously if it wasn’t the throat that was parched it must have been something else. I know what this something else is. Looking back it now seems that I stepped out of the stuffy room merely to observe people. I felt this need for observation because something had changed in my understanding of people and quite naturally I wanted to step out of the room to try and understand what exactly had changed. I still haven’t figured out what that is. But I intend to find out. Just like I intend to take responsibility of all success and failure and all victory and loss.
Though things are looking up they are looking up rather slowly. Yes it is a matter of patience, like catching fish, to hang in there with this observation business and ultimately to see more. To see more than an ordinary person can see whose ordinariness lies in the fact that he has never been initiated in life, to see more.
Till very recently I used to think that it is easy to understand the behavior of human beings by simply observing them and then asking ‘Why?’ but now since I have begun to see more, I think the actual challenge is in observing because I have a feeling that what is being observed is merely the tip of the iceberg. And to make matters look bleaker what is being interpreted in terms of ‘Why?’ is a fraction of what is being observed.
Though things are looking up they are looking up rather slowly. Yes it is a matter of patience, like catching fish, to hang in there with this observation business and ultimately to see more. To see more than an ordinary person can see whose ordinariness lies in the fact that he has never been initiated in life, to see more.
Till very recently I used to think that it is easy to understand the behavior of human beings by simply observing them and then asking ‘Why?’ but now since I have begun to see more, I think the actual challenge is in observing because I have a feeling that what is being observed is merely the tip of the iceberg. And to make matters look bleaker what is being interpreted in terms of ‘Why?’ is a fraction of what is being observed.
Monday, January 29, 2007
‘The Being of Trust’
I thought, no I believed with all my life that the images that I saw on the inside of my eyes were no good. And I believed that with all the life, this for the sake of emphasis. And today the situation is that I hope for the same images to flash back on the back on my eyes. And just as when you forcefully exhale, the air rushes into your nostrils, I squeeze everything out of my mind, and images do squeeze in. Not in quite a rush as does the air in my nostrils, but it is certainly happening and I wait till it becomes a gush. The important thing here being that besides the images, it is important to know that unhindered inhalation hinges on forceful exhalation and not forceful inhalation itself, which might seem as the simple way circumventing what the evidence suggests. In simpler words, things aren’t what they seem, even if they are exactly what they seem.
While the air rushes and waits gushing, I ponder about stories which these images bring along, the stories in which the strongest fiber always makes itself shown, no matter what the degree of the tempest. For the sake of emphasis, every story when remembered, the strongest fiber, makes itself shown. And in this story, [story?], too the fiber leaps forth like an enthused soldier falling out of file to accept the challenge that most probably would mean death. Well, most probably is a term of very ‘most probablistic’ nature and by virtue of that death for this soldier might just turn out to mean life by some twist of most probablisticity, here I sincerely hope I am thinking clearly.
So what is the strongest fiber here? The fact that when I sit to scribble these lines I scarcely know weather the weight of my own pen on my shoulder determines the clarity of expression, or is it something more concrete, something which like a leaf from the book of life, thus inscribed into a page, left for the reader to decode out of the simple writings, something that contrast heavily with a book with leafs like traps and hollows of tunnels and wells, not like fields of exploration and the cool high ridges of mountains of thoughts which the mind peacefully ascends and that too at the climber’s patience, the fact that I scarcely know this, means that I may not be that good at spotting strong fibers in stories so best hope for the fiber to make itself shown.
So the strongest fiber yet is…in the time that I have spent in Bihar is…I’ll decide in the morning. For now let me go to sleep with the thought of why should this call for a decision, why isn’t sixth sense ever given a chance..hm…I think I know the answer to this one, sixth sense is not given a chance because that requires trusting something…something that I struggle equally hard with to define and also its need to define, something called destiny…and well since the strongest fiber has made itself shown, that being of trust…well it is only right that the strongest soldier in the realm of trust step forward for the challenge:
Soldier name: Hira
Specifications: Died hair, old age mainly because of life exhaustion, a common form of exhaustion found in this area which basically means that you run out of time before time. He thinks that when I switch the lappy, off I lose everything.
Mission: to stay put when all his pseudo sisters and brothers are gone or as he says in the most yogic denouncement way, ‘I don’t give a shit if my brothers remember my name, I would stick around.’
Implications: his pseudo sister, my mother, showed up after 10 years gap with her son who showed up after 12 years gap.
Hira stays home or goes for a short stint of day labor which may give him ten bucks, the currency which he knows, a frequent restoration of ten bucks for life’s perpetuation, something he asks for quite casually from my Nani having substituted his day labor to do an errand for her, so Hira stays at home or leaves home to earn a ten bucker, while we, me, my Nani, and mom, in that order, though we walk quite alongside of each other, go and have a look at the church, the neighborhood church, a marvel of communication, to dazzle anyone into taking up Christianity as a religion. But I did feel when I stepped into that church what Jesus is all about, quite a cool dude, tough to live up to his life…but not impossible. Standing beside his wife like a cool husband oops no that’s his father I am talking about all this time, he had now wife or did he I dunno, then giving the Romans a taste of his passive yet gory resistance, and spreading the ideal through the ordeal and then yes culminating into a miracle of returning the third day, the incredibility of which is ofcourse quelled by the fact that he is God or is he the son? Exactly the reason why its tough to live up to him…but it is easy to reach a sort of a human truce looking at him eye to eye in this church in my Nani’s town…yes the way she talks about winning elections it might as well be hers one of these days..but anyway to me, me Nani’s town- Bettiah. This also brings us to soldier no.2
Soldier name: Nani
Specifications: ripe old age, respective because of life exhaustion, a common form of exhaustion found in this area which basically means that you run out of time before time.
Mission: To win elections because she believes she can. When she walks down the road, I have to salute in the old fashioned way, pranam pranam, to the whole world, irrespective of their socio-economic status. Its hard to believe it is my Nani…, ‘oh Nani how can you be so liberal with time..move on..yeah okay stick around if you want votes.’
Implications: Power woman is soon going to harvest a ripe harvest of well-groomed, keep me out of it yet, post graduate grandchildren who will definitely give her the queen grandmother status, not that there is any competition. She not like Indian cricket telecast that almost all content on TV seems to be a worthy enemy.
So I am walking down to the church and it is quite easy to discover that I have shit on the soles of my shoes. It’s as common as life exhaustion in these parts.
It’s easy to catch us, after having walked over all that shit inspite of being wary about it but because of the sheer numbers that surpassing the Iraqi landmined scape, talking to townsfolk on one of these roads and my mom somehow suppressing the expression of embarrassment on her face on being absent from her hometown for ten years and quickly looking towards me for self-approbation for I seem to be the only one leading her by two years in that regard. And after having done all this hi-helloing the old way, walking down to home and then there would be Hira to greet us talking in his pitched, colloquial tongue and expressing the trust of years all around which makes me question why I don’t trust people the way he does, what does it take, and the constant smile on his face does let me know that it is worth it for the smile seems to be of the realization of a kindered happiness, the kind which is kept alive like shrubs in the garden when there are no roses or for that matter thorns. No matter what the time of the year, what the season, or what the weatherman says, the smile remains like the symbol of constant trust. So Hira has been here for long, and he claims that he is not going to abandon my Nani who he considers his mom and so does claim my Nani that she has treated him close to a son…no quite but quite close to one…and that is as good as it happens in these parts though situations have entrusted people with greater deeds of generosities in these parts or any parts I am sure for anyone reading this would have a story to tell. Not necessary about trust I trust because it may look as if this is a passage dedicated to trust, it is not quite, it is a simple product of my insecurities which I am only too insecure to claim. Be gone insecurities, come sunshine hm…which makes me wonder if sunshine is the opposite of insecurities. Whatever may be the case, Hira claims to stay even if the children of the children of the children of Nani forget him or his services, for they aren’t any services, they are just acts performed when entertaining trust, and shining acts of goodness are those, those which come with a smile on the face and patience in the heart. God I am your preacher.
I hope, as I have planned for all my plans essentially hinge on hope, that someday I will land in Katmandu, on a plane from wherever I get placed, and make the trip down here, for I think I have had enough of rail travel for a while, it no longer pleasurable headache, it’s a plain headache sometimes. Crossing the border here is like drawing lines on a map, like the childhood games in which my room and your room used to be divided into India Pakistan and such and we used to freely crossover on beats of whatever the music of the season be, no strings attached.
When I come down flying one of these days, I want to se how while Nani’s election plans which are more of popularity plans unfold, how do the children of the children of the children of Nani treat the them both. That, I believe is again going to be set in this very house, a very historical house for personal reasons of many persons, well yes…and though nothing quite unfolds exactly the way I picture it in my mind, I keep on doing so and do it in different ways so that it covers all the ways, and when there is a surprise it truly knocks me off my horse for sure and its as surprising as realizing that the horse I ride is made of inflated plastic and someone busted it with a pin. No matter what you can always trust surprises and that is what someone else’s grandmother world have said sometime or the other I am sure, not my Nani.
Finally, here’s to sunshine, the soldiers in question and a future plane ride into Kathmandu and the events that may unfold thereafter. Till then what to do but to expect fervently in my life, the being of trust. Cheers!
While the air rushes and waits gushing, I ponder about stories which these images bring along, the stories in which the strongest fiber always makes itself shown, no matter what the degree of the tempest. For the sake of emphasis, every story when remembered, the strongest fiber, makes itself shown. And in this story, [story?], too the fiber leaps forth like an enthused soldier falling out of file to accept the challenge that most probably would mean death. Well, most probably is a term of very ‘most probablistic’ nature and by virtue of that death for this soldier might just turn out to mean life by some twist of most probablisticity, here I sincerely hope I am thinking clearly.
So what is the strongest fiber here? The fact that when I sit to scribble these lines I scarcely know weather the weight of my own pen on my shoulder determines the clarity of expression, or is it something more concrete, something which like a leaf from the book of life, thus inscribed into a page, left for the reader to decode out of the simple writings, something that contrast heavily with a book with leafs like traps and hollows of tunnels and wells, not like fields of exploration and the cool high ridges of mountains of thoughts which the mind peacefully ascends and that too at the climber’s patience, the fact that I scarcely know this, means that I may not be that good at spotting strong fibers in stories so best hope for the fiber to make itself shown.
So the strongest fiber yet is…in the time that I have spent in Bihar is…I’ll decide in the morning. For now let me go to sleep with the thought of why should this call for a decision, why isn’t sixth sense ever given a chance..hm…I think I know the answer to this one, sixth sense is not given a chance because that requires trusting something…something that I struggle equally hard with to define and also its need to define, something called destiny…and well since the strongest fiber has made itself shown, that being of trust…well it is only right that the strongest soldier in the realm of trust step forward for the challenge:
Soldier name: Hira
Specifications: Died hair, old age mainly because of life exhaustion, a common form of exhaustion found in this area which basically means that you run out of time before time. He thinks that when I switch the lappy, off I lose everything.
Mission: to stay put when all his pseudo sisters and brothers are gone or as he says in the most yogic denouncement way, ‘I don’t give a shit if my brothers remember my name, I would stick around.’
Implications: his pseudo sister, my mother, showed up after 10 years gap with her son who showed up after 12 years gap.
Hira stays home or goes for a short stint of day labor which may give him ten bucks, the currency which he knows, a frequent restoration of ten bucks for life’s perpetuation, something he asks for quite casually from my Nani having substituted his day labor to do an errand for her, so Hira stays at home or leaves home to earn a ten bucker, while we, me, my Nani, and mom, in that order, though we walk quite alongside of each other, go and have a look at the church, the neighborhood church, a marvel of communication, to dazzle anyone into taking up Christianity as a religion. But I did feel when I stepped into that church what Jesus is all about, quite a cool dude, tough to live up to his life…but not impossible. Standing beside his wife like a cool husband oops no that’s his father I am talking about all this time, he had now wife or did he I dunno, then giving the Romans a taste of his passive yet gory resistance, and spreading the ideal through the ordeal and then yes culminating into a miracle of returning the third day, the incredibility of which is ofcourse quelled by the fact that he is God or is he the son? Exactly the reason why its tough to live up to him…but it is easy to reach a sort of a human truce looking at him eye to eye in this church in my Nani’s town…yes the way she talks about winning elections it might as well be hers one of these days..but anyway to me, me Nani’s town- Bettiah. This also brings us to soldier no.2
Soldier name: Nani
Specifications: ripe old age, respective because of life exhaustion, a common form of exhaustion found in this area which basically means that you run out of time before time.
Mission: To win elections because she believes she can. When she walks down the road, I have to salute in the old fashioned way, pranam pranam, to the whole world, irrespective of their socio-economic status. Its hard to believe it is my Nani…, ‘oh Nani how can you be so liberal with time..move on..yeah okay stick around if you want votes.’
Implications: Power woman is soon going to harvest a ripe harvest of well-groomed, keep me out of it yet, post graduate grandchildren who will definitely give her the queen grandmother status, not that there is any competition. She not like Indian cricket telecast that almost all content on TV seems to be a worthy enemy.
So I am walking down to the church and it is quite easy to discover that I have shit on the soles of my shoes. It’s as common as life exhaustion in these parts.
It’s easy to catch us, after having walked over all that shit inspite of being wary about it but because of the sheer numbers that surpassing the Iraqi landmined scape, talking to townsfolk on one of these roads and my mom somehow suppressing the expression of embarrassment on her face on being absent from her hometown for ten years and quickly looking towards me for self-approbation for I seem to be the only one leading her by two years in that regard. And after having done all this hi-helloing the old way, walking down to home and then there would be Hira to greet us talking in his pitched, colloquial tongue and expressing the trust of years all around which makes me question why I don’t trust people the way he does, what does it take, and the constant smile on his face does let me know that it is worth it for the smile seems to be of the realization of a kindered happiness, the kind which is kept alive like shrubs in the garden when there are no roses or for that matter thorns. No matter what the time of the year, what the season, or what the weatherman says, the smile remains like the symbol of constant trust. So Hira has been here for long, and he claims that he is not going to abandon my Nani who he considers his mom and so does claim my Nani that she has treated him close to a son…no quite but quite close to one…and that is as good as it happens in these parts though situations have entrusted people with greater deeds of generosities in these parts or any parts I am sure for anyone reading this would have a story to tell. Not necessary about trust I trust because it may look as if this is a passage dedicated to trust, it is not quite, it is a simple product of my insecurities which I am only too insecure to claim. Be gone insecurities, come sunshine hm…which makes me wonder if sunshine is the opposite of insecurities. Whatever may be the case, Hira claims to stay even if the children of the children of the children of Nani forget him or his services, for they aren’t any services, they are just acts performed when entertaining trust, and shining acts of goodness are those, those which come with a smile on the face and patience in the heart. God I am your preacher.
I hope, as I have planned for all my plans essentially hinge on hope, that someday I will land in Katmandu, on a plane from wherever I get placed, and make the trip down here, for I think I have had enough of rail travel for a while, it no longer pleasurable headache, it’s a plain headache sometimes. Crossing the border here is like drawing lines on a map, like the childhood games in which my room and your room used to be divided into India Pakistan and such and we used to freely crossover on beats of whatever the music of the season be, no strings attached.
When I come down flying one of these days, I want to se how while Nani’s election plans which are more of popularity plans unfold, how do the children of the children of the children of Nani treat the them both. That, I believe is again going to be set in this very house, a very historical house for personal reasons of many persons, well yes…and though nothing quite unfolds exactly the way I picture it in my mind, I keep on doing so and do it in different ways so that it covers all the ways, and when there is a surprise it truly knocks me off my horse for sure and its as surprising as realizing that the horse I ride is made of inflated plastic and someone busted it with a pin. No matter what you can always trust surprises and that is what someone else’s grandmother world have said sometime or the other I am sure, not my Nani.
Finally, here’s to sunshine, the soldiers in question and a future plane ride into Kathmandu and the events that may unfold thereafter. Till then what to do but to expect fervently in my life, the being of trust. Cheers!
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
‘The Argumentative MICAn’
MICA is a place where I have come to admire the ability of people to put anything forward with conviction. After all you need not be an expert on the subject to lay down a convincing argument which could even make the expert wince in pain of not much more than maybe a passing instant, but enough to disorient momentarily. Leaving remote ambitions aside, this is what we think of doing in this place, i.e. to be on the better side of the shave, be it shaving in the morning for guys, shaving unwanted hair for girls or having a close shave with a cryptic quantitative subject or for that matter accounts (not true for all MICAn). The bottom-line is that we all adore a good lick, as long as our hair doesn’t catch fire for rest assured the kind of knowledge stock we base our arguments on, is certainly not enough to put our teeth on fire just as good old Mathew used to say that we are no more than bacteria to whom MICA provides an outside chance of becoming a possible mould and then maybe a more developed life form thereon in.
So what do you do when you run short on actual fuel? You run the argumentative machine on what else? With what else but that oft used, over used and by now a word with the probability of occurrence of 60% in all b-school entrances, that golden word called “passion”, which when used as an undiluted substitute for strayed emotions leads the interviewer to push the eject button (the direct connection from which goes right under your seat) with enhanced swiftness, if you happened to be that “passionate one”, whose passion once inflamed doesn’t pacify until you have been kicked out of the interview room (don’t worry in the next interview you can always say that you have a passion for getting kicked out of interview rooms).
So what do you do when you run out of that actual fuel? Make a short comic film about interviews once destiny has lead you into the environs of MICA propelled by that stroke of coincident intelligence (not directed at you Ganty or me for that matter or to any other deserving MICAn), or you become the queen of PR, become an empathizing machine, or simply go on typing something on a blog whose credibility would be dealt an act of mercy if you rechristened it ‘Jumping the Gun’.
No matter what you do, one thing is for sure you do evolve here till you become one of those seven-eight personality types which MICAns can claim to produce (yeah-yeah we all are unique and different) and I don’t need Mathew’s backing here to say this (where is Mathew anyway?? PGP-1’s only hear fables about him). You can be that MICAn type who has that immaculate sense of timing to be there at the right moment to hog the limelight, to put up which the sweat and blood of many a fellow beings went into a power station of dreams, so that the mind of all MICAns were kept alight when they slept comfortable over loud rock music coming out of one of those unmistakable rooms which are miraculously found in each hostel. Someone somewhere is sick and thinking may be it’s ‘chiken-gunned-me-down’, but the music goes on playing propelled with the vision of ‘the show must go on’, it doesn’t matter if ‘chicken-gun-ya-down’ or ‘chicken-gun-me down’.
Now don’t even let me go into implicating the MICAn based on the implications which can be derived by juxtaposing the caustic spirit of this article alongside the celebrated book ‘The Argumentative Indian’, which by the stroke of hark luck I was also given the task or reviewing in the first year by that elusive creature of the bamboo jungles, now close to extinction but one definitely found in MICA and one who is a herbivore, has adjusted to the omnivorous nature of the food chain here, if you still haven’t got it, I suggest you shove your finger in a socket and switch it on, it might put you straight, and I mean this in the strictest of non-sexual sense, for we maybe anything but we are surely sexually liberated at MICA, aren’t we now?
Now before I go on about something else let me get over with what I started writing this …this…whatever this is… for…it was about ‘An Argument for Argument’.
Suddenly sitting in the library (what a place for realizations, very close to the loo in that respect) I remember when I was young, whenever I would have a standoff with my parents I was brutally crushed by saying that I was doing nothing but propounding the weakest of arguments and then blatantly defending it. This was so forcefully beaten into my psychology that when during the time of my dissertation I realize that a dissertation is nothing but an ‘argument’ (which may or may not end in your favour, but if pursued effectively will get you a good grade), I remember those days when I was discouraged to start my argument (dissertation) though it is not exactly charity which I was beginning at home…but still. I guess they were just being parents, tomorrow I have my dissertation defense… (Defense? sounds like a battle half lost)…like my parents, I guess the panelists will be just judges…and I will be just, as expected…a MICAn…going about trying to convert half-losts into winnables.
God bless.
So what do you do when you run short on actual fuel? You run the argumentative machine on what else? With what else but that oft used, over used and by now a word with the probability of occurrence of 60% in all b-school entrances, that golden word called “passion”, which when used as an undiluted substitute for strayed emotions leads the interviewer to push the eject button (the direct connection from which goes right under your seat) with enhanced swiftness, if you happened to be that “passionate one”, whose passion once inflamed doesn’t pacify until you have been kicked out of the interview room (don’t worry in the next interview you can always say that you have a passion for getting kicked out of interview rooms).
So what do you do when you run out of that actual fuel? Make a short comic film about interviews once destiny has lead you into the environs of MICA propelled by that stroke of coincident intelligence (not directed at you Ganty or me for that matter or to any other deserving MICAn), or you become the queen of PR, become an empathizing machine, or simply go on typing something on a blog whose credibility would be dealt an act of mercy if you rechristened it ‘Jumping the Gun’.
No matter what you do, one thing is for sure you do evolve here till you become one of those seven-eight personality types which MICAns can claim to produce (yeah-yeah we all are unique and different) and I don’t need Mathew’s backing here to say this (where is Mathew anyway?? PGP-1’s only hear fables about him). You can be that MICAn type who has that immaculate sense of timing to be there at the right moment to hog the limelight, to put up which the sweat and blood of many a fellow beings went into a power station of dreams, so that the mind of all MICAns were kept alight when they slept comfortable over loud rock music coming out of one of those unmistakable rooms which are miraculously found in each hostel. Someone somewhere is sick and thinking may be it’s ‘chiken-gunned-me-down’, but the music goes on playing propelled with the vision of ‘the show must go on’, it doesn’t matter if ‘chicken-gun-ya-down’ or ‘chicken-gun-me down’.
Now don’t even let me go into implicating the MICAn based on the implications which can be derived by juxtaposing the caustic spirit of this article alongside the celebrated book ‘The Argumentative Indian’, which by the stroke of hark luck I was also given the task or reviewing in the first year by that elusive creature of the bamboo jungles, now close to extinction but one definitely found in MICA and one who is a herbivore, has adjusted to the omnivorous nature of the food chain here, if you still haven’t got it, I suggest you shove your finger in a socket and switch it on, it might put you straight, and I mean this in the strictest of non-sexual sense, for we maybe anything but we are surely sexually liberated at MICA, aren’t we now?
Now before I go on about something else let me get over with what I started writing this …this…whatever this is… for…it was about ‘An Argument for Argument’.
Suddenly sitting in the library (what a place for realizations, very close to the loo in that respect) I remember when I was young, whenever I would have a standoff with my parents I was brutally crushed by saying that I was doing nothing but propounding the weakest of arguments and then blatantly defending it. This was so forcefully beaten into my psychology that when during the time of my dissertation I realize that a dissertation is nothing but an ‘argument’ (which may or may not end in your favour, but if pursued effectively will get you a good grade), I remember those days when I was discouraged to start my argument (dissertation) though it is not exactly charity which I was beginning at home…but still. I guess they were just being parents, tomorrow I have my dissertation defense… (Defense? sounds like a battle half lost)…like my parents, I guess the panelists will be just judges…and I will be just, as expected…a MICAn…going about trying to convert half-losts into winnables.
God bless.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Blackened Rose IV : 'The Broken Roses'
But as I like it
my sweet is not to disappoint
all the promises
that she hadn't promised
she broke them all
to be hung and then flung
like broken roses
and then she got back
at the habit again
now it's pleasantlness that reigns
I have more marks on my hands
and if I am anyone
my life though collectively insane
these are the ones
that keep it safe
from becoming
boring dry
mouldy muddy
and ofcourse
downright lame
my sweet is not to disappoint
all the promises
that she hadn't promised
she broke them all
to be hung and then flung
like broken roses
and then she got back
at the habit again
now it's pleasantlness that reigns
I have more marks on my hands
and if I am anyone
my life though collectively insane
these are the ones
that keep it safe
from becoming
boring dry
mouldy muddy
and ofcourse
downright lame
Blackened Rose III : 'A Rose not Red'
And so it happened that
she said enough marks
I know it too well
too give you any more
so expect only roses
and this is not a promise
for it will be broken
now that's a promise
I looked at my hand
it was a rose
red and bright
textured right
but nothing compared to those
marks that screamed on my hand
which collectively were
almost there
almost there
to be a rose of their own
a rose not red
but a blackened one
she said enough marks
I know it too well
too give you any more
so expect only roses
and this is not a promise
for it will be broken
now that's a promise
I looked at my hand
it was a rose
red and bright
textured right
but nothing compared to those
marks that screamed on my hand
which collectively were
almost there
almost there
to be a rose of their own
a rose not red
but a blackened one
'Blackened Rose II: 'The Rose of Thornes'
So did my sweet give me day to day
until today
a blackened finger everyday
so many thornes that would have gone
into something else
went on going into them
but one day when my sweet arrived
in a mood to brood
and showing it
she had in her hand
a red-red rose
and I extended my hand
even knowing it
another black spot on my hand
another instance to know her by
she has given me another mark
is what I would like to think
but instead when I looked at my hand
there is a rose without a thorne
and my blackened fingers holding it
until today
a blackened finger everyday
so many thornes that would have gone
into something else
went on going into them
but one day when my sweet arrived
in a mood to brood
and showing it
she had in her hand
a red-red rose
and I extended my hand
even knowing it
another black spot on my hand
another instance to know her by
she has given me another mark
is what I would like to think
but instead when I looked at my hand
there is a rose without a thorne
and my blackened fingers holding it
Blackened Rose I : 'My Sweet’s So Sweet'
My sweet’s so sweet that she gave me a rose
She gave me a rose so that the thorn could prick me
But I knew what was up my sweet’s sleeve
So I stopped my hand from grabbing the rose
At least that’s what I would like to think
These days whenever I look at my finger
I just ignore the blackened thing
She gave me a rose so that the thorn could prick me
But I knew what was up my sweet’s sleeve
So I stopped my hand from grabbing the rose
At least that’s what I would like to think
These days whenever I look at my finger
I just ignore the blackened thing
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Sunday, August 27, 2006
‘Love in the Time of Viral’
I was visiting Preeti in Sterling Hospital and I happened to be hungry so I decided to head to the canteen to eat a cheese sandwich, whose legacy was passed on to me by Su with her breath diffusing the scent of the cheese as she did that, and so with that intention I found my way to the basement where the ‘Cafeteria’ was supposed to be and I did not waste a second in ordering a cheese sandwich, which in its minimalist charm held nothing more than two slices of bread with a thick layer of cheese between them, and like many things simple brought down to the basics for the sake of extracting the most basic reactions from us…it looked intelligently crafted for extracting the water of the mouth.
As I munched the sandwich I saw the people around me and suddenly, surprisingly I was transfixed by the eyes of a man who stood nearby, the kind of character who you would find tempting to frame in the ‘To Kill a Mocking Bird’ fashion, the kind of character who becomes the victim of not only his own suspicions and insecurities but other’s too. He was also the kind of character who is the product of circumstances and can’t claim to have shaped even a moment of his own life effectively. His eyes were beautiful. To say the least, they were mesmerizing.
As I munched my sandwich trying to appreciate the beauty of his eyes, I looked around me to other people…and to my surprise all of them seemed to have beautiful eyes. The whole room was glowing with the presence of these beautiful eyed people.
I finished the sandwich and came out of the room which I now call the ‘Basement of Beautiful Eyes’ thinking that was it the lighting that made them look beautiful or as I would like to believe, an acquired perspective where one finds beauty in anything?
I vacated the basement and headed straight upstairs to Room 308…Preeti’s room. I had forgotten the visitor’s pass up in the room for the nth time so the stair guard put on the stern expression for the nth time and asked me about it and I did a little ‘I am a loser I dunno where’s my life going’ act but this time he didn’t let me go anywhere. So on the landing I was stranded thinking how I would get to Preeti which three guards blocking me at three levels. Had this been a computer game called ‘The sterling Rescue’, it was all a matter of spanking the crap out of them and progressing to the subsequent level and then liberating the beautiful princess kept captive by evil doctors who can’t find the vein to insert the IV properly so that it all leaves her forearm black and blue.
Then I thought I would just take the lift. So I hopped into it. The liftman didn’t seem much bothered about the pass but too much bothered about the ‘anti-pass’ I had which was nothing but my Frooty pack. He was so intent on having me dispose it off before riding the lift that he even pointed to the left where I could throw the carton and climb in. I followed his finger and looked around and found nothing remotely resembling a dustbin except for patients in weird postures on wheelchairs…so I decided to rush back…only to find the elevator doors sliding and closing in fast. I could still see the smile of the guard on it and it wasn’t pretty…I would like to see it without teeth actually…but surprisingly his eyes looked beautiful…fantastic…as if not obeying his malicious intentions for Frooty pack carriers. And everyone else in the lift had beautiful eyes too.
By then I had had enough…and I decided to head up the stairs. I was of course stopped again on the landing. And I said… ‘I am not carrying any bombs…I am here to take care of a patient so would you please let me go up.’ and this time I was heard. so I went up and reached 308, opened the door…saw Su first…all set to go back to MICA…she had beautiful eyes…and then my eyes fell on Preeti’s…filled with the expectation to get discharged from the pink, pretty looking dungeon of disease-combat…filled with the good news of her AIMA paper doing well…they looked beautiful…and so did every single person’s eye since that sterling day at Sterling.
In this time of viral…I fell in love with eyes…left, right and centre…all colors and all size. And the syndrome continues. I can say with my eyes closed now that if you too are lucky enough to have a pair, which you must be to be reading this, without a doubt, they must be beautiful too!
As I munched the sandwich I saw the people around me and suddenly, surprisingly I was transfixed by the eyes of a man who stood nearby, the kind of character who you would find tempting to frame in the ‘To Kill a Mocking Bird’ fashion, the kind of character who becomes the victim of not only his own suspicions and insecurities but other’s too. He was also the kind of character who is the product of circumstances and can’t claim to have shaped even a moment of his own life effectively. His eyes were beautiful. To say the least, they were mesmerizing.
As I munched my sandwich trying to appreciate the beauty of his eyes, I looked around me to other people…and to my surprise all of them seemed to have beautiful eyes. The whole room was glowing with the presence of these beautiful eyed people.
I finished the sandwich and came out of the room which I now call the ‘Basement of Beautiful Eyes’ thinking that was it the lighting that made them look beautiful or as I would like to believe, an acquired perspective where one finds beauty in anything?
I vacated the basement and headed straight upstairs to Room 308…Preeti’s room. I had forgotten the visitor’s pass up in the room for the nth time so the stair guard put on the stern expression for the nth time and asked me about it and I did a little ‘I am a loser I dunno where’s my life going’ act but this time he didn’t let me go anywhere. So on the landing I was stranded thinking how I would get to Preeti which three guards blocking me at three levels. Had this been a computer game called ‘The sterling Rescue’, it was all a matter of spanking the crap out of them and progressing to the subsequent level and then liberating the beautiful princess kept captive by evil doctors who can’t find the vein to insert the IV properly so that it all leaves her forearm black and blue.
Then I thought I would just take the lift. So I hopped into it. The liftman didn’t seem much bothered about the pass but too much bothered about the ‘anti-pass’ I had which was nothing but my Frooty pack. He was so intent on having me dispose it off before riding the lift that he even pointed to the left where I could throw the carton and climb in. I followed his finger and looked around and found nothing remotely resembling a dustbin except for patients in weird postures on wheelchairs…so I decided to rush back…only to find the elevator doors sliding and closing in fast. I could still see the smile of the guard on it and it wasn’t pretty…I would like to see it without teeth actually…but surprisingly his eyes looked beautiful…fantastic…as if not obeying his malicious intentions for Frooty pack carriers. And everyone else in the lift had beautiful eyes too.
By then I had had enough…and I decided to head up the stairs. I was of course stopped again on the landing. And I said… ‘I am not carrying any bombs…I am here to take care of a patient so would you please let me go up.’ and this time I was heard. so I went up and reached 308, opened the door…saw Su first…all set to go back to MICA…she had beautiful eyes…and then my eyes fell on Preeti’s…filled with the expectation to get discharged from the pink, pretty looking dungeon of disease-combat…filled with the good news of her AIMA paper doing well…they looked beautiful…and so did every single person’s eye since that sterling day at Sterling.
In this time of viral…I fell in love with eyes…left, right and centre…all colors and all size. And the syndrome continues. I can say with my eyes closed now that if you too are lucky enough to have a pair, which you must be to be reading this, without a doubt, they must be beautiful too!
Friday, July 07, 2006
‘Memories of a Geisha’
Foreword
All these days that I have known her, a short span of time in terms of time, but a long one in terms of events, I cannot help but draw a parallel between an artist and her. She’s so good at her ordinary art that whenever I think of her, the artistic image of an accomplished Geisha flashes across my mind. The fact that her face is oriental has some role to inspire this image. Apart from the fact that I have seen the movie and have had my share of disappointment after having done that, that the movie was forgettable, that the picture on the cover of the book was haunting as opposed to the movie, and because I have been perceptually influenced by these, I have come to cherish her image as a supreme artist who has an insight in the ways of the world just like a Geisha, an artist who has the ability to penetrate the heart of the matter simply by borrowing the confidence of her ability from her primary art which is nothing but one of ‘constant discovery’. And I am willing to contest that her art lies in loving the people around her, and making a difference by not only loving them but also expressing that love frequently and more importantly abruptly.
‘One night at an internet café on Grant Road’
Technically, she is gone but she is here more than ever. I can feel her presence stronger than even when she was present here physically. That is the kind of everlasting quality she possesses, a simplistic charm that binds her acquaintances in a continuous rapture of time and space. And its not strange that I find myself saying this about her after knowing her for what…12 days?, because for me time has coagulated in the past few day.
‘I don’t even know if we will meet again.’ I found myself saying when she preparing to leave for Thailand, her family having decided to migrate.
‘Just stay in touch. And leave it to destiny if we will meet again because chances are that if we keep in touch we will definitely meet.’ I don’t know what’s wrong with me, that even after hearing this from her, doubts about us meeting again crop up in my mind considering she’s leaving for a place so far. I try to overcome these doubts but since it is well established that I am a slave of habit and considering habits take time to change, more so when you have nurtured that belief for years, these doubts will be entertained for some more time to come.
How can I forget how we met! And not surprisingly, our meeting was facilitated by the World Wide Web, which has consistently been a dynamic mode for countless people to unite online...all that and blah-blah. The only difference in our case was perhaps that the World Wide Web had an indirect role to play as, as opposed to the usual online route, we met in an internet café, one of many on that well known thoroughfare called Grant Road. I happened to be surfing the net on that ‘Grant Road evening’ and reaching out to friends, news, issues and all other things MICAn. Engrossed in my surfing function as I was, I unconsciously heard a melodious voice sing Kajrare and instantly I thought of Potnis who is what can be termed as ‘The Gift of Kajrare’ much like how Egypt is the gift of Nile. At that point in time, when the feminine voice pervaded the café air, had anyone shaken me up and diverted me away form surfing and asked me with my eyes closed about who might be singing, I would have easily passed the voice as of a girl with the description of being in her late teens, living in the neighborhood, possibly Muslim for the sake of that refined Urdu accent in the voice, and addicted to Bollywood. As it turned out I couldn’t be more wrong. As soon as I lay my eyes on her, my imagination was proved to be an inferior product of all the images that are fed to it in the environment. Not only was my imagination a slave of the external stimuli but also it completely lacked the quality of absurdity which after a point separates all things genius from ordinary. I was very disappointed with my imagination but fortunately I was adequately appeased by the discovery of the face behind the voice. The idea of ‘impossible’ that had initially struck my mind at seeing the face of the girl that claimed the voice soon transformed to one of ‘marvelous’. And the flurry of moments that saw me become a cork pulsating on sea waves, ended on an elevating note.
Michelle is a Thai of Chinese descent. She has been living in India as long as she can remember. I think, there are two things about her that must be told. Her body cannot be more Thai of Chinese descent. Her mind cannot be more Indian. And I am yet to find out the nationality of her heart though I have made a tentative prediction that it will come out to be a world citizen.
Going back to the cafe scene again, one could have easily predicted that the only thing that could possibly bring her to break that fantastic musical encore could only be someone interrupting her by calling her on her cell. And it goes without saying that that is exactly what happened. It was her mom talking.
After listening to her mom, the unknown girl that I now know as Michelle barked into the cell, ‘I am on my way, I am in the bus, will be there in ten, sure.’
There was a pause which was due to her mom barking in on the other end of the line. By now everyone in the café, mostly guys happily addicted to online gaming, and I, were listening intently to the conversation and I can’t say the same for them but I was surely thinking, ‘Will she sing again? Huh? Will she sing again? Huh? Huh? Or will her evil mom succeed in stealing her away from our invisible clutches, clutches that surround all things that are perceived to bring joy?’
‘I had some work to do, that’s why I got late. I’ll be there soon. I am on my way.’ She assured her mom.
I tingled with excitement on hearing her lie to her mom with such mind-numbing ease. I reckon that had she been in the company of thieves, she could have earned some real respect. But for now she would have to make do with the silent respect that my eyes were dealing out.
It was then that Kadir, the owner of the café asked me if I would like to play counter strike at 15 bucks per hour. I don’t know why but I said yes.
And then began a structured, repeated assasination of my virtual player by one player that called himself ‘Toma’. After the game ended, I found out that Toma was none other than Michelle. And we instantly struck a conversation which began at Strike Force, went on to MICA, and ended at the agreement of a meeting on the Marine Drive the following day as my office was terribly close to that place and so was her music class, the kind of classes you join in the short break after having taken your class XII exams.
The following day, Marine Drive, evening
I dragged my sagging spirits through swinging doors of media agencies that I was supposed to cover for the day for the sake of keeping my project alive and barely in the range of possible completion. I merely did this because the rendezvous with Michelle was like some sort of a break at the day’s time tunnel, at a point somewhere close to the sunset. She wasn’t the one to disappoint. She was already there at the agreed point even before I reached. She smiled, I smiled, and we smiled on seeing each other. The sea bathed in her company felt a much improved version of itself.
‘How was your day?’ That’s how I have generally come to begin the conversation with her. It’s almost a tradition now.
‘I just lazed around like a cat throughout the day. It was burning hot outside. Oh yeah, I did catch a movie though, I watched ‘The Mask of Zorro.’
‘How did you find it?’ we had started moving along the drive.
‘Everything was fine except for the action sequence in the end, there just seemed too many, what’s that word…um…weird explosions.’
‘What do you mean by “weird explosions”?’
‘I mean…well…have you seen the Titanic?’
‘Yeah’
‘You noticed how James Cameron takes you all about the ship showing you places which are most vulnerable, acquainting you with the ships construction, the crew in detail all along?.’
‘Yeah’
‘You know why he does that right? He does it so that the spectator knows exactly how the ship is giving away under the brutal forces of nature, when the action is being shown in the end. I mean when something breaks or blows up, the viewer knows exactly why that happens. And he does it so well you never even come to know when he has given you so much information about the nature of the ship because you are too busy concentrating on the love-story between Kate and Leo all through the movie.’
‘Okay so what about ‘The Mask of Zorro'?
‘In the mask of Zorro, when the last sequence is being filmed when the director wants to show the gold mine exploding all over the place, he does not explain anything about the nature of the mine, he just shows close-ups of explosions. Let alone the nature of the mine, he doesn’t even show an easily recognizable landmark near the mine so that the spectator can associate with the place that is being blown up. I think Indians have done it better at times than the director of The Mask of Zorro.’
‘Which director are you talking about?’
‘I don’t know about who the director is but I remember the movie. I remember a lot of scenes being filmed in this little courtyard on which you would always notice this big bullock cart wheel kept against one of the walls. You kind of keep on wondering why that wheel is kept there. But during the climax you realize that the wheel suddenly becomes a creative weapon in hands of the actors and it was crucial to the fight sequence in the end when the hero give the villain a good wheel bashing. I think the director overdid it, though. The presence of the wheel was not as subtle as the way Cameron informs us about the Titanic. We know it like our own home by the end without making it look like a documentary.’
‘Are you sure you were watching the movie for time-pass?’
‘I couldn’t help it. I was actually thinking about you while I was watching the pathetic explosions which meant next to nothing because you know how frequently you use the word communication when you talk about your college. I think, if you look into it this explains a huge part or what communication actually means.’
I smiled at what she had said and gestured to her to sit on the concrete barricade along the sea.
This is one of the many conversations we had as we walked along different parts of the Bombay coastline. I hope, I can recall more of such conversations and pen them down. Till then I can do nothing but promise myself to remember everything that happened.
All these days that I have known her, a short span of time in terms of time, but a long one in terms of events, I cannot help but draw a parallel between an artist and her. She’s so good at her ordinary art that whenever I think of her, the artistic image of an accomplished Geisha flashes across my mind. The fact that her face is oriental has some role to inspire this image. Apart from the fact that I have seen the movie and have had my share of disappointment after having done that, that the movie was forgettable, that the picture on the cover of the book was haunting as opposed to the movie, and because I have been perceptually influenced by these, I have come to cherish her image as a supreme artist who has an insight in the ways of the world just like a Geisha, an artist who has the ability to penetrate the heart of the matter simply by borrowing the confidence of her ability from her primary art which is nothing but one of ‘constant discovery’. And I am willing to contest that her art lies in loving the people around her, and making a difference by not only loving them but also expressing that love frequently and more importantly abruptly.
‘One night at an internet café on Grant Road’
Technically, she is gone but she is here more than ever. I can feel her presence stronger than even when she was present here physically. That is the kind of everlasting quality she possesses, a simplistic charm that binds her acquaintances in a continuous rapture of time and space. And its not strange that I find myself saying this about her after knowing her for what…12 days?, because for me time has coagulated in the past few day.
‘I don’t even know if we will meet again.’ I found myself saying when she preparing to leave for Thailand, her family having decided to migrate.
‘Just stay in touch. And leave it to destiny if we will meet again because chances are that if we keep in touch we will definitely meet.’ I don’t know what’s wrong with me, that even after hearing this from her, doubts about us meeting again crop up in my mind considering she’s leaving for a place so far. I try to overcome these doubts but since it is well established that I am a slave of habit and considering habits take time to change, more so when you have nurtured that belief for years, these doubts will be entertained for some more time to come.
How can I forget how we met! And not surprisingly, our meeting was facilitated by the World Wide Web, which has consistently been a dynamic mode for countless people to unite online...all that and blah-blah. The only difference in our case was perhaps that the World Wide Web had an indirect role to play as, as opposed to the usual online route, we met in an internet café, one of many on that well known thoroughfare called Grant Road. I happened to be surfing the net on that ‘Grant Road evening’ and reaching out to friends, news, issues and all other things MICAn. Engrossed in my surfing function as I was, I unconsciously heard a melodious voice sing Kajrare and instantly I thought of Potnis who is what can be termed as ‘The Gift of Kajrare’ much like how Egypt is the gift of Nile. At that point in time, when the feminine voice pervaded the café air, had anyone shaken me up and diverted me away form surfing and asked me with my eyes closed about who might be singing, I would have easily passed the voice as of a girl with the description of being in her late teens, living in the neighborhood, possibly Muslim for the sake of that refined Urdu accent in the voice, and addicted to Bollywood. As it turned out I couldn’t be more wrong. As soon as I lay my eyes on her, my imagination was proved to be an inferior product of all the images that are fed to it in the environment. Not only was my imagination a slave of the external stimuli but also it completely lacked the quality of absurdity which after a point separates all things genius from ordinary. I was very disappointed with my imagination but fortunately I was adequately appeased by the discovery of the face behind the voice. The idea of ‘impossible’ that had initially struck my mind at seeing the face of the girl that claimed the voice soon transformed to one of ‘marvelous’. And the flurry of moments that saw me become a cork pulsating on sea waves, ended on an elevating note.
Michelle is a Thai of Chinese descent. She has been living in India as long as she can remember. I think, there are two things about her that must be told. Her body cannot be more Thai of Chinese descent. Her mind cannot be more Indian. And I am yet to find out the nationality of her heart though I have made a tentative prediction that it will come out to be a world citizen.
Going back to the cafe scene again, one could have easily predicted that the only thing that could possibly bring her to break that fantastic musical encore could only be someone interrupting her by calling her on her cell. And it goes without saying that that is exactly what happened. It was her mom talking.
After listening to her mom, the unknown girl that I now know as Michelle barked into the cell, ‘I am on my way, I am in the bus, will be there in ten, sure.’
There was a pause which was due to her mom barking in on the other end of the line. By now everyone in the café, mostly guys happily addicted to online gaming, and I, were listening intently to the conversation and I can’t say the same for them but I was surely thinking, ‘Will she sing again? Huh? Will she sing again? Huh? Huh? Or will her evil mom succeed in stealing her away from our invisible clutches, clutches that surround all things that are perceived to bring joy?’
‘I had some work to do, that’s why I got late. I’ll be there soon. I am on my way.’ She assured her mom.
I tingled with excitement on hearing her lie to her mom with such mind-numbing ease. I reckon that had she been in the company of thieves, she could have earned some real respect. But for now she would have to make do with the silent respect that my eyes were dealing out.
It was then that Kadir, the owner of the café asked me if I would like to play counter strike at 15 bucks per hour. I don’t know why but I said yes.
And then began a structured, repeated assasination of my virtual player by one player that called himself ‘Toma’. After the game ended, I found out that Toma was none other than Michelle. And we instantly struck a conversation which began at Strike Force, went on to MICA, and ended at the agreement of a meeting on the Marine Drive the following day as my office was terribly close to that place and so was her music class, the kind of classes you join in the short break after having taken your class XII exams.
The following day, Marine Drive, evening
I dragged my sagging spirits through swinging doors of media agencies that I was supposed to cover for the day for the sake of keeping my project alive and barely in the range of possible completion. I merely did this because the rendezvous with Michelle was like some sort of a break at the day’s time tunnel, at a point somewhere close to the sunset. She wasn’t the one to disappoint. She was already there at the agreed point even before I reached. She smiled, I smiled, and we smiled on seeing each other. The sea bathed in her company felt a much improved version of itself.
‘How was your day?’ That’s how I have generally come to begin the conversation with her. It’s almost a tradition now.
‘I just lazed around like a cat throughout the day. It was burning hot outside. Oh yeah, I did catch a movie though, I watched ‘The Mask of Zorro.’
‘How did you find it?’ we had started moving along the drive.
‘Everything was fine except for the action sequence in the end, there just seemed too many, what’s that word…um…weird explosions.’
‘What do you mean by “weird explosions”?’
‘I mean…well…have you seen the Titanic?’
‘Yeah’
‘You noticed how James Cameron takes you all about the ship showing you places which are most vulnerable, acquainting you with the ships construction, the crew in detail all along?.’
‘Yeah’
‘You know why he does that right? He does it so that the spectator knows exactly how the ship is giving away under the brutal forces of nature, when the action is being shown in the end. I mean when something breaks or blows up, the viewer knows exactly why that happens. And he does it so well you never even come to know when he has given you so much information about the nature of the ship because you are too busy concentrating on the love-story between Kate and Leo all through the movie.’
‘Okay so what about ‘The Mask of Zorro'?
‘In the mask of Zorro, when the last sequence is being filmed when the director wants to show the gold mine exploding all over the place, he does not explain anything about the nature of the mine, he just shows close-ups of explosions. Let alone the nature of the mine, he doesn’t even show an easily recognizable landmark near the mine so that the spectator can associate with the place that is being blown up. I think Indians have done it better at times than the director of The Mask of Zorro.’
‘Which director are you talking about?’
‘I don’t know about who the director is but I remember the movie. I remember a lot of scenes being filmed in this little courtyard on which you would always notice this big bullock cart wheel kept against one of the walls. You kind of keep on wondering why that wheel is kept there. But during the climax you realize that the wheel suddenly becomes a creative weapon in hands of the actors and it was crucial to the fight sequence in the end when the hero give the villain a good wheel bashing. I think the director overdid it, though. The presence of the wheel was not as subtle as the way Cameron informs us about the Titanic. We know it like our own home by the end without making it look like a documentary.’
‘Are you sure you were watching the movie for time-pass?’
‘I couldn’t help it. I was actually thinking about you while I was watching the pathetic explosions which meant next to nothing because you know how frequently you use the word communication when you talk about your college. I think, if you look into it this explains a huge part or what communication actually means.’
I smiled at what she had said and gestured to her to sit on the concrete barricade along the sea.
This is one of the many conversations we had as we walked along different parts of the Bombay coastline. I hope, I can recall more of such conversations and pen them down. Till then I can do nothing but promise myself to remember everything that happened.
‘The Summer of Satisfaction’
The first page of his summer-diary read something like this:
I will kick your butt ...
I will kick your butt …
I will kick your butt …
I will kick your butt …
And each blank that I have left was filled with a name of some arrogant fucker or the other he knew. I have chosen to leave it blank for the sake of sweet sham. On the next page a single line in big fat letters said,
I will kick your butt …(followed by his own name)
On the bottom in minute lettering it said, ‘Judge not yourself or them. And judge not judgment itself.’
The blanks in no way mean that he will restrain him from trash talking. He might just bump into one of these unmentioned people and tell them right on their face, ‘I will kick your butt …(followed by their name)’
He had no ordinary way of trash talking though. It was mostly something that he called ‘Internal Trash Talking’. He never did it aloud. The intentions closest to his hearts could never swim closer to his mouth; if they happened to he would chew them and swallow them again. It was his belief that if he let the intent grow in himself enough, one day it would have no choice but to materialize. Hence, his self imposed ‘shut up and listen’, mode.
‘Project: I will kick your butt…’ was nothing but a projection of his enhanced competitive spirit which dictated to him that he should not only beat his competitor but brutally bury him in the crushing cascade a humiliating defeat. Nothing less will do. Nothing less will motivate him because ‘No Mercy Till Victory Secured’ had become his motto.
Afterall he has known failure so well that he knows exactly what not to do, which city not to head for, and which thoughts to never turn to for empathy. His mind mostly ran on nothing else but the ‘Failure-fuel’ that he had earned in his past years, but it was one of the few things that brought him warmth, as it buzzed along.
All the confidence that he seemed to exude, all the faith that seemed to emit from his eyes was nothing more than the gift of a passing moment that had touched him that summer. It was no ordinary passing moment though, that had passed him that summer; it was almost something that he had forgotten where he had once buried his soul. Now his soul showed and with it showed the faith with which his eyes glowed.
He seems to be getting closer to something that he calls ‘The Universal Nature of Intelligence’ and another something that he calls ‘The Unified Nature of Intelligence’ and the closer he gets, the more fiercely the waves of satisfaction run through his supple body. Theses two concepts on which he pins his life’s hopes, according to him, are not to be divulged but to be interpreted, even if that means inferring their meaning from the meager face value of the words used to coin them into convenient terms.
He rejoiced in the golden sunshine of that summer while he walked the path of his personal growth. That summer he discovered his true self, a self which he believes will never completely unravel. That’s how ‘The Summer of Satisfaction’ unfolded for him that year while people passed him by on the paths he treaded, mostly traveling in the opposite direction and talking in a language that he understood but never spoke.
And after a long-long sleep, he woke up to the sleep that he had almost forgotten the taste of.
That summer, he surrendered everything that he could claim as his own as ‘The Summer of Satisfaction’ grew on him unhurriedly.
I will kick your butt ...
I will kick your butt …
I will kick your butt …
I will kick your butt …
And each blank that I have left was filled with a name of some arrogant fucker or the other he knew. I have chosen to leave it blank for the sake of sweet sham. On the next page a single line in big fat letters said,
I will kick your butt …(followed by his own name)
On the bottom in minute lettering it said, ‘Judge not yourself or them. And judge not judgment itself.’
The blanks in no way mean that he will restrain him from trash talking. He might just bump into one of these unmentioned people and tell them right on their face, ‘I will kick your butt …(followed by their name)’
He had no ordinary way of trash talking though. It was mostly something that he called ‘Internal Trash Talking’. He never did it aloud. The intentions closest to his hearts could never swim closer to his mouth; if they happened to he would chew them and swallow them again. It was his belief that if he let the intent grow in himself enough, one day it would have no choice but to materialize. Hence, his self imposed ‘shut up and listen’, mode.
‘Project: I will kick your butt…’ was nothing but a projection of his enhanced competitive spirit which dictated to him that he should not only beat his competitor but brutally bury him in the crushing cascade a humiliating defeat. Nothing less will do. Nothing less will motivate him because ‘No Mercy Till Victory Secured’ had become his motto.
Afterall he has known failure so well that he knows exactly what not to do, which city not to head for, and which thoughts to never turn to for empathy. His mind mostly ran on nothing else but the ‘Failure-fuel’ that he had earned in his past years, but it was one of the few things that brought him warmth, as it buzzed along.
All the confidence that he seemed to exude, all the faith that seemed to emit from his eyes was nothing more than the gift of a passing moment that had touched him that summer. It was no ordinary passing moment though, that had passed him that summer; it was almost something that he had forgotten where he had once buried his soul. Now his soul showed and with it showed the faith with which his eyes glowed.
He seems to be getting closer to something that he calls ‘The Universal Nature of Intelligence’ and another something that he calls ‘The Unified Nature of Intelligence’ and the closer he gets, the more fiercely the waves of satisfaction run through his supple body. Theses two concepts on which he pins his life’s hopes, according to him, are not to be divulged but to be interpreted, even if that means inferring their meaning from the meager face value of the words used to coin them into convenient terms.
He rejoiced in the golden sunshine of that summer while he walked the path of his personal growth. That summer he discovered his true self, a self which he believes will never completely unravel. That’s how ‘The Summer of Satisfaction’ unfolded for him that year while people passed him by on the paths he treaded, mostly traveling in the opposite direction and talking in a language that he understood but never spoke.
And after a long-long sleep, he woke up to the sleep that he had almost forgotten the taste of.
That summer, he surrendered everything that he could claim as his own as ‘The Summer of Satisfaction’ grew on him unhurriedly.
Monday, June 19, 2006
“And Why do You Support Brazil???”
As unbelievable as it may sound to the inhabitants of the great metros, Jalandhar is a decent enough place to eat and drink. I am basing this generalization about the disbelieving lot on the frequent queries about the eating and drinking circuit of my hometown that have been flung my way with considerable skepticism. The ones who threw up these queries were not surprisingly the inhabitants of the great metros which are ‘well known’ and not just ‘rumored’ to have a well defined bar culture.
When I happened to venture out to one of these bars here which claimed to showcase World Cup games with the availability of an affordable platter of food and drinks, I was not only performing a first in terms of expressing my serious interest in the World Cup and thus seeking an opportunity to feel the excitement by being present in one of these places frequented by “serious” fans, I was also performing a first on the bar circuit front because ‘Talli’, which when directly translated from Punjabi to English means ‘Drunk’, was also the first bar that I have entered after starting to drink a decent amount of vodka on certain limited number of occasions, and though I am stating this, I am stating this irrespective of the purpose of my visit which may lie in drinking suspicious vodka or watching football of decent quality or enjoying the twin pleasures of both at one go.
As the evening unfolded at this bar and Germany started harassing Costa Rica but not without hazarding the harassment of its own goal and the gloved man who guarded it, I began talking to a man in sitting on one of the bar stools beside me. Our curiously close position to the World Cup screen proudly disclosed to our bar-mates our enhanced interest in the goings on and the desire to lead the cheering on their behalf.
Soon enough, I don’t know what inspired me to but I found myself asking this middle-aged, well groomed gentleman perched on a leather cushioned stool beside me about his favorite team but not without the apprehension that the question inspires by the sheer predictability of the reply. And needless to say, my apprehensive prayers were answered true to the tradition when my co-cheer-pilot informed me cordially that he is a big Brazilian fan. Now again, on hearing this, I cannot tell why but I felt a strange stirring in my stomach, my vodka began to taste sour and the match suddenly lost its fervor and my head felt as if someone was using its inside as a substitute for a calypso drum.
While these strange reactions occurred, I found myself asking him not without straining to avoid dawning a sarcastic tone, which by the way, comes more naturally to me than regulated breathing, ‘And why do you like Brazil?’
He replied briskly, ‘I like them because they score goals, they have great players. They have Ronaldinho. And most importantly they win.’
I could have been quite impressed with his reply had I been on some high quality ‘MICA-brand dope’ but as the cruel circumstances would have it, I was neither doped not drunk enough to let pass the implications of what my cheer mate had just said.
What he had just said would have been more justified had he chosen the words more suited to the tone that he had answered my question with. Had that been the case, I humbly imagine his reply to be something like, ‘To be honest with you sir, I support Brazil for lack of something to do, for lack of something to support. I have had an excess of club championships. And what did I do at the end of it all; I supported an English club all my life without actually contributing any money directly to their cause, maybe a little indirectly in terms of GRP by watching TV though. And then 20 years from now I am destined to die leaving behind a family and a kid who would wonder why his father was the sham he was and so he might decide to make a difference by having better reasons for watching football.’ That would be an ideal reply for him for the question, ‘And why do you like Brazil?’
“Would have-could have” scenarios apart, not surprisingly, it was now his turn to ask me the same question, which he, quite evidently, did not seem to hold in as high a critical esteem as I was bound to hold by the sheer virtue of my interest in the fate of teams jumping gallantly into the multi flavorful World Cup soup and in turn the associated fate of their fans.
And then he asked me unhindered, ‘Which is your favorite team?’
I said flatly, ‘Brazil’.
‘And why do you like Brazil?’ he asked.
And the reply that came out of my mouth cannot be claimed to be wholly mine but influenced greatly by one Mumbai returned Namibaba of the forty-four roomies fame.
And this is what I found my mouth blabbering to him uncontrollably as he looked on intently while I couldn’t deny that the calypso company in my head was having quite a party now, ‘I like Brazil’, I said, ‘because Spain’s superstitious coach thinks yellow is an unlucky color according to Kaballah. Going by that “philosophy”, I would be tempted to think that Brazil have to put up with a lot of ill luck because all they play in is yellow. If they are world beaters with the unlucky color on them, just imagine what would happen if they dawned another color in place of yellow. And to tell you the truth it’s the superstition that I hate and that Brazil proves it wrong is why I like them. To be honest, I can’t even stand that daily horoscope column in the papers. Apart from that, Brazil has flair…their football is born in slums…they are a poor man’s team….Ronaldinho never dives; he is an excellent ambassador for the game. Brazilians-they are not the European mechanical firing squad…they have Samba footwork and because I like dance of any form is why I like them. I like them because even after so much internal turmoil the country wins the cup through sheer talent. Despite not being the richest foot-balling nation, they have a renewable talent pool year after year…and of course the following is so amazing that it would make any supporter proud- Brazilian or not. Apart from that…or rather because of that they win. That is why I like them. And though it’s beside the point I would like to mention that that I think their wining is more to do with their culture. By culture I mean all that is not included in the sporting culture and still deemed as culture, you know. I hope I am making sense. I think if one has to form a formidable football team, one must do a microscopic analysis of a Brazilian citizen’s social life and I am sure one would come up with the ‘how’s and why’s’ of top-notch football. Well this is pretty much why I like Brazil.’
My cheer companion couldn’t look more dazed by the reply. He promptly ordered a drink and offered me one. But I merely told him that I had had enough for the day. To which he promptly addressed me as sir ji and gallantly said the drink was on him…I said I didn’t care even if the drink was on Maradona…I had had enough and by the way he had a lot to do with it. The game too had come to an end and all the cheering in the club had given way to a strange euphoria in the room which it appeared could only subside with a thorough battering of Brazil at the hands…or rather the feet of a team of lesser sporting mortals.
I picked up my bag, the black one with the orange question mark on it, paid the bartender and left the building.
PS : This is what took place in ‘Talli’ in Jalandhar the other day. Though I am over it now, I cannot resist asking all you die-hard Brazil fans out there…‘Why do you support Brazil?’ If you are, woman enough, man enough but most importantly fan enough, don’t hesitate to let me know.
When I happened to venture out to one of these bars here which claimed to showcase World Cup games with the availability of an affordable platter of food and drinks, I was not only performing a first in terms of expressing my serious interest in the World Cup and thus seeking an opportunity to feel the excitement by being present in one of these places frequented by “serious” fans, I was also performing a first on the bar circuit front because ‘Talli’, which when directly translated from Punjabi to English means ‘Drunk’, was also the first bar that I have entered after starting to drink a decent amount of vodka on certain limited number of occasions, and though I am stating this, I am stating this irrespective of the purpose of my visit which may lie in drinking suspicious vodka or watching football of decent quality or enjoying the twin pleasures of both at one go.
As the evening unfolded at this bar and Germany started harassing Costa Rica but not without hazarding the harassment of its own goal and the gloved man who guarded it, I began talking to a man in sitting on one of the bar stools beside me. Our curiously close position to the World Cup screen proudly disclosed to our bar-mates our enhanced interest in the goings on and the desire to lead the cheering on their behalf.
Soon enough, I don’t know what inspired me to but I found myself asking this middle-aged, well groomed gentleman perched on a leather cushioned stool beside me about his favorite team but not without the apprehension that the question inspires by the sheer predictability of the reply. And needless to say, my apprehensive prayers were answered true to the tradition when my co-cheer-pilot informed me cordially that he is a big Brazilian fan. Now again, on hearing this, I cannot tell why but I felt a strange stirring in my stomach, my vodka began to taste sour and the match suddenly lost its fervor and my head felt as if someone was using its inside as a substitute for a calypso drum.
While these strange reactions occurred, I found myself asking him not without straining to avoid dawning a sarcastic tone, which by the way, comes more naturally to me than regulated breathing, ‘And why do you like Brazil?’
He replied briskly, ‘I like them because they score goals, they have great players. They have Ronaldinho. And most importantly they win.’
I could have been quite impressed with his reply had I been on some high quality ‘MICA-brand dope’ but as the cruel circumstances would have it, I was neither doped not drunk enough to let pass the implications of what my cheer mate had just said.
What he had just said would have been more justified had he chosen the words more suited to the tone that he had answered my question with. Had that been the case, I humbly imagine his reply to be something like, ‘To be honest with you sir, I support Brazil for lack of something to do, for lack of something to support. I have had an excess of club championships. And what did I do at the end of it all; I supported an English club all my life without actually contributing any money directly to their cause, maybe a little indirectly in terms of GRP by watching TV though. And then 20 years from now I am destined to die leaving behind a family and a kid who would wonder why his father was the sham he was and so he might decide to make a difference by having better reasons for watching football.’ That would be an ideal reply for him for the question, ‘And why do you like Brazil?’
“Would have-could have” scenarios apart, not surprisingly, it was now his turn to ask me the same question, which he, quite evidently, did not seem to hold in as high a critical esteem as I was bound to hold by the sheer virtue of my interest in the fate of teams jumping gallantly into the multi flavorful World Cup soup and in turn the associated fate of their fans.
And then he asked me unhindered, ‘Which is your favorite team?’
I said flatly, ‘Brazil’.
‘And why do you like Brazil?’ he asked.
And the reply that came out of my mouth cannot be claimed to be wholly mine but influenced greatly by one Mumbai returned Namibaba of the forty-four roomies fame.
And this is what I found my mouth blabbering to him uncontrollably as he looked on intently while I couldn’t deny that the calypso company in my head was having quite a party now, ‘I like Brazil’, I said, ‘because Spain’s superstitious coach thinks yellow is an unlucky color according to Kaballah. Going by that “philosophy”, I would be tempted to think that Brazil have to put up with a lot of ill luck because all they play in is yellow. If they are world beaters with the unlucky color on them, just imagine what would happen if they dawned another color in place of yellow. And to tell you the truth it’s the superstition that I hate and that Brazil proves it wrong is why I like them. To be honest, I can’t even stand that daily horoscope column in the papers. Apart from that, Brazil has flair…their football is born in slums…they are a poor man’s team….Ronaldinho never dives; he is an excellent ambassador for the game. Brazilians-they are not the European mechanical firing squad…they have Samba footwork and because I like dance of any form is why I like them. I like them because even after so much internal turmoil the country wins the cup through sheer talent. Despite not being the richest foot-balling nation, they have a renewable talent pool year after year…and of course the following is so amazing that it would make any supporter proud- Brazilian or not. Apart from that…or rather because of that they win. That is why I like them. And though it’s beside the point I would like to mention that that I think their wining is more to do with their culture. By culture I mean all that is not included in the sporting culture and still deemed as culture, you know. I hope I am making sense. I think if one has to form a formidable football team, one must do a microscopic analysis of a Brazilian citizen’s social life and I am sure one would come up with the ‘how’s and why’s’ of top-notch football. Well this is pretty much why I like Brazil.’
My cheer companion couldn’t look more dazed by the reply. He promptly ordered a drink and offered me one. But I merely told him that I had had enough for the day. To which he promptly addressed me as sir ji and gallantly said the drink was on him…I said I didn’t care even if the drink was on Maradona…I had had enough and by the way he had a lot to do with it. The game too had come to an end and all the cheering in the club had given way to a strange euphoria in the room which it appeared could only subside with a thorough battering of Brazil at the hands…or rather the feet of a team of lesser sporting mortals.
I picked up my bag, the black one with the orange question mark on it, paid the bartender and left the building.
PS : This is what took place in ‘Talli’ in Jalandhar the other day. Though I am over it now, I cannot resist asking all you die-hard Brazil fans out there…‘Why do you support Brazil?’ If you are, woman enough, man enough but most importantly fan enough, don’t hesitate to let me know.
‘Don’t’
Don’t let your hair lose
Don’t put on rouge
Don’t paint your lips
Or your finger tips
Don’t wear that dress
That you bought with care
Don’t walk that walk
Don’t acquire that look
For if you do
You will look too fine
And I will not know
If you are the same woman
That filled with love
Not too long ago
This weary, worn out
Heart of mine
Don’t put on rouge
Don’t paint your lips
Or your finger tips
Don’t wear that dress
That you bought with care
Don’t walk that walk
Don’t acquire that look
For if you do
You will look too fine
And I will not know
If you are the same woman
That filled with love
Not too long ago
This weary, worn out
Heart of mine
‘Writers-It Takes All Kinds’
-A bad writer after reading the piece he has freshly written would say, ‘By Jove! Revelation of revelations! Is this what I actually meant to write?’
-A good writer would say, ‘My thoughts feel a little distorted on paper but I don’t care as long as they are distorted for the better. ’
-A great writer would say, ‘I have nothing to say, for all I had to say is on the paper.’
-A good writer would say, ‘My thoughts feel a little distorted on paper but I don’t care as long as they are distorted for the better. ’
-A great writer would say, ‘I have nothing to say, for all I had to say is on the paper.’
“Wish: Death”
Die -You know you want to
Why?-You have your reasons
I-Can be your reason if you don’t have one
High-Can be your new home
Fly-With angels who have no hope
Lie-with God in heaven
My-you look so happy when dead
Smile-I just blew your brains out of your head
Why?-You have your reasons
I-Can be your reason if you don’t have one
High-Can be your new home
Fly-With angels who have no hope
Lie-with God in heaven
My-you look so happy when dead
Smile-I just blew your brains out of your head
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
‘The Mechanism of Ventment’
Einstein was wrong
You don’t have to travel faster than time
To tow it across its natural line
Stretch it and slow it down
It can be done while doing
Something as simple as returning from office
My mind buckling under tired thoughts
Weary legs carrying me home through the town
My body may be tired
But I have sold ad space, I have donned that role
That would sell anything that I happened to have in my hand
I have that smile, that body language
That would help me sell anything
Afterall I am no more than a sophisticated salesman
Once home, I want to write
My body won’t obey
I’ll fall prey to an involuntary sleep soon
That is the best way to be ready for the next day
And just as my eyes would begin to close
A couplet will be born in Namibaba’s head
The lappy will be out the next minute
And the night will be spent typing in the dark
My bed an island in a sea of 70 bodies as good as dead
Sleep would overwhelm me finally
And I would go down with the thought swimming in my head
"It's a message from the spirit
It must be sent
Whenever the feelings overwhelm me
There would be ventment"
You don’t have to travel faster than time
To tow it across its natural line
Stretch it and slow it down
It can be done while doing
Something as simple as returning from office
My mind buckling under tired thoughts
Weary legs carrying me home through the town
My body may be tired
But I have sold ad space, I have donned that role
That would sell anything that I happened to have in my hand
I have that smile, that body language
That would help me sell anything
Afterall I am no more than a sophisticated salesman
Once home, I want to write
My body won’t obey
I’ll fall prey to an involuntary sleep soon
That is the best way to be ready for the next day
And just as my eyes would begin to close
A couplet will be born in Namibaba’s head
The lappy will be out the next minute
And the night will be spent typing in the dark
My bed an island in a sea of 70 bodies as good as dead
Sleep would overwhelm me finally
And I would go down with the thought swimming in my head
"It's a message from the spirit
It must be sent
Whenever the feelings overwhelm me
There would be ventment"
Quotes from Namibaba (1983-Alive and kicking till now)
“The truth is in here.”
“A flash in a pan is worth hiring the cook for.”
“A stitch in time spoils the time-piece.”
“Early bird doesn’t get anything in a city of late risers.”
“Peace is a dish best served after war.”
“Give peace a chance. Or else we always have war.”
“The most well supported kind of dog is underdog.”
“I am a life built on underestimations.”
“It’s hard to trust a man who goes an extra mile to earn it.”
.
“It’s easier to trust a man with an evil smile than one with a straight face.”
“A man with an innocent face must learn how to bargain.”
“A flash in a pan is worth hiring the cook for.”
“A stitch in time spoils the time-piece.”
“Early bird doesn’t get anything in a city of late risers.”
“Peace is a dish best served after war.”
“Give peace a chance. Or else we always have war.”
“The most well supported kind of dog is underdog.”
“I am a life built on underestimations.”
“It’s hard to trust a man who goes an extra mile to earn it.”
.
“It’s easier to trust a man with an evil smile than one with a straight face.”
“A man with an innocent face must learn how to bargain.”
‘Who’s This Man?’
I climb up the train and see this man
And though I have seen him somewhere
I can’t quite say where have I seen him
Who is this shriveled up in a corner seat
This man who is so engrossed with everything?
This man who would think strange thoughts
Who always pushes himself
This dreamer, this immodest creative
This vane being, not free from conceit
Showing traces of manic disorder
This man at times lovable
But at times inspiring mistrust and deceit
This man so simple yet unpredictable
Who is this man, shriveled up in the seat?
This tender mouthed
Sometimes a boy
But a man when he needs to be
Who is this man?
And then this man speaks to me
He says
‘Stupid it’s you
It’s you, it’s me
Will you stop staring at me?
It’s us man
Stupid it’s we!!!’
And though I have seen him somewhere
I can’t quite say where have I seen him
Who is this shriveled up in a corner seat
This man who is so engrossed with everything?
This man who would think strange thoughts
Who always pushes himself
This dreamer, this immodest creative
This vane being, not free from conceit
Showing traces of manic disorder
This man at times lovable
But at times inspiring mistrust and deceit
This man so simple yet unpredictable
Who is this man, shriveled up in the seat?
This tender mouthed
Sometimes a boy
But a man when he needs to be
Who is this man?
And then this man speaks to me
He says
‘Stupid it’s you
It’s you, it’s me
Will you stop staring at me?
It’s us man
Stupid it’s we!!!’
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