"Calcutta Ahoy!" goes the Chaddi brigade..

"Today, was a day to remember.

Rather, it was a day that shall go down in history, as one where 3 young lads went on to break free of those invisible..."

--

Well, that was about all I could get to the first time I got down to writing this post, back on the 4th of October. Well, its been nearly a month hence, and it is now, this beautiful Sunday night, that I return to this perch. And in xyz minutes, I hope to have vanquished/made love to that muse which has been teasing me ever since that magical day... all those days back.

Continuing...

--

The Beginnings

On one of our several DP trips around Behala and beyond, we had chanced on a sweet shop which advertised its 'chhole bhature'. Any Delhiite would tell you just how compelling the very thought of that delicacy can be, particularly when in a far-away land.

Now it was a bright Sunday afternoon, and the last holiday of the DP break here at Joka. People were returning to a place that had(/will) become home to them (sooner or later). I had of course spent the entire break on campus itself, soaking in the authentic DP fervour, along with a renewed passion and reverence towards velliaps. In the able accompaniment of my trusted sidey, Monsieur Pparas, that one week had been, quite simply put, rather memorable.

(Details on all the magic of the DP week, would quite naturally merit a separate post, on a separate date. Too much respects issues are there.)

Anyhow..

So it was that last Sunday, and one felt like rounding off the magic of the DP break, with a memorable last day. Pparas came up with the splendid idea of pursuing our elusive chhole bhature dreams. Stumbling across an ambling Lal, we picked him up as well. Part laziness part convenience however reminded us of the fact that Sunday afternoons were Chicken biriyani in the good old mess. Thus we hopped down to the mess, in our blithe tees and shorts, as we always do.

Much to our disappointment though, the dreamy visuals of steaming biriyani were rather rudely replaced by a most basic lunchtime offering. Such a compromise most definitely unacceptable, we reverted to our Behala chhole bhature plan, and the next thing we knew, we were standing outside that enticing little sweet shop. Looking up at the skies, and the many elements that moved in wonderful randomness all around us, we knew that the Sunday was going to live up to its billing... Just that we didn't quite realize the story would continue way beyond our Delhiminiscent culinary temptations!

--

An innocent detour...

Well, as it turned out, the advertised product at said sweet shop was, simply put, unavailable. Unavailable then, as it has been and will be. The point behind putting up that ad seemed to have escaped us, pending of course sinister plots of cross-selling to customers initially enticed by said ad. (Hmmm... Thats basically what we ended up doing there. ANYways...)

Thus, in order to rescue our crises ridden Sunday treat, we proceeded towards the safest resort for any non-veg lover in the Kolkata south of Alipore - Haji Saheb. (Of course, the customary trip to the namesake of 'Asynchronous Transfer Mode' in order for Pparas to extricate a suitable sum of money did occur in this period.)

There, after cribbing about the annoying Kolkatan neglect towards the exquisiteness that is a freshly prepared 'raita', we eventually seated ourselves at a table.

For the record, we enacted our first public 'scene' together, when the waiter asked us to occupy one side of a 6-seater table. Non-cooperation, arguments and agitation was followed by eventual submission to his requests. Barring this minor blemish however, the lunch indeed did live up to its name. Haji Saheb - Respects!

--

...Gone awry (and how beautifully so!)

Just as we made our way out of that journey of culinary poetry, a long lost desire resurrected from within the eased neurons (Tandoori chicken induced 'ecstasy' perhaps!) of Pparas - the hallowed portals of Coffee House.

For the uninitiated, Coffee House is an ancient place located at the heart of College Street, facing the legendary Presidency College, and the undoubted socio-culturo-intellectual hub of the city (the latter at least in its hay day.) Having fed him with pics and tales of the immaculate 'feel' that emanates from the very fibre of the place, one knew Pparas was not speaking in jest. More importantly, one suddenly saw the infinite potential of this till now lazy Sunday afternoon unfolding.

And thus, overcoming a momentary hesitation in Lal, and clad still in the pride of our existence - our tees and shorts - we boarded a bus to Dharamtalla. There, waiting for the one bus (of allegedly 38) to take us to College Street, the elements seemed hell bent on stretching the Law of Averages to its limits. Thus, after a 10 minute wait that seemed like an eternity and a half, we finally boarded one to take us to the place.

And surely enough, in the span of the next 14 minutes, we were there, at the welcoming arms of "Indian Coffee House". In spite of the fact that I had frequented it only 2 days earlier, it still seemed to breathe with a sense of freshness, which I hope and conjecture, shall remain for all of its days. Something in the air makes one even overlook the cigarette smoke that permeates all around - a shot of culture and the likes perhaps.

Once we were done ogling at all the wonder that lay embedded in the air, the walls and the sounds, and with the coffee and sandwiches of course, we recalled something that had caught our eye en route to this place. And the very thought sent one's 'thass barometer' race to precarious levels!

--

The final nail in sanity's coffin!

The sight that had returned to our collective consciousness all at once, was the one we caught whilst walking past the relatively underrated "Metro Cinema". "Wake up Sid" had just been released, and the queue had seemed rather empty at the time.

And in case you haven't guessed already, wake up! It was decided in a moment of spontaneous unanimity (after a momentary hesitation in Pparas), to put his magical money extracting card to use once more, and there stood 3 members of the brightest of India's elite education illuminati, warding off the advances of black marketeers and queue breakers.

Sigh.. Such levelers life throws at one! Just beautiful...

Returning..

Thereafter, in a matter of 23 minutes, we had found our way inside the hall, and were rather surprised to find a bar inside. Since then I have learnt from sources that there are indeed many such cinematic oases in this ever enchanting city of Kolkata. Either way, at the very least, at that moment in time, we were just floored; and out of sheer respect, we went on to have a customary Vodka each. Pretty soon it was time for the movie to begin.

The whole "Wake up Sid!" experience was like trying to appreciate music in a fish market; as is to be expected in any such theatre experience, the people hardly settled in during the first quarter of the movie. Irrespective of any such infractions however, one knew one was living another plane of thass, and for that matter, life.

Key highlights from the movie, to conclude this episode:

"Justin ke haath bahut saara paisa de do, Sid ban jaayega!"

"Haan.. Badi achchi saaf-safai karta hai Sid!"

"Sid... Mein tumhaare bachche ki maa banne wali hoon.."

Sheesh... and there were just SOO many more!

(Pparas and Lal - plz to contribute for this potential minefield of awesomeness!)

--

In the end

As with most occasions of such lightness of being, this particular outing too found its conclusion at a place of culinary worship - K.F.C!

Entering the pseude interiors of the place, still in our glorious exteriors, was just a WONderful feeling; one characterized my several shades of freedom, truth and headiness.

And it was there, seated and gorging on the goods, that we saw ourselves as the essential bhediye that we were. Sigh..

The heart sprang with a joy unburdening,

In that moment, there was no burgeoning.

One could see the light that had built this day,

And in that all the wonders, one could say.

Post the fulfilling meal, we trudged along to the nearest bus stop, boarded one for back home, and in the span of 39 minutes, were back to where it had all begun.

The day that had just passed us by, one knew was special beyond what words can describe. And the fact that one hadn't brought one's trusty old camera for this adventure, was poignantly testimonial of the random spontaneity that had punctuated the course of the entire day. And it was fitting in a way perhaps, for as was once said many years back, the most beautiful of moments are there to be lived, not captured.

"Get back to where you once belonged!"

Cheers duniya! :)

Dhimi dhimi thakkam theyyi theyyi...

Naseeb mera tune likha...
In your eyes, I sought my self.

I turn to the light tonight,
Only to find it vanishing again.

If Don Giovanni was a wretch,
I must be two feet deep already.

And yet, I find in my own self,
Chalta hum sab pe tera jadoo..

Why must I return to your steps?
And yet, always find a solace there..

To think and yet let go,
To find oneslef in a world full of herds.

PS: Karukra..

By the lake, and the birds that abound...

"Nakshatra - Malgudi Days - Indian Ocean.mp3" - EXT - The Jetty - 8:20am

At the jetty, one often sees things for the first time. What is till then a commoner to the eye gains in prominence, perhaps with the alignment of the stars, or the powers that be. In the midst of an existence punctuated by many things, many of which are beautiful indeed, scattered between the perfunctory, despondent and destructive, its a moment such as this, that lends direction to the artiste's stroke; to the poet's quill; to the Master's hand.

Coming to what it was that pounced on me with the nimble daintiness of a little pup...
As I sat there, gazing at the wonderously textured lake surface, there passed in the space above, a beautifully crafted bird. While such a sight when viewed through the naked air would be quite to write, what one gets through the laws of random reflection only adds volumes to it.

In that reflection of the creature's flight, one saw a life that wished to break out of the boundaries that the seeing, and unseeing eye had rendered to it. For in seeing one, others are necessarily un-seen. On the lake surface, lay a canvas where every wandering breath could live itself out, beyond the lines imposed on it by the hand of science, logic and intelligence. Never before, had a being, an object, a concept experienced such a space of untouchable freedom, to reach the very limits of its own conception of its meaning and purpose.

What led to this little revelation if of course unclear, and at best something essentially naught. But so it is with many of the things that matter most I guess.

Cheers duniya!

Edit PS: Pic credits go to Signor Nikhil C, with perhaps the best view in the entire campus! As always, the pic with the subject caught unawares captures so much! :)
Thanx da!

Hmmm...

Its been TOO long since I posted anything...

Such have been the times, that this post was left with a dangling title for a good 3 days before I returned.
Between reckless sleep deprivation, projects, presentations, thass and competitions, one has found lots to float, fly and write on. Just that the temporal resource variable has been growing scarcer by the day, or so one feels at least.

Anyhow, today I shall leave you with this 'poem' that came to me, whilst attending a lecture on "Management, Culture and Creativity", and viewing a video on Indian culture et al, to be more precise...
The general sense of awe, the music, the sights, the lotus and the light... were all equal parties in this conspiracy, to take the self to places it had never seen, and show it things it had perhaps never imagined...

There is light and there is life
In the heights of the blue green shades,
In those twirling streams of light,
I feel a thousand droplets of love;
Touching my face all at once,
In one moment of untouched peace.

As the road grows longer
And the times around me change,
I see trees blurring in a haze of shadows;
Lakes turning to poetry in gay abandon.
The birds in full flight up above,
Sing of a joy yet to be seen.

In and around me, this light moment,
Are filled countless strains of multi-hued will.
Each is a life in itself,
Each fills the universe with its presence,
Yet each is but a blink of the eye;
The eye that sees all yet holds none.

In you I find my sense of meaning,
Through you I seek my goals.
What can man want more,
Than to find himself while losing all that isn't?
The seeker comes to you at the end of the day.
In you I seek myself; the beginning and the end.

Kandisa!

Kash Laga...

This relates to my experience with a certain cinematic work by the name of "No Smoking", directed by a bloke named Anurag Kashyap (Yes, the bloke who gave us DevD.)

The moment I completed said movie, I knew only one thing: that my mind had gone blank, completely.
I did not know whether I had liked the movie or despised it;
whether I wanted to cry or laught out loud;
what I was doing calling up people frenetically, standing on the roof top;
what I wanted to tell my friend I called up in the US;
what I wanted from life (ok, that I never really know I guess!).

Thus, I was left in a daze, a long, extended phase of unknowing-ness and unthinking-ness.

And then.
One remembers a particular track in a particular sequence of the movie.
One procures it soon enough.
Gives it one listening.
And then lives in that comfortable little universe, for the next 27 hours. And counting.

"Yeh jahaan phaani hai, bulbula hai paani hai...
Bulbolon pe rukna kya, paaniyon pe behta ja behta ja...
Kash laga, kash laga..."

One learns two new words in the process of starting to decipher the magic encompassed in the above, and what precedes and follows it.
"Phaani" - Mortal.
"Kash laga" - Take a drag.

And with that, one sees a muse revealing herself from behind the mists, with a seductive, inviting gesture.
One finds the path through the haze that fills the air.
And the path leads here:

The world is a maze of many things.
Among them, prominent ones include several forms of perfunctoriness, unintended and/or unneeded obligations, and many of their uncles and aunties. Also resident in that consciousness, is a whole joint family rooted in one word, "expectation".

Just when you are staring at the night sky, gaping at the void that fills the air and your most internal recesses, comes along the muse of the night.
And whispers to you gently:

"The world is but a dream. It is a beautiful, and compelling kaleidoscope of many different colours, none of which is real. You are your own servant and master.
You owe it to yourself, and to Him for all that He has endowed you with, to make the most of all that is there in and around you.
Thus, dear little boy, do your thing, make love to all that touches your divinity, for that is all that matters. Live. Do not let this moment pass."

"Yeh jahaan phaani hai, bulbula hai paani hai...
Bulbolon pe rukna kya, paaniyon pe behta ja behta ja...
Kash laga, kash laga..."

Edit-1:
In reply to a friend who felt that the post somehow encouraged smoking et al...:

"Encouraging" smoking is perhaps the last thing that one intended to do with that piece...
The girl, the muse, the haze, is all in the imagination that all of us are blessed with...

The following forms the core of the entire post.

"The world is but a dream. It is a beautiful, and compelling kaleidoscope of many different colours, none of which is real. You are your own servant and master.
You owe it to yourself, and to Him for all that He has endowed you with, to make the most of all that is there in and around you.
Thus, dear little boy, do your thing, make love to all that touches your divinity, for that is all that matters. Live. Do not let this moment pass."

All it says is, one needs to find one thing that defines one's existence, and adds a sense of purpose to what would otherwise be just a wait till the clock strikes 'the end'.
And the world, with all its bondages and chains, need never stand in the way of you and that one thing, for in the end, you are answerable only to the voice within. In the context of you and the salvation you seek, the world has to be irrelevant.
We are all here for a limited time, and so is the world. Why must one limit one's dreams, one's ambitions, one's aspirations and efforts, by something as fleeting and transient as the world?
Thus, go ahead, and indulge in that one thing which completes your being; which is in effect the path you have chosen to your immortality.

"Yeh jahaan phaani hai, bulbula hai paani hai...
Bulbolon pe rukna kya, paaniyon pe behta ja behta ja...
Kash laga, kash laga..."

I hope you now see in the lines above, the para that preceded it.
In the lens that 'figurative'-ity gives me, 'kash laga' is anything but smoking...

PS: One finds an uncanny resemblance to this concept in Bachchan sahab's Madhushala, when he says,

"Madiralaya jaane ko ghar se chalta hai peene wala,
Kis path se jaoon asamanjas, yeh hai woh bhola bhala,
Alag, alag path batalate sab, par main ye batalata hoon,
Raah pakad tu ek chala chal, pa jaiyege madhushala..."

Once again... the quest is not to find a pub to get wasted... but to find the one thing that shall lend an existence growing increasingly meaningless and numb, some semblance of meaning and purpose.

Cheers duniya! :)

Twinkling stars from the sky

Started at 35,098 feet in the sky, approximately.
---

What I see right now is hard to document or capture, but what can be, to the best of one's highly influenced senses, is that which has just opened to one, all of n thousand feet up in the sky.

As the sun shines down on the awakening earth, it elevates every instance of that which may be called the root of all life, to what we look for in night skies, albeit in a diametrically opposite configuration. As one passes one air furlong after another, the little smiling twinklets come, pause and leave in a moment of unassuming, unheralded silence. In fact it is more to the effect of disparate, disjoint entities, minding their own business, attending to the million things that engage each one of them. And then, during the normal execution of an average day in their life, we, the protagonists step in, and look around.

And there, in the midst of the quiet brown-ness that defines the locales otherwise, we observe the first signs of a brilliance so immaculate, it could brighten up a cloudy day, breathe life into a waning soul, and add a million colours to a mind desperately seeking some thing.


Little golden stars twinkle at us from all those miles away, shining with the grace and might of the sun. As they float by (or we do, as one may choose to look at things), the following hit one's senses, one after the other, in a surprisingly rhythmic manner:

1. The 'stars' shine on as long as we stay in their zones of influence. After which they cease to shine for us, but may continue to be their effervescent selves for other fortunate passers-by separated from ourselves on the time scale. Perhaps most importantly, the fact to be noted is that they come, they shine, and they continue with their lives, as they had previous to our introduction; and so do we.

In our lives and in our times, we are endowed with several blessings along the way. And I strongly believe that the greatest, most valuable of these treasures lie in the people we are privileged enough to be with. Owing to the very nature of our existences and the significance of one entity exchanging subliminals with others, inter-personal experiences top my list of His benevolence on us unknowing, unthinking mortals.

2. Soon after, a parallel storyline emerges, centred around the literal aptness of the term 'Taare Zameen Par' for these little instances of unspoken mirth.
When one looks back at the years that have been one's days; all that has been till now, and promises to be on the paths that lie ahead; one cannot help but marvel at the roles different people have played at different points in time. Wherever one has gone, whatever one has done, one has been under some immaculate light, which ensured the presence of a motley bunch one could treat as one's own.

So be it the playgrounds of the yonderyears, or the portals of school; the welcoming arms of college (made more so by the stars aforementioned), or the annals of Jokaland, and finally, even those dreamy, picturesque pathways of a certain car plant, working on, among other things, the single most awe-some project in my eyes; everywhere one's steps have taken one, one has been gifted with a sense of warmth and love, flowing through the people one has been close to. You are the stars; all of you!

3. The final phase of this sequence of revelations was one that would bring me to tears; tears that had waiting in the wings for a while now.

"All the world's a stage..." a wise sage must have spoken many thousand years back.

All those stars; all those people, were of course actors, as one has said previously.
However, the thread that connects them all together; the script that binds them all in a cosmic plot; the light that shines through all of them; the love that one absorbs from all that they symbolize and represent; that, is the same that built the stage; fuels the sun; paints the sky and all that lies above and below it; that, is Him.
And He loves you.
And he loves you enough to have his actors around you, to pick you up when you fall; to lend a shoulder in times of need; to deliver a kick on the backside on occasions of over-excess-itude.

We are all actors that play his hand, in different ways, at different times.
And for that, we are all blessed.

God bless!
Be happy!

Sigh... so much love...

PS: A sample of what led to this post.

Forward Descent - 1

02/06/2009 - 17:55:55
I look at the my brothers flying around on all sides.
As we were released into this world from those hallowed portals of yonderland, I could sense that building sense of transient equality that any athlete experiences when on the start line. The transience in itself was the potential that fuelled us to strive for ever rising heights. It was as if all the brotherhood that had bound us together all our lives, was about to be squeezed out of our cores, as we sought to grow, aspire and achieve.

It wasn't all blue though, or even green or yellow for that matter. What made that phase so fascinating was the multi-hued-ness that it brought with it. While there was the obvious sense of separation that loomed large, there was also that pleasant tingling sensation one gets in one's stomach, when approaching a momentous shift in one's existence. I think at some level, we all knew where we were going to land up eventually, it was just the trajectory that differed. For even the heights and distances covered mattered little when one merged with the earth, carrying little more than one's fast disappearing self, and leaving behind a spot on the motherland, and the faint scent of another gentle passing over. The role one played in the afterlife had been speculated and fantasized about in great detail, and with infectious fervour among our intellectuals. That of course didn't deter us from continuing to float on in our continuous phase of trans-meditative oneness. That was a time when nothing really mattered; when we didn't need John Lennon to tell us this, for we lived it without knowing any of it.

Anyhow, that day was then, and this is now.
And in between of course, was that day.
When the floodgates were opened finally; after all the suspense and drama, of which only a modest glimpse was provided above. I'll never forget that date, what a glorious figure that had been: 02/06/2009 - 17:55:54. The gardener had come for his daily duties, and we could sense that the day we had awaited for years, was to finally arrive.

Fast track to this moment of free flight.
And yet, there is something which pulls me inside. The people around me, behind me, ahead of me, are all running. And I run with them. I lead some, I trail some, and somehow the latter always seems the larger group. With every one I pass, I see 10 others ahead.
This seemingly endless stream of wants takes some of the sheen off the highly romanticized 'final flight' that poets spoke of in the tank.
One hopes to find more meaning, more light, and a more complete sense of happiness as one blends with the other elements, and stares into whatever awaits in the afterlife. Somewhere, I think there are many more levels that await me, and that one day I shall complete a circle, upon which I shall have, hopefully, learnt a little more about my self.
I have no reasons to believe I understand any of what I've just jotted down.
Maybe there will be.

Nice thought that was, as I approach the end of the road. I've lived longer than I'd ever dreamed!
What awaits awaits.
Que sera sera.
Drop no. 746383949, signing off from
Flat - B12, Sector - 34, Kurlapur, Navi Mumbai.

02/06/2009 - 17:55:56.

"An eternity passes by in the blink of an eye" - indeed...

Sita

Another nice little happenstance greeted me today, as I returned from work.
Having overslept in the bus, I got off at a newly discovered McD, had a trademark snack for old times sake, together with all the 'I love Delhi' sentiments it brings back. Then, on my way back from there, I bumped into my Sita.

--
'Inspired' fiction 3.0
--
Sita
--

The world knows her through many names. While her parents would call her with one, with all the loving attached, the neighbourhood children had another one to greet their cheery pal. However, in spite of all these distinct references, to me, and only to me, she was Sita.

I still remember the first time I met her. More than the faint smile radiant on her face, more than the dainty little hands that she kept to herself as she sat on her father's lap, more than everything else, I recall the little triangular plastic violet bangles she wore on her hands.
Of course, that does not take anything away from the overwhelming sense of life, abundant with the little joys and hopes that characterize childhood, that emanated from her very being. The way her eyes looked ahead, the way her hair blew gently in the wind, the way her hands kept fixing it from time to time, and also the way her hands passed time with each other when there was nothing else to do; everything spelt out a unique blend of warmth, innocence and goodness.

That chance encounter was one of those moments when one takes a backseat, and looks at the world around as part of one's active ecosystem; or rather, when one views oneself as a part of a larger dimension, going beyond the often dominating sense of self.

That day, when I sat opposite her in an unassuming auto, was when I had received my first paycheck. And somehow, that detail didn't seem to matter in any way, at that moment.
I had followed the family back to their place. Other than Sita, the parents had a little baby boy named Manu. When I knocked on the door of their little apartment, in a small locality next to a slum, it was answered by the mother, who was a bit circumspect, having identified me from the auto journey we had shared just minutes back.

Telling me to wait, she went inside and called her husband.
The man walked out, and I introduced myself as Justin, their co-passenger from the auto. He gave me a controlled-ly bewildered look.
I told him I had a 2 year old nephew back home, and sitting with his family got me back to the times there. Further I asked him if I could join him for tea.

He seemed positively clueless as to what was happening at this point. I could only smile at the near comic situation I had actively created here.
Out of sheer courtesy, he asked me to sit inside, ushering me into what seemed to be the common central room, that doubled up as the living and dining room. The house was modestly furnished, with a few cane chairs here and there, other than the 2 piece sofa set and central table. The walls were a pale shade of green, made paler over time. A window adorned the wall opposite to me, which in turn was covered by a worn out, yet beautiful, red and white patterned curtain.

Sitting on the sofa, I introduced myself to the man as Justin, currently interning at Dwij Motor Works. He in turn told me he was Ghanshyam, working at the Airport, and originally from Nagpur. His wife then entered, balancing a tray containing 2 glasses of water, and the little baby in her arms. Taking the tray from her, I asked her the little one's name.
"Balram.", replied Ghanshyam, with a newly radiant smile on his face.
"Wah! Ek taraf Ghanshyam, aur ek taraf Balram! Bahut pyaare..", I exclaimed.

And then, I saw her.
Busy opening up an orange coloured toffee, careful not to step out of her mother's shadow, ambled in the little girl who had captured my imagination; my Sita.
With a visible spring in my voice and smile on my face, I asked them her name.
"Savita", came the reply from the mother who now had a slowly awakening baby competing for her attention, with a 5-year old tugging at her sari.

In my mind I knew that Savita would always remain Sita. I noticed she still had those violet bangles on.
I asked her if she went to school.
She smiled and nodded.
Upon asking her which class she studied in, she replied with a dreamy "One".

At this point Ghanshyam asked his wife to make us some tea. She went inside for the same. I went on to ask Ghanshyam about his work, about Sita's education, and other factors of daily life.
He had been at the inspection department at the airport ever since it came up, back in 1996. Then a lanky 16 year old, fresh from the fields back in Nagpur, he had been a consistent and dependable face at work. Given his textbook virtues of diligence and honesty, he had risen through the ranks quickly, always in the good books of his seniors. In fact, he had once been trusted with house and car keys by the Security Head at the airport, when he had to rush to Delhi in an emergency.
Today he was the go-to man for any glitch or hassle, not just in the security inspection department, but anywhere in the Eastern half of the airport.

He had married a girl from his village, back in 2002, once he was convinced he had reached a basic minimum level of stability. And in 2004, had entered this world, a light named Sita, or Savita, depending on which way one looks.

Sita was born on the 4th of April.
To her friends at school and home, she was 'Nanhi', after her mother couldn't get over to 'Savita' for a good one and a half years.
It struck me how 'Nanni' in my native tongue meant 'Thanks'. I smiled at the thought.

Sipping on the hot tea, I asked Sita what she wanted to be once she grew up. She smiled coyly and confessed her utterly blissful and uncaring aimlessness, with a "Mujhe nahin pata!". Her father said he wanted her to be a nurse. I watched as she smiled and picked up a little doll.
Her bangles caught my eye again.
I asked her where she had got them from. They were from the local Saturday market she said with an evident sense of joy.

Eventually, in the midst of all this chit chat and randomness, I noticed Father Time waving his "It's time to leave" flag. I glanced at my watch to see it had crossed 7pm.
With that, I rose to take their leave. The by now eased Ghanshyam asked me to stay on for dinner. I was already full, with all that I had experienced in the 2 hours that had just flown past. Thus I politely refused, and went on to give Sita and Balram little gifts I had bought earlier.

As I took leave that beautiful evening, I knew this would probably be the last time I ever see Sita and her family. However, unlike the case that often arises on such occasions, I didn't feel sad or even remotely dejected by this inevitability. I soon realized, the reason behind this new found galvanization was the fact that I could see Sita whenever I closed my eyes. To be more precise, whenever I wanted to, I could refer back to the memory of this wonderful evening, and specifically, of her very being as the auto moved along its path.
Exactly what the elements spoke to me at that blessed hour, I do not know. However, their thoughts seemed to revolve around some way to look at life and all that it had to shower along one's path. Taking that hint, one tried to make sense of everything; the smile, the bangles, the hair, the hands.

Over time some parts of the puzzle have offered teasing glimpses. And while each part may be disparate by itself, the one unit of commonality that threads them all together, is Sita.
The hope remains that her generosity towards every opened, inquisitive eye, shall remain unabated.

After all, 'Ummeed par hi toh duniya kaayam hai..'

This 19th evening of May

It was my immense fortune and privilege, among other things, that the first rains in Pune should descend on the very day that I travel beyond my normal route to procure cake for my brother’s birthday.

This I say, because the rains forced the sun into a corner today; a corner wherefrom all the sun could do, was shine behind a sheety layer of thin clouds and dust, thus emanating a shade I like to call “Nostalgic Yellow” – Asian paints might just have something on these lines. Might. Just.

Anyhow.
There stood the sun, high up in the sky, nearing the horizon with every passing minute. One could see an air of defeat looming on his face, visible in a distorted mass through the clouds. It seemed as if he was expressing his nostalgic blues through the one language his condition and orientation allowed him to muster – Yellow.

However, just as one was about to begin working on a sad obituary for the setting sun, realization struck.
One suddenly caught a glimpse of a fleeting smile on the face of the sun. And then one knew of the conniving role that he had himself played in the larger magic that had enveloped the world that moment.

The rains had descended, the clouds had surrounded the big star, but at some level, it had all been with an implicit consent by the tyrant sun himself. It seemed as if the dictator that had menaced his subjects in the dry and hot afternoons all these days, had himself willed for such a downfall; for it was not that he didn’t care for his tiny subjects on this 3rd rock, rather, the heat was a convoluted combination of disciplinarianism and love; and he knew that after a while, tough love degenerates to downright tyranny; and his subjects deserved better.

Thus the last 3-4 days or so had been ones of tremendous internal conflict for the poor old man. To give in to his conception of what was his right and duty, would mean to further torment the little ones here, while the other option would be tantamount to giving up on his powers; on his hold on his beloveds. In fact, to let go of the very children he had nurtured all these years, and prod them to go forward and explore another dimension of cosmological affection; that of the element of water, and the gentle arms of the wind that come with it.

He knew that the people would love the change; that people would pounce on this chance, and live a million nights in one; that for those hours of exquisite, untouchable elevation, his children would forget that he ever even existed. His only hope, the one thing which could prevent him from recoiling into a shell of possession, paranoia and a directionless fright, was that the morning after, people would thank the forces for the wonders of the previous evening, and be gracious enough to seek the blessings of the old star; the star of yesterday, of yesteryears, of yesterlives; of all eternity, or at least till where the mind chooses to see at this moment.

Comforting himself with this belief, the sun laid down his aged arms, reclined under the clouds that had previously seemed menacing, and perhaps even shared a joke or two with them.
And with that, began the transition from ‘Nostalgic Blues’ to a parade of infinite hues, all resplendent with a love that didn’t wish to possess. For from that moment onwards, every opened eye could see that smile on the sun’s serene face, and every single object that was caressed by the mellowed rays of the sun, knew that it was a moment of immense, immaculate love that was passing it by. With this realization, one experienced the true value of living a moment; of looking around and reading the poetry that had so ingeniously been woven into every fibre of life.

One turned to head back home and share this magic with all the people one had been blessed enough to know. Before that, one stood still for just a few moments more, and looked.
The sky, parted into two halves of blue and yellow, dividing all the world with it; the gentle drops that could hardly contain their boundless joy; the very air that carried with it a universe of blithe purpose and loving.

With that, one knew that this day had been special.
The sun was blissfully calm and half asleep somewhere. His subjects were rejoicing here. Goodness was all one could see.

330am walks

... often lead to this:


The star stands a short distance from the moon, moving his little shoes timidly. The moon is a perfect 'D', looking the other way, nose up in the sky. It seems the star, small and twinkly, is having a tough time conveying the infiniteness that resides within him to the one he cares for. Though the spaces between them are but a few trivial lightyears, he feels it to be across the universe. Such is the experience I guess, when one consciousness seeks union with another, which in turn would rather read up on the weather at Neptune.

And though the little star knows that he doesn't quite comprehend the chasms that potentially lie ahead, it seems he believes in the assumption that the journey would be worth its while; worth enough to marginalize such stumblings.

Having read this tale on the sky, every single song my phone throws at me now seems to be part of a ballad he is singing to her, in his all consuming search for his 'ardhaangani'.

---

Sigh... The wonders!

Timekeepers in tow

Yes, its been obscenely long since I last wrote. Varied issues all across the board had of course conspired for the same (as they always like to!).
Anyhow... Goodness is restored, for now. And we may now stride into another epoch of bold, uncaring insanity.

This thought had struck me a few days back, and finally reached its present state from a discussion that took place yesterday.

Often enough, one reaches a phase where one is fascinated by the rhythm cycles that traverse the music all around. From the sounds of a train in full flow, to a classical performance, to the latest radio hit, and even the retro pop rock from the 60's -- everywhere we turn, we observe timekeepers working in perfect clockwork (couldn't resist! :-).

At the next level, one begins to notice the presence of another watch-man. Like the first one, he too is simply keeping count in his own realm, unperturbed and unaffected by the fact that there may be others like him, engaging in a nearly identical task, albeit with an appropriate phase/frequency/amplitude difference. (Engineering ki jai indeed!)
And then, it happens.
As if a slowly growing flame were revealing its environs with the gentle caress of a proud mother, one finds the picture, an intricate maze of many things beautiful, reveal itself in front of one's fast gaping eyes. One looks around to find many, beyond count, timekeepers; each minding his/her own business; each with his/her own clock to follow, and each, blissfully unaware of the simul-coincidence of all of the others. Time, rhythm, balance, poise, love, all come flowing to greet one's newly opened senses.

However, the magic doesn't end there.
Rather, as one is just about to find out, what is to follow has the potential to overshadow all that has taken place yet.

Just as one is about to settle into a self-satisfied mode of basking in the awesomeness of a million intricate timekeepers coexisting in an ecosystem of blithe grace and perfect positioning, a question pops up. Having transcended all the pop-up blockers that one naturally activates to insulate such a moment of pristine bliss, one gets the feeling this could be something more important than the usual online pharmacy ads which adorn the web.

And thus, one opens that neuron envelope, and finds this written on the note inside:
"If all these timekeepers are keeping count of something in such a glorious arrangement, what could that be?"

"Huh..", one sighs, and looks around, searching for who could have dropped such a simple yet menacing little question on one's doorstep.

And then, the old adage returns to one's consciousness:
"Laya pita, Shruti mata."
(Rhythm forms the father, notes, the mother.)

And then, all of one's discoveries covered thus far, seem to shine in a new light, revealing their beauty even further, while at the same time exposing a distinct hollowness latent till now. However, it is not that the hollowness renders anything less magical, au contraire, the sight reveals something immaculately beautiful, filling the hollow channels.
And that fluid embodiment of grace, of vision, of unburdened expression; that dynamically stationary mass of unfathomable wonder; that convergence of light, sorrow, joy, melancholia, together in one gamut; that, is shruti, the mother, the creator of all life, and all that makes it worth living.

For a universe of timekeepers to serve, in a common harmony, together in an undying devotion and respect, one always knew the answer to the question would be one that went beyond all boundaries of current purpose, logic and comprehension. And one is glad to see that guesstimate come true, and so much more.

To those countless little timekeepers, dancing in a cosmic sense of harmony;
And to that which rules over all of them, in a manner of benign, untouchable regality; mighty and powerful on one hand, yet dainty and graceful on the other;
And finally, to That which put the two ends together, to plant the seed of life,
countless respects, a thousand salutations, and my one, true self.

Sigh...

PS: Explaining this concept to a fellow intern at work today... :)

Tina tina. Dina dina.

Slept at 5.
Awoke at 630.
Slept.
Awoke at 1030.
Got acquainted with bai.
Ordered some food.
Ate.
Started to study.
Watched KKR fight.
Slept at 530.
Awoke at 1030.
Realized my laundry was left with the press guys.
Tried calling a friend.
Dinner at 11.
Walk began 1145.
One song done - call to B'lore.
Thass, hawas, ras and the likes - true pille material.
Call done at 1.
3 odd songs to go, of which, one formed the title above.

'The Who' rocks.
Good stuff beckons.

This isn't as bad as I had initially estimated.

I'm alive,
in one piece,
listening to/watching good stuff,
not wasted,
not scheming plots for destruction.

Forever at His feet.
H.F.T.
Amen.

"Yer blues" - 1

I am Sampat.
I live the simple life, here in Pune.
I work at a boiler factory down in the industrial area. My bus picks me up from Kaltaakh Junction, 10 minutes from my place. I reside with my family, a wife and a 9 year old son, Prakash. He studies at the local government school right next door, while my wife works in the public library near the Municipality office.


I have a bike, which I bought last June. I like to take my family on rides on Sundays, sometimes to the district park, and at times even to the new restaurant that has opened downtown. While Prakash loves the park, he also likes doing his bit with the books, always in the top 3 of his class.
It is he who wakes me up every morning, as I drop him to school. That is not to say that he can't go on his own, but its more of an old tradition neither of us feels like parting with just yet.


My wife is the daughter of my father’s cousin. Apparently we were betrothed even when I was as old as my son is today. I first saw her a week before the wedding, during the last minute shopping trips that were thrust on me. She was in the next shop, along with her coterie, selecting bangles for the ‘sangeet’. While I was going through the motions of selecting a Sherwani, as my uncles and aunts ooh-ed and aah-ed, I couldn’t help but notice her voice commenting on every set that passed her discerning eyes. She disapproved, enamoured, and scolded, all with equal measure. I found her intense involvement in what seemed little more than a forced formality, to be rather unsettling.

Anyhow, I didn’t let that affect me, or I couldn’t, as soon my folks noticed my wandering attentions, and started the tirade of mind numbing, tease rhetoric. While some part of me wished for them all to just shut up and leave, part of the whole experience was rather enjoyable as well.

For instance, the budding romance between Kanika mausi and the mehndiwala was scandalous and fascinating at the same time. Though I only got my updates from in-the-air hearsay, I couldn’t help but play different simulation scenarios in my head, of what were to happen in case things went either of many ways between them.
Also, my fondness for my younger cousins had never faded, in part thanks to their regular visits to the home place. This meant that my last vacations as a bachelor went on nicely, as childhood memories kept flying back, as also did a slight chill, whenever the notion of approaching grown-up-ness repeated its dreary dance in front of my eyes.

Anyhow, the 23 year old Sampat was too caught up in fantasizing about realizing fantasies brewing over a decade. And with that hunger and thirst, I entered what has without doubt been the darkest phase of my life.

--

The weight of the 7 rounds around the sacred fire, along with a blinding faith in love, and the ideals of family living, kept the growing discontent under wraps for a good year and half.

Then, when the first signs of serious tension arose, we didn’t talk for a week. She had just completed her graduation via correspondence, and had asked not to be treated like an ‘invalid’ any further. I obviously took offence, not realizing the intricate complexities that come with an invisible power struggle, fuelled by what is no less than an eternity of social oppression.

That week ended with a rather frightful confrontation, wherein half the neighbourhood got to know our names better, along with the many colourful others we used to refer to each other, and our families. However, by the time we were done shouting, the heat of the moment caught us both unawares, and before we even realized anything, Prakash had been conceived, even as the dinner burnt on the stove.

Soon enough, we realized what had happened.

And we decided to come together in the love that our little light would bring to our lives. Both of us learnt to de-escalate situations before they reached precarious levels, and soon enough we reached a situation where we would alternate between moments of true joy, and phases of stoic silence.

During the days that led to the birth of our child, I knew I hadn’t felt this in love with my wife ever. And as luck would have it, I never did again.

Then, it happened. In our home there entered another soul, another star, another life, buoyant and bubbling with a radiance that neither of us had experienced before. It was simple awesome, the way we felt blessed, and united in his love. It was a wonderful time, when one couldn’t help but forget the trivial hassles of daily life, in a never ending veneration of life, in its purest form.

And sure enough, Prakash remains the source of light today as well. Be it his innocent questions on life and the world around him, or the simplicity resplendent in his nascent strains of logic; everything about him is a breath of fresh air, in a world fast getting darker and hazier by the day.
But things are still in unrest.
There is only so much that Prakash’s unknowing, unassuming shoulders can hold. For often enough there come times when all seems ill and bleak. My relations with my wife have never been this passive. For communication, all that we share is daily small talk, with little or no substance. In fact, over these last few weeks, even Prakash feels irked by the observed contrast in our conduct towards each other. Poor kid, how is one to explain to him the maze that we have all lost ourselves in.
To make matters even more entangled, his coming has all but rendered our existences devoid of any personal character. While that helps in some of the darker moments of self torment, through its potent potion of faith, love and giving, at others, that very fact leaves one gasping for breath.

Today, as I walk back home, I stare into my emptiness, and look for the many wonders that had graced my path all those years back. Where did I lose them?
Poor little Prakash has only added some much needed grace into an existence doomed to oblivion. But even that seems unable to inspire any form of hope, beyond what appears to be a path seemingly stitched to my existence, inescapably and inevitably so. It is now that I realize, more than the fights, the tensions, and the blues of it all, it is the helplessness that cuts deepest.

Even though those fleeting moments of light, pristine joy do come visiting every now and then, for instance when my son awakens me with his sweet, longing voice every morning; and when I listen to an artiste rendering a piece that touches the very fabric of my existence, I sense this growing sense of futility all around me.
Bhairavi, Yaman, Jaijaiwanti, why have you deserted me?
My playmates at my uncle, the renowned Dr. Satya Narayan Gokhale’s place, these, and other muses had courted me often in my early childhood. While I would always enjoy their company, the great post-independence-middle-class leanings and my own callousness meant my uncle saw me fade away in his mind map of a potential successor.

I had then flirted with painting as well, as a convenient means of arousing the interest of the opposite sex. Even in the midst of the in-my-face ulterior nature of my pursuit of the art, I would get these moments of surprisingly meaningful joy.

All of that, I had relinquished, out of my own free will no doubt, one fine afternoon, a week after I had heard the voice of my son’s mother for the first time. Why? I don’t quite have an answer to that. The rush of daily life, the highs of the flesh, the newness of working, and earning, growing money; money, to splurge, on the little pleasantries of life. How was I to notice the slowly tiring muses, persistent unrelentingly till then, fade away one by one? Why didn’t I ever slow down, and take a look at my slowly decaying self; lavishing in a life of mediocrity, making love to an acceptance of destiny, conceited reconciliation, and downright inertia.

I love my son, beyond what words can describe.
I have grown to accept my wife, for the sake of our son, if nothing else. The fact that we were never really meant to be one, seems to have been mutually accepted, in a screaming, maddening silence. Things have in fact improved marginally since this realization dawned. We now share a stunted form of love, more a mutual sense of pathos, at how we have come together in a cosmic tragedy, and how our sense of happiness has perhaps been impaired for life. For now at least, peace exists.
I have never forgiven myself for wasting away all the gifts I had got. Perhaps things would have been different had they stayed on; had I been more active in shaping our mutual existence, rather than waiting for milestones to come and go; had I hung on to the light that I had come with.

I can only hope for a better life for Prakash.

But for now, as I reach to ring the bell, and start another cycle of domestic life, this is all that comes to mind.

Prakash, I love you, and I always will.

An equal madness

This was prompted by a question I posed to a friend yesterday. While it was rooted in the normal random thass we indulge in daily, the levels it has managed to take me across, is, well simply put, awe-some.

“What is the motive behind any form of artistic expression?”

And the answer, that I have found, bounded by the limitations of rational logic and experience that plague me, is as follows:

--

What runs through our veins, as thinking, intelligent human persons, is a continuous stream of colourless, unthinking, ethereal madness.
We are, by creation, ‘not-sane’.

What we appear to be during our daily interactions and motions, is at best a leashed, chained shadow of our true selves. And no matter how many layers of civilization, evolution and perfunctorization we hide our selves under; the underlying truth of our identities has a knack of always rising and opening our eyes to previously uncharted domains.

Further, the fleeting nature of this true, unaffected, honest life, means we are eternally living an existence of uneasy, self-imposed compromise. What Thoreau described as a life of “quiet desperation”, fits in snugly here as well. It is an invisible, sublime, and indeed, a pure form of elemental desperation one experiences at all points in time, which chooses to keep itself comfortably concealed mostly, only to reveal itself at the hours one perceives to be the darkest of one’s existence.

Artistes, have a language to speak in.
The choice of words is deliberate, and stands clarified as follows.
What purpose does a language serve, if one remains handicapped to connect with one’s own true self through it?
An artiste is one, who can interact with his very fabric, (and through it, perhaps with Him as well), through his language.
Thus, one observes, that the definition of the term ‘artiste’ somewhat paradoxically expands in a manner that could potentially include all of humanity in its fold, while simultaneously narrowing itself down by the added qualifier of self-conversation.

The point I am driving to, through this amazingly meandering little path, is thus, the underlying motive of any form of artistic expression, is to live a moment of the madness that one is born with; to escape from the educated rules propounded by civilization and society; to find one’s own self among the millions of shadows that cloud our very consciousness.

One may look at the entire argument from the reverse angle, and deduce that anything which allows one to free one’s mind; to lose one’s time variant image of the self; indeed, to indulge in some of the forbidden madness that lies hidden deep within our cores, is thus artistic.

While this may seem appealing and interesting at first, as images of Mozart losing himself in Don Giovanni; of Newton letting go of the world in his brand of Mathematical Physics; of an aging ascetic smiling up at the heavens in spite (or perhaps because!) of the sores all over his body, come to mind.

For the sake of self criticism, I shall quote instances of madness that might not quite seem as artistic: Hitler and his holocaust, the protagonist in ‘A Clockwork Orange’, Jack the Ripper, and many, many more.
On instances such as these, I believe, that if, the activities indulged in by the persons respectively, did indeed bring them face to face with their latent selves; if they did experience that lightness of being that comes with drinking in the madness, then yes, for their socially distorted selves, their trade, was their art; their channel to all truth, madness, bliss.

This point in time is as ripe as ever, to clarify on one minor point.
Genocide, rape and murder are crimes against humanity, no doubt. But the unthinking, essential madness in us, need not know that.
In fact, what might seem revolting in the case of Hitler, seems heroic when it appears in Newton; for it was after all a common, colourless, unbiased trait of pure madness that propelled both to drive on relentlessly, to heights previously unheard of, albeit in different directions.

As (nearly) rational humans, one would expect us to be able to differentiate between the essential force behind diverse actions ion one hand, and the variance of direction between them, on the other. Thus, what drove Hitler and Newton, and any other sage/musician/psychopath/saint/hero/legend, must boil down to one, common madness.

We’re all born the same.
What we choose to do with our most prized endowment, our madness, defines what we become.

All forms of ‘artistic expression’, are thus, simple desperate attempts at reaching closer to that which is truly us; an undying, unaffected, immovable, and essentially equal, madness.

--

Good day at work this was!

Solitary Confinement

On one hand this is the field for many a groundbreaking experiments on the self.
And on the other, the very thought seems to push one down a place, where distant music and memories of yesterday's feel are all the light one finds.

I'm not sure which way this one is headed.
We shall of course find out with time.
Till then, chew on this...

--

Har mulaaqat ka anjaam, judaai kyun hai?
Is tabeeyat, par har waqt, parchhayi kyun hai?
Agar na ho manzoor, toh na karo adaalat,
Magar dil ko bata jao, ye zaroorat kyun hai..

Through the darkness of the hollowing sides,
One sees many a fleeting glimpses,
Of a tomorrow untold, ready to unfurl,
Yet a thousand desires escape one's weary clutches,
As the darkened sky bemoans a day gone past,
Gone past, without a breath of life in the air,
Without that which lends all there is, to everything else.
Eternities pass one by, with little more than a sigh.

Immense highs punctuate one's lowly paths,
Yet unable to lift a gaining load,
What is one to do when the self plays to elude,
My dear, how far I am from you!

Is raat mein daraar aane na do,
Kal ki seher, par aanch aane na do,
Magar is hakeeqat se waakif kara dalo tum,
Aage ab aur, rulaane na do.

"The farther one travels
The less one knows"

"With our love,
With our love,
We could save the world,
If they only knew..."

. . .

This is...

The phrase forming the title shall reach its destined conclusion at a later point in the post.
This is my first attempt at breaking the "early to bed" shackles imposed by my internship. Too long its been since I indulged in some reckless insomnia, loaded with the goods at Nokia 5300.

Thus, here we are...

--

Through the haze in my head, worked up over several rounds around my new abode with this piece in place, I see glimpses of an epic; an epic struggle, a glorious rising, and an end that refuses to reveal its outcome.
Intrigued, I proceed to mine deeper. Wish me luck, and hold on tight...

A tired, dejected looking man walks around a barren field. Looking around one can see the look if anguish in his eyes, almost as if he were walking through the remains of a battlefield.
Why, he is. It appears the land on which he treads, is his own being. He finds himself gathering his own remains, after having been defeated in a long drawn battle.
But who was the adversary, who put our unassuming little protagonist on such a path of gloom?
'Circumstance' comes first to mind, but seems too convenient and concocted. It appears something more direct, animate, and downright real has overtaken the poor man. And with every passing second, the sense of loss seems to seep in deeper, and even mock him.
But just as you proceed to write him off as another one of those to blur into oblivion, he rises, and sings a song of praise. Short, sweet, but potent with many things intangible, but strongly perceptible. Puzzled, one asks him just what he had seen that prompted such a response. He smiles, looks around again, and then lies down on the ground, as if trying to hug the infiniteness of the earth.
One probes him further but to no avail.

Curiosity stirred, one is unable to leave him in his state. So one stays on, and watches as the clouds take their position near the sun, to form a kaleidoscope in 6 colours. Still wondering, one looks at the clouds, one's own hands, and the man still on the ground.
Suddenly, as the first drop falls to the ground, everything begins to makes sense. The very next instant, the man looks up at you, with just the faintest of knowing smiles. You, confused, shaken (just a little bit!) are fast to realize how you are part of a much larger scheme, one that is revealing itself slowly, but is as yet thoroughly incomprehensible.

The man gets up slowly, and you run up to him, inquiring about his condition.
He looks at you and says:
"In you I love.. You.. are the one.."
You stutter backwards, and watch the man smile, before he coughs and stumbles. You rush to hold him before he falls, and give him a hug. With that, he dies in your arms.

Finally, everything reveals itself.
You now know the truth for what it is, and always was to be. Tears well out your eyes when you realize just who it is lying in your arms.

You recall Nicodemus, and and the hymn he had been taught.
You feel wretched, and then infinitely blessed and loved the very next instant. And the latter stays on.

Then just as you look upwards at the heavens pouring down, you remember the promise that the man had made long back. And in the next 3 blinks of your eye, pass 3 days, 3 lives, 3 eternities, and the Son of Man rises in front of you.
All you can do is smile, cry, go insane, see the light, and then lie at his feet.

.

Epilogue:
Yes, you were the merciless perpetrator of a countless misgivings; you were the harbinger of the drought that plagued the man and his land. When the clouds came together, he knew you knew your true identity, or at least thought you did. You then were the one who redeemed him, and the cause to which he had given himself up. You were all that he had lived, and was now dying for. You realize this only after his collapse, and the opening up of the heavens.
In endless gratitude and love, you become one with him, in 3 blinks.

This is Khajuraho.

.

Epi-epilogue:
(For those still clueless)
The man died for you, but only after you redeemed him in his hour of doubt.
Upon his death, you realized the very meaning of love. And you rose with him, on the count of 3.
All of this was read out, in the span of those glorious 8 minutes 27 seconds.

.

For the uninitiated:
(Search for 'Khajuraho' here and listen/download).

"Hai Na" at the hospital...

This relates to my visit to a prominent Gurgaon hospital, a little over a week back.
Inspired Fiction -- Attempt 2.0.

--

I'm Palan.
Born a Tam, to parents settling in Delhi, in a clinic run by a doctor from modern day Pakistan, under a Sun that knows no difference between any of the above, I am all of 57 today. Working with a laid back MNC (yes, such hybrids do exist!), I'm generally chilling (if thats still the 'in' word today!)

But today's day is just a wee bit different.
I feel a strange way today, as if the roof has been torn from over my head today. It feels as if a wind that had been blowing for some time, till now invisible and very benign, had suddenly gained in strength, and managed to blow away the little polka dotted umbrella from my hand; as if my favourite TV show from Sunday mornings had just been pulled off air, and been replaced by a 'J'-serial; as if, the hand that had been holding my bicycle behind me just let go, and I, who had been floating on for the last countless years, just came crashing down, on an ever narrowing grey road that led to a dark void.
Today, my father died.

While I realize such an event should bring back memories from all the days past, from nappy changes, to first step videos, to "first day at school" blues, to "my daddy strongest" days, to "angry-young-man" days and related rebellions, to leaving home for college, to returning and still taking everyone for granted, to going off to work, and then never looking back, unless forced to by circumstance.

Yes, I see that wily old friend 'Circumstance' smile at me from the distance, just getting out of the Reaper's bed. Guess they were all in it from the beginning. And perhaps I was there in it with them, all along.

Anyhow...
As I had said, all of the above should have been brought flooding back to my consciousness, at this dark hour. However, overriding all of this, is the following, surprisingly clear memory...

It must've been some 35 years back, with my first ever internship just about to begin.
While I sat there, waiting for my turn with the eye specialist, I looked around the waiting room. Nicely done up it was, with seating space for 10 odd people, and nice arty stuff on the walls, to soothen one's senses, or to add more pseude value to the establishment, or both... one will never know.
Anyways, as I sat there, suddenly there came in a man some 5 years senior to me, wearing highly soled sneakers, and a casual tee and jeans. He rushed and sat next to a lady, probably in her late 50's, sitting in the row opposite mine. He grasped her hand, and slowly started to speak.

[Guy: G, Lady: L]

G: Ma.. They're done with the tests on Papa..
L: Haan...?
G: The doctor says that the signs are fine, just that..
L: Just that?
G: One more test result remains. If that is negative, then Papa should be safe...
L: Ohhh.. But Papa doesnt't even have sugar.. He should be fine.. Hai na..?
G: Hmmm.. Wahi.. Now lets see.. Hopefully there won't be a problem..
L: But you see na.. He doesn't even have BP.. Then how can anything be wrong? Hai na??
G: Hmmm..
L: Ab we'll jst wait for that one result.. And then Papa should be fine.. Hai na..
G: Hmm..
L: Hmm.. The test has to be negative. He just cannot be that sick..

The lady then went on to have similar conversations with 2 more people who came in then.. They seemed to be her daughter and son-in-law.

Now even though I only observed her for 8 minutes, her controlled words, fidgeting hands, and nervous glances everywhere were screaming out at all who cared to listen.

Never before had I witnessed this scene; one of potentially impending departure. There is one grief at having lost someone, but the sentiment is hugely different in colour, when you don't know what is to follow; when you don't know whether tomorrow you'll still have someone to fall back on; indeed, whether or not the dilapidated roof on your head will survive the stormy night.

For in her eyes, one could see that plainting longing for any word of reassurance; that look of despair that finds its way out in spite of one's best efforts to suppress it.
In her son I could see that growing helplessness, clasping the hand of his mother slowly nearing breakdown; that mind tearing dissonance, of having to deal with the cold news from the doctor, and also interface with his direly desperate mother.

That entire universe, in which there existed little more than those people at that moment, seemed climactically pregnant, with an imminent sense of dark, potent despair; the variant that can plunge a waning soul into the depths of blinding melancholia.

However, just as my mind was starting to look at the obituaries, there arose one, faint ray of light. And it wasn't from any burning embers.
It was indeed from that simple, unassuming, unrelenting, and eternally unyielding "Hai Na"; it was the sole anchor that could keep one from drifting away, while in this bottomless ocean of maya and the likes; it was that ethereal, untouchable, and pristine muse, called 'Hope'.

For without hope, one is already dead to all that lies, and more importantly, could lie in the future.

And thus, their universe, and all its darkness, seemed to me to open its eyes, slowly, to a gentle, caressing light. At least it seemed to be where they were headed, or perhaps where I wished for them to be.

While I don't know how things turned out for them, I know in my universe was born a tiny star.

Yesterday, that same star had helped me look at myself in the mirror, after all the dirt I had picked up over the years; after all the calls I hadn't answered back, and all the home visits I had postponed.

And today, in spite of all the wretchedness circling me like a colony of vultures, I know there is still some way left, by which I may atone myself. And while all may be dark right now, a path will come about, if not today, then tomorrow, else in another life.
That is what the star whispered in my ear, as I kept the receiver down, from that fateful call all of 34 minutes back.

Hope.
Believe in it I must, or perish a million times,
For the path is long and winding,
And above me hang a thousand deathly chimes,
But there is out there somewhere, a path, awaiting its finding.

--

"I'll be back"

Soon!

Yes, I miss you already too! :)

Overwritings in the Diary

This is based on what was narrated to me during a delightfully arbit chat-up some days back, in a comfortable corner at a McD, in turn located in the kilometre long mall.
Inspired fiction, or whatever fits..

(With Batra's permission, this could perhaps become a sidey add-on to the fasinating saga here :-)

--

I am Naman.
While you may know me from my days in the valleys of Ugar, I did infact spend a good 45 months in Delhi, during the glorious twilight years of my schooling.

I was sent to Mathur International School, one of the posh new ones in South West Delhi. And unlike today, the word "International" stood for some thing. The place boasted of an optimal teacher to student ratio, as also a tremendously jargonic concoction, which went by the name of "Culturally Receptive Attitude Procreation", or CRAP, in short.
While this feature boiled down to bird-watching at the kids from the various diplomatic missions et al, it was nevertheless a big "CV Point" for our institution at the time.

Anyhoo, the little incident I intend to tell you about today, is regarding Manorama, and her little blue diary.
Manorama, or Manu as she was referred to by those close to her, was the average bubbly, cheerful, idealistic, enthusiastic child of the 90's. Into her 15th year when our paths crossed, our mutual admiration for entities as diverse as Coldplay, Dagar Sahab and Manchester United meant we clicked instantly. And thus, soon enough I learnt more and more about this wonderful person, unfathomable in the depth of her thought, and irrepressible in the power behind her dreams. An IAS she wanted to become, and the signs were encouraging, to say the least. Anything she touched, would accept her as an apt pupil, and shower on her the choicest blessings. Thus one year into our friendship, I was astounded, when one fine day I realized she was into her 11th year learning Odissi; had unprecedentedly been promoted to School Magazine Editor, a year in advance; and, had taken up Economics as a 6th subject (while most of us grappled with the minimum requirement of 5), just because it caught her fancy after she stumbled across some book by Samuelson-Nordhaus.

Thus, she was the undisputed object of a multitude of emotions - affection to many, envy to some, pride to the teachers, and the likes. To me, she was just the iconic, unassuming, and incredibly humble embodiment of grace, courage and character. The accolades she collected at will didn't seem to come between our uncaring, blissfully light friendship. And for that, I knew she was more than 'just a friend'.

Then, one day she disappeared.
If not turning up to class wasn't bad enough, the countless calls to her place all went unanswered. With mobile phones still a few years away, this meant I, and the pretty much rest of the world was out in the dark on what grave mystery had swallowed our beautiful little butterfly.

Then, one cold winter morning, exactly 8 days since her disappearance, she returned.
But the bright hues previously resplendent on her wings had now faded; her smile no longer reflected her heart; and most of all, she was quiet like never before.
Soon enough, our entire ecosystem learnt from various sources, that Manu's mother had died in a bus accident. She had broken this to me the evening of her return, while walking back home. While I was left dumbstruck, I soon realized I had to stand by her, in this dark, dark hour.

However, such are such times, that the harder one tries to be of service, the farther one gets from it. Soon enough, I realized this, and backed off, minimizing my contributions to the bare minimum she asked for.

In retrospect, perhaps the single most important gesture came from our class teacher, Mrs. Prakash. In her early fifties, mother to two, she had lost her husband in the Kandahar hijack episode. To her eyes, we were all her children, and I mean that not in the cliched sense of the phrase. She lived by those words, and truly cared for every single one of us, irrespective of whether a student studied, played soccer, or smoked in his/her free time.

She gave Manu, a little blue diary, that would change her life forever, and then, years later, lead to this blog post.

As the eldest in the house, the onus of "making the house a home" fell on her tender shoulders, as did other domestic duties. Thus, the exquisite little muse that had been, soon found its wings getting clipped, bit by bit.
In this trying phase, when all else was leaving her side, and her role at home growing ever heavier, the diary gave her a confidante that transcended human barriers; it gave her, Anu, her pen friend that she would write to every night, in the safe recesses of that little blue diary.

I gauged the exact nature of her relationship with Anu only years later, when I chanced on her by-then-starting-to-wear-out diary, during a trip to Delhi for a family wedding.
For it was then that I saw Anu for what she truly was.
Contrary to my lofty expectations of an Anne Frank-esque soulmate and girl-friend, what I found was a barely animate punching bag, an endlessly blotting tissue, and in some ways, a soul mate that had given oneself up to one's other half, allowing oneself to be consumed in her unrelenting fire of pain.

For unlike what is the usual perception of a diary entry, written in an orderly/unorderly manner, in sequence/out of sequence, tidily/untidily, but finally, written so as to be able to recall at a later date; written, finally, to document one's thoughts, feelings and experiences, this little blue diary, had been different.

Each day's entry, was an unintelligible mess of overwritten text, sometimes twice over, and at other times over 6-7 times. While she had maintained each day's entry to the limited space allotted to it, she had made sure every single bit of information in her head found expression in those pages, rather, every single colour of every single emotion found its vent in that mortal canvas.

Thus, while a diary is generally a luxurious hobby facilitating the documentation of experiences and emotions that matter, to Manu, it was a bare bones necessity. To her, it was the one person who could withstand all the potent sorrow fermenting within her; it was that bottomless pit, where she could dump all the misery that life threw at her; it was the welcoming arms of emptiness, which would accept the remains of her deceased ambitions and dreams; it was the one companion, that truly understood, never questioned, and always offered its services without lending an air of heaviness.

It was that frenetic overwriting that formed part of her internal support system, that made that unassuming blue diary an embodiment of the most powerful of human emotions, and that led me to write about it.

The ways and means of human expression, and its infinitely hued facets, never, never cease to amaze.

Manu, God bless..

Almost back...

I am, from the minor eye surgery I had.
Can't wait to return in earnest, what with a 'thousand desires such as these' teasing my very being...:
1. Sad at CP
2. 'Hai Na' and essential human-ness
3. Overwritings in the diary
4. Rafa, you little...

Cheers duniya! :)

With reference to 'F!'

This was a small point which struck me as being pertinent enough to be mentioned along with a link to the original post.

Going about an average day running errands, going through medical pit stops et al, one was surprised to find another example of that which leads one to abuse (as per the post linked to above).
As stated then, society has this propensity of lending free layers of mind numbing perfunctoriness and "meaning-corrosive value addition", to anything which becomes relevant and available in the open. Though this statement is aimed more at language for now, it may be seen that it holds for many, many things.

Thus, for something to remain pure, it must, it seems, escape the limelight of social attention; perhaps even be condemned by society itself.
And here is where the connect struck!
Recalling this amazing novel that one unfortunately had to leave mid-way through, they came flying back, the views of the protagonist:
She observed during her initial days at a mental institution, that it was there, that people were truly free to do as they pleased. Unburdened and outside the circle of judgements and the ilk, several inmates actually stayed on even after having been 'cured', just to enjoy the freedoms bestowed upon them, by a society that had all but turned its back on them.

A sordid kind of convenience it was.

But that is where the linkage lies.
To be allowed to be free, one needed to be an outcaste, a pariah.
If that be the case with humans, then why not with one of the very tools that build a civilization - language; speech; expression.

How unfortunate for mankind this...

Dev.3 Done!

For those of you not aware of my fetish for this awesome movie, link.

Yesterday was the completion of my personal Dev.D trilogy. And though the impending timelines were stifling in their presence, the movie lost little of its magic.
All the music, all the colour, all the people, and all the life, came rushing on to me, enticing me just like on my first voyage there.

The thirst stands satiated, at least for now. The hope remains that the DVD, whenever it is released, comes with truckloads of extras and insights.

Till then, I bid the muse of Dev.D a warm goodbye, flavoured with the sincerest of gratitude, for all that it did to/for/with me.

May Sirs Kashyap and Trivedi dole out more such masterpieces, sooner, rather than later.

Cheers duniya!

Why we write

This shall attempt to be a reasonably brief expression of an experienced need, which one perceives to be one of countless motivations towards writing.

At the very outset, I shall consider the basic level needs of permanence and safe-keeping for posterity, that writing accomplishes, to be duly considered, folded, packed, and kept safely in that sub-conscious vault which houses other such factors of logic.

This, is where one begins...
Expression forms a major part of our existence. Much of what we do, is directly or indirectly aimed at adequately giving voice to that which boils within us.

Often enough, one reaches a point in the time-space-life continuum, where one knows something of "great significance" is there in one's little head. Said significance may be symptomized by extreme joy, sorrow, anxiety, bliss, melancholia, or any of the other assorted colours.
And often enough, in these situations, one is unable to quite place one's finger on one, or a set of reasons responsible. Even when one may feel comfortably in cognizance of the situation, chances are one is just invoking the lazy gods of convenience, and the slightest of scratches on the surface reveals an amorphous texture laden with confusion.

It is on such occasions, that I feel writing comes as a God-sent.
For when one writes, one is compelled to lend words to that which till now had just been a cloud of 'feel'. Words, one of the cornerstones of language and human intelligence, are inherently dual in nature.
While on one hand, a common standard of words with an agreement on the rules for usage et al, enables communication between two entities. Thus in a way, words indeed were most of what Boyzone had to take your heart away.
However,
Words are also restrictive in their usage. That is,
1. A word can only mean so much, and therefore it also does not mean everything else. Thus while there may be 2 universes within the scope of a word, that amalgamated di-universe does, without a shadow of a doubt, have a definite boundary.
2. If a certain entity/emotion/object has not been encountered often enough (in the open), then it remains an orphan in the language, i.e. with no identifier word attached to father it. Thus, till the time such a term is adopted, one's reliance on words means that certain things shall always fall beyond the realm of the express-ible.

This restrictive nature of words comes in handy in the context of writing, for when one writes to oneself, in one's attempts to remain faithful, one takes care on exactly what is expressed on paper/ on the screen. The fact that boundaries and limitations exist means that one is forced to quantify the previously entangled mass in one's head.
The conversion from thought to the written word, compels one's lethargic self to sit up, and work out just what is, and what isn't. Thus, in spite of the quantization error that invariably creeps in, the haze that had enveloped the mind gradually starts to fade, and one starts to catch glimpses of tha manic, smiling little child jumping around behind the scenes.

With a little bit of fortune, and much effort and concentration, the whole exercise of writing bears fruit, in one getting to know oneself a little better.
The monster that is one's mind stands reasonable tamed, at least for now.

With that, one gets back to whatever Quantum Physics/ Cricket/ Erotica/ Microeconomics/ Prayer one had intended to attend to.

And life walks on.

F!

It began with an innocent question to a senior (The honorable Mr. Manmeet, for those who know him) one bumped into, at the NSIT Alumni Dinner 2 days back. And it hasn't reached a logical conclusion yet, and one knows not if it ever will, for no such signs have emerged yet. However, one attempts at summarizing the progress made thus far, lest the burden of age and the like eat away at the 986 bit registers that reside in one's head.

%%-- Approximately 32.8 hours have lapsed --%%

Ok, returning to this blog post, which ideally should've have received my undivided and complete attention. But... well, you know.. Lets get on already!

Question: "Why does one tend to abuse before anything else, upon receiving any news of great sorrow/joy/relief/ in general, emotion?"

This question of course pertains to those of us who have "graduated" to the level of society wherein we feel 'at-home' enough to fling abuses without the weight that those words could potentially hold. It is indeed ironic, that it is actually, at home, that we feel the least 'at-home' for such matters! :)

Well, the answer that Signor Manmeet was kind enough to reply with, as we ambled along the good old lanes of NSIT, was something to the effect of:
Those (abusive) words are the only ones that still have that purity of intent, unhindered by diplomacy, and other related burdens.

His answer got me laughing first, and then suddenly quiet.
The next 3minutes were spent in an active, spontaneous thrashing-out of the subtleties of that point. It concluded with me attempting to summarize the 4 universes we had just traversed, into one line:
(Reproduced and saved on the handy cellphone, some 15minutes later. Hopefully not much of the data, as volatile as it was, was corrupted in the intervening period..)
In reply to the stated question:
"Because society, with its many conditions for acceptability, does not allow the pure to exist as they are, thus condemning those poor, freedom loving beings, to a life in the damned underground."

I shall of course, elaborate. So you may please close your mouth/ stop laughing :)

The general idea was...
In times of "high emotion" (initially described as ∆(emotion)/∆t being high), one longs to express the core emotion that one experiences in that split second. As one browses through one's vast armoury of words, one notices a slimy layer of "sociability", "diplomacy" and general perfunctoriness covering almost every other item there. Now given that the adrenaline has all but reached its destination, and that precious time (out of the 0.001 second that nature allocates for such outbursts) is getting lost, one gradually realizes the futility of trying to use one of those words pertinent to the occasion, and then wash off the slime. This may be attributed to the inherently limited nature of human speech as a means of accurate expression.
Thus, hopelessly constrained by a vocabulary stifled both by one's own limitations, as well as the countless vials of poison gifted by society, one reaches for that rarely opened bottom drawer, marked 'X', and not without reason.
One glances at one's microcosmic watch, and notices that 50.01% of the time has already lapsed. With an even more enhanced sense of urgency, fuelled by the adrenaline kicking in, as well as some bits of Punctuated Equilibrium, one shouts out the first line of the first page in the first file in that drawer.

And in that action, the said time lapses.
The moment passes.
And life moves on.

Thus, the next time you win the Barclays Premier League, score a stupendous 92 in Math, miss out on distinction by .01%, drop a hammer on your foot, catch an unsuspectingly beautiful sunset while labouring through the chores of the day, and you fling out a random expletive; don't feel bad, it's not your fault.. :)

Disclaimer of Prudence:
This blog post, and the sense detailed therein shall not be available to your boss/teacher/bf/gf/sister/mom/dad/mom-in-law/friendly neighbourhood bully. Thus, it is in the best interests of all concerned, to develop the faculty of using the words that are truly pertinent in each case. This shall of course involve unlearning a good deal of what we've learnt since time immemorial, as a collective consciousness, and detoxifying many of the artifacts that lend tangible meaning to our ideas (yes, words they're called!).

The path is treachorous, but the fruits immaculate.
And its easy to sit back, and let the slime grow, and move the bottom drawer to within arm's length from where one reclines, as one increasingly becomes a spectator to life.

Go on. Do not be afraid.
We'll meet on the other side.

--
Edit - 1: An addendum.