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.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Dragon in the sky
A quiet, lazy afternoon at home, is interrupted by nature's undying and unending hymn of praise;
The song, ever present and ever living, requires only for one to look upwards, and 'see';
In that image shone up high, one reads many colours, and listens to many dreams;
And thus, the song having done its job for now, moves on, to the next tired wanderer in search of a muse.
Sigh...
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
"Grave views on life..."
This is basically a link to complete the essence of this post.
The views that contribute to the title of this post, come to me on those occasional instances of overly extended gloom, clouded mornings overstaying their welcome et al. Further, one may enter this cave fully knowing that the thoughts featured therein are a complex function of all that passes from in front of the resident lion's eyes..
This is in some ways a rant on what I observed as being fed to myself, along with its Uncle 'Logical extension'.
When one is still a child, one learns of the race of ranks, marks and relative performance.
Jumping straight to class XII, one is cajoled into working the extra mile, with the carrot being that this is after all, the "final" time you'll need to exert yourself, after which you can float into the sunset of academic rigour related issues.
Class XII is often associated with Entrance exam pressures as well. And the moment one prepares to encash on the promise mentioned above (The promise, of something no less than freedom!), one is reminded of the critical importance of professional qualifications, with morose references to the exiting market situation et al. And thus one learns that the pot of gold has been shifted to that ideal place, located right next to the huge billboard which screams "Congrats on making it to NSIT/DCE/IIT/AIIMS/PMT et al!".
Once in college, one goes about practising the freedom that one has been recently endowed with. There too, N-1 years (out of the N that form the course duration) afterwards, one is ambushed by that one word that will lend meaning to all aspirations that had led to this place in the first place: Placements.
And thus, one is advised to do one's best to get into a "good" company, along with appropriate emphasis on how much this starting step could influence the growth of one's career opportunities.
Once at work, one realizes the importance of work, perks, networks et al. One sees oneself married 'y' years later; one's peers climbing the ladder way too fast for one's unexpectant eyes.
And the picture must be clear by now.
In those hours that haunt one every now and then, when these "views" come rushing back, one sees the diseased, and twisted hand of inevitability gesture to one, the seeming "end-of-(happy!?)-days". One sees all the world with an eye of suspicion, bordering on paranoia, unwilling to let go of each moment, in the morbid fear of losing it the very next instant.
At another level, this could be the seeds of the perfect "Incentives/Compensation" lecture that every iron-fisted dictator in the world unconsciously wanted to attend!
At another, one could invoke the ancient tool of generalization, and look at the entire cosmos with eyes wide open/shut. Here, one realizes that it is undying hope, coupled with a sense of faith, that makes the entire drive you 'maya-land' (if you will) worth anything at all. Hope, for an end to what today seems an infinite loop with several segmentation faults and the like, and a faith simply in the fact that some meaning must lie concealed beneath all the layers of concrete that have been, and will be.
And then there is yet another plane, which in some wily old backhanded way, could be the deepest depression disguised as a bliss which sends the self soaring higher by the second. (Wait: What if the deepest depressions is infact identical to the bliss of the soaring highs; what if that place of perceived rockbottom-ness, is where the entire spectrum lies traversed, with the 2 ends actually meeting as in a loop, thus rendering the very concept of "extremes" and "ends" null and void; what if, sorrow and bliss are 2 identical twins, same in all respects, from their nature, to their eventual destinies, to even their vital statistics... Then what is it that makes one the preferred vehicle of choice over another, for the journey that we embark on every life, every day, every moment?)
Returning from that deliciously spontaneous aside, and keeping that aside for another post another day, one returns to the seemingly dingy locales where one had encountered the highs soaring to unfathomable heights. Here, one identifies with the essential frivolousness of the perceived existence of any emotion.
To elaborate: the ideal of happiness, remains alive because of the perceived lack of it. Furthermore, as described previously, the target remains ever moving and inherently unattainable by our mortal selves. This remains true for as long as one attempts to attain said target. (The last verse from here comes to mind. Thanks.)
It is thus perhaps the pursuit of any ideal, that itself forms a major part of said ideal. And in accepting the true worth of the pursuit, one perhaps wins half the battle against the world, the elements, the self. Perhaps.
Thus, much to one's pleasant surprise, the grave views that one held from time to time, weren't quite as morose as one had expected after all... (Or weren't they? After all, 'sorrow' and 'joy' were found to form a golden couple of invisible oneness!)
(This comes to mind. Why, I have no clue, and perhaps there's no reason why I should!)
(Wow! Now this ambled along! More logical connects seemed visible here! :-)
I love this game!
The views that contribute to the title of this post, come to me on those occasional instances of overly extended gloom, clouded mornings overstaying their welcome et al. Further, one may enter this cave fully knowing that the thoughts featured therein are a complex function of all that passes from in front of the resident lion's eyes..
This is in some ways a rant on what I observed as being fed to myself, along with its Uncle 'Logical extension'.
When one is still a child, one learns of the race of ranks, marks and relative performance.
Jumping straight to class XII, one is cajoled into working the extra mile, with the carrot being that this is after all, the "final" time you'll need to exert yourself, after which you can float into the sunset of academic rigour related issues.
Class XII is often associated with Entrance exam pressures as well. And the moment one prepares to encash on the promise mentioned above (The promise, of something no less than freedom!), one is reminded of the critical importance of professional qualifications, with morose references to the exiting market situation et al. And thus one learns that the pot of gold has been shifted to that ideal place, located right next to the huge billboard which screams "Congrats on making it to NSIT/DCE/IIT/AIIMS/PMT et al!".
Once in college, one goes about practising the freedom that one has been recently endowed with. There too, N-1 years (out of the N that form the course duration) afterwards, one is ambushed by that one word that will lend meaning to all aspirations that had led to this place in the first place: Placements.
And thus, one is advised to do one's best to get into a "good" company, along with appropriate emphasis on how much this starting step could influence the growth of one's career opportunities.
Once at work, one realizes the importance of work, perks, networks et al. One sees oneself married 'y' years later; one's peers climbing the ladder way too fast for one's unexpectant eyes.
And the picture must be clear by now.
In those hours that haunt one every now and then, when these "views" come rushing back, one sees the diseased, and twisted hand of inevitability gesture to one, the seeming "end-of-(happy!?)-days". One sees all the world with an eye of suspicion, bordering on paranoia, unwilling to let go of each moment, in the morbid fear of losing it the very next instant.
At another level, this could be the seeds of the perfect "Incentives/Compensation" lecture that every iron-fisted dictator in the world unconsciously wanted to attend!
At another, one could invoke the ancient tool of generalization, and look at the entire cosmos with eyes wide open/shut. Here, one realizes that it is undying hope, coupled with a sense of faith, that makes the entire drive you 'maya-land' (if you will) worth anything at all. Hope, for an end to what today seems an infinite loop with several segmentation faults and the like, and a faith simply in the fact that some meaning must lie concealed beneath all the layers of concrete that have been, and will be.
And then there is yet another plane, which in some wily old backhanded way, could be the deepest depression disguised as a bliss which sends the self soaring higher by the second. (Wait: What if the deepest depressions is infact identical to the bliss of the soaring highs; what if that place of perceived rockbottom-ness, is where the entire spectrum lies traversed, with the 2 ends actually meeting as in a loop, thus rendering the very concept of "extremes" and "ends" null and void; what if, sorrow and bliss are 2 identical twins, same in all respects, from their nature, to their eventual destinies, to even their vital statistics... Then what is it that makes one the preferred vehicle of choice over another, for the journey that we embark on every life, every day, every moment?)
Returning from that deliciously spontaneous aside, and keeping that aside for another post another day, one returns to the seemingly dingy locales where one had encountered the highs soaring to unfathomable heights. Here, one identifies with the essential frivolousness of the perceived existence of any emotion.
To elaborate: the ideal of happiness, remains alive because of the perceived lack of it. Furthermore, as described previously, the target remains ever moving and inherently unattainable by our mortal selves. This remains true for as long as one attempts to attain said target. (The last verse from here comes to mind. Thanks.)
It is thus perhaps the pursuit of any ideal, that itself forms a major part of said ideal. And in accepting the true worth of the pursuit, one perhaps wins half the battle against the world, the elements, the self. Perhaps.
Thus, much to one's pleasant surprise, the grave views that one held from time to time, weren't quite as morose as one had expected after all... (Or weren't they? After all, 'sorrow' and 'joy' were found to form a golden couple of invisible oneness!)
(This comes to mind. Why, I have no clue, and perhaps there's no reason why I should!)
(Wow! Now this ambled along! More logical connects seemed visible here! :-)
I love this game!
Monday, March 23, 2009
Dev... Dev D.
First things first.
This post was supposed to be the link to complete the essence of an earlier post here.
However, such is the magic that this movie's encore has on you, that you are driven to near irrepressible ecstasies, and remain content going continuously gaga for hours on end. And not to mention, throw all other issues to the backburner, till this little matter is "out of the way".
And thus, dear blogspot, we meet once again...
Given my great fascination for colours and their potential for rich expression, at a very basic level, the first thing to strike me as exceptional in this work of art, has to be its generous, yet very, very tasteful use of an infinitely many hues. While I maintain that Black & White has its own distinctive feel and flavour (still photos in particular), this is perhaps one movie where the colours make a roaring comeback! :)
Moving beyond what some may discard as trivialties of a toddler's fascination (which, by the way, is truly unfathomable, with potential for elemental intelligence in its most powerful form).
Dev.D is an honest, unhindered, and truly free piece of art (Statuatory Disclaimer: Given my disadvantaged position for determining and commenting on the freedom exercised by Sir Kashyap, the previous statement may be taken as relative to other contemporaries of the day, and subject to the humble, yet strongly worded voice of one's self).
What this movie gives to you is 2.x hours of pure and absolute, life; life, in all its passion, reality, love, morbidity and bondages (as also the lack of them!). Everything is perfect, in its glorious imperfection of incredibly accurate human-ness. Right from the childhood days, to the overt, mad(dening for some it seems!) lust of the opening half an hour, to the common man's (by insanely orchestrated Bollywood fairytale standards) idiosyncrasies that punctuated every facet of the plot.
The drugs and alcohol that play a pivotal role in the entire scheme have been handled deliciously well; Not cheap, not exalted, not impassioned, just similar to a cold, hard stare from an eye that misses no detail.
In another plane, perhaps from another eye that the observer possesses, the treatment meted out to them is comparable to that which a family of royalty lays out for their son returning from a distant battle; flawless, elaborate, and perfect in all respects. One can only watch as the very soul of the invoked high spirits plays itself out, through the clockwork acting, the scintillating cameramanship, and music tailor-made for the roller coaster ride.
As always, music remains one of the key drivers for me to love a movie. And this movie leaves you wanting to run off to Google for "Amit Trivedi", and feast on this little piece.
The music is plain and simply put, perfect.
Doing justice to such a script, that freely juggles between decadence, insanity, contempt, anguish, innocent love flirting with mad lust, and even hope, is quite a task. And one feels exceedingly elated (almost high!) basking in the brilliantly varied offerings of Sir Trivedi. And what one observes during the 2nd viewing is the genius with which he (and the cinematographer et al) gleefully cut between different tracks, so as to continue a previously started piece, whenever the pulse returns to the original feel/colour/pace/intensity/insanity.
Beyond any arcane technicalities of the music and its great potential to inspire awe, one can safely say, that above all else, the music is very alive; very perceptive of the changes that take shape around it; very intelligent, and discreet in its decisions on just when to drop news of the impending bombs; very nicely fitting with the curves of the love child of the script and the acting.
And as if this deranged-ly awesome kaleidoscope were not enough, one is continually pushed to feel for poor old Dev, a strange cocktail of emotions; quite aptly shaded in hues of psychedelia, tinged with a hint of sinking melancholia, and sprinkled gently with some disdain, alternately for him and the self.
To say that the other 2 roles were subsidiary to Dev's, would be harsh, to say the least. Paro, with all her unbridled passion, devotion, love, anger and setting maturity of being, and Chanda with her own domain of tragedy, escape, innocence, "growing up" and love, co-fathered the theme more or less equally with Dev. That such an intricate mutual equation required quality acting goes without saying, and one heaves several sighs of relief on realizing that nothing lets anything down. And one then feels high, observing how endorphins and the like also find use in the time, such is the magic of all that graces the big screen those 171 minutes.
In all, Dev.D remains in one's consciousness, as the single embodiment of nearly all the good that one aspires to observe in cinema, which in turn has become woefully rare in today's times.
For those who can't quite digest an opinion without figures to better quantify everything sundry, the following are my ratings (out of 10):
(Edit-1: The ratings below stand 'rationalized', in light of the author recovering from "the heat of the moment"..)
Story: 8.00
Direction, Screenplay: 9.00
Script: 9.00
Music 9.00
Acting: 8.75
Overall: 9.00
To put things in some form of perspective, as also to give an idea of where I come from on such issues, some more "overall ratings":
Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham - 5.50
Mumbai Meri Jaan - 7.00
Dasvidaniya - 8.00
Requiem for a Dream - 9.25
Wall-E - 8.75
That is that.
My song of praise for Dev.D, the people behind it, and all that it symbolizes, must end here. Messrs Kashyap, Trivedi & Co. - a pleasure, privilege and honour it has been.
"Tauba tera jalwa, tauba tera pyaar..."
The one that started it all! :)
This post was supposed to be the link to complete the essence of an earlier post here.
However, such is the magic that this movie's encore has on you, that you are driven to near irrepressible ecstasies, and remain content going continuously gaga for hours on end. And not to mention, throw all other issues to the backburner, till this little matter is "out of the way".
And thus, dear blogspot, we meet once again...
Given my great fascination for colours and their potential for rich expression, at a very basic level, the first thing to strike me as exceptional in this work of art, has to be its generous, yet very, very tasteful use of an infinitely many hues. While I maintain that Black & White has its own distinctive feel and flavour (still photos in particular), this is perhaps one movie where the colours make a roaring comeback! :)Moving beyond what some may discard as trivialties of a toddler's fascination (which, by the way, is truly unfathomable, with potential for elemental intelligence in its most powerful form).
Dev.D is an honest, unhindered, and truly free piece of art (Statuatory Disclaimer: Given my disadvantaged position for determining and commenting on the freedom exercised by Sir Kashyap, the previous statement may be taken as relative to other contemporaries of the day, and subject to the humble, yet strongly worded voice of one's self).
What this movie gives to you is 2.x hours of pure and absolute, life; life, in all its passion, reality, love, morbidity and bondages (as also the lack of them!). Everything is perfect, in its glorious imperfection of incredibly accurate human-ness. Right from the childhood days, to the overt, mad(dening for some it seems!) lust of the opening half an hour, to the common man's (by insanely orchestrated Bollywood fairytale standards) idiosyncrasies that punctuated every facet of the plot.
The drugs and alcohol that play a pivotal role in the entire scheme have been handled deliciously well; Not cheap, not exalted, not impassioned, just similar to a cold, hard stare from an eye that misses no detail.
In another plane, perhaps from another eye that the observer possesses, the treatment meted out to them is comparable to that which a family of royalty lays out for their son returning from a distant battle; flawless, elaborate, and perfect in all respects. One can only watch as the very soul of the invoked high spirits plays itself out, through the clockwork acting, the scintillating cameramanship, and music tailor-made for the roller coaster ride.
As always, music remains one of the key drivers for me to love a movie. And this movie leaves you wanting to run off to Google for "Amit Trivedi", and feast on this little piece.
The music is plain and simply put, perfect.
Doing justice to such a script, that freely juggles between decadence, insanity, contempt, anguish, innocent love flirting with mad lust, and even hope, is quite a task. And one feels exceedingly elated (almost high!) basking in the brilliantly varied offerings of Sir Trivedi. And what one observes during the 2nd viewing is the genius with which he (and the cinematographer et al) gleefully cut between different tracks, so as to continue a previously started piece, whenever the pulse returns to the original feel/colour/pace/intensity/insanity.
Beyond any arcane technicalities of the music and its great potential to inspire awe, one can safely say, that above all else, the music is very alive; very perceptive of the changes that take shape around it; very intelligent, and discreet in its decisions on just when to drop news of the impending bombs; very nicely fitting with the curves of the love child of the script and the acting.
And as if this deranged-ly awesome kaleidoscope were not enough, one is continually pushed to feel for poor old Dev, a strange cocktail of emotions; quite aptly shaded in hues of psychedelia, tinged with a hint of sinking melancholia, and sprinkled gently with some disdain, alternately for him and the self.
To say that the other 2 roles were subsidiary to Dev's, would be harsh, to say the least. Paro, with all her unbridled passion, devotion, love, anger and setting maturity of being, and Chanda with her own domain of tragedy, escape, innocence, "growing up" and love, co-fathered the theme more or less equally with Dev. That such an intricate mutual equation required quality acting goes without saying, and one heaves several sighs of relief on realizing that nothing lets anything down. And one then feels high, observing how endorphins and the like also find use in the time, such is the magic of all that graces the big screen those 171 minutes.
In all, Dev.D remains in one's consciousness, as the single embodiment of nearly all the good that one aspires to observe in cinema, which in turn has become woefully rare in today's times.
For those who can't quite digest an opinion without figures to better quantify everything sundry, the following are my ratings (out of 10):
(Edit-1: The ratings below stand 'rationalized', in light of the author recovering from "the heat of the moment"..)
Story: 8.00
Direction, Screenplay: 9.00
Script: 9.00
Music 9.00
Acting: 8.75
Overall: 9.00
To put things in some form of perspective, as also to give an idea of where I come from on such issues, some more "overall ratings":
Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham - 5.50
Mumbai Meri Jaan - 7.00
Dasvidaniya - 8.00
Requiem for a Dream - 9.25
Wall-E - 8.75
That is that.
My song of praise for Dev.D, the people behind it, and all that it symbolizes, must end here. Messrs Kashyap, Trivedi & Co. - a pleasure, privilege and honour it has been.
"Tauba tera jalwa, tauba tera pyaar..."The one that started it all! :)
Friday, March 20, 2009
447/2 - Declared
That was the score tonight.
What was perhaps THE most arbit random chat I have had in ages, lasted all of 447 lines and 80 odd minutes. In what can only be described as absolute bullshit, good old SS and I managed to extract SO much!
However, this post doesn't intend to summarize or build upon that conversation; that would be a certain shot between the eyes to whatever little sanity still survives.
Instead, it is just a premature, spontaneous lookback, at what exactly happened behind all the dramatic, lunatic thass, that flew across cyberspace in all its unbridled glory. Naturally then, this post remains open to future edits, perhaps more so than others.
Anyhow.
While this subject tempts me greatly to try and define thass, I reminisce of my several previous instances of having done so (with varying degrees of failture), and prudently decide against it.
I thus, in all earnest, now, begin.
What transpired in those 80 minutes, at a level above that of minor specifics, is rather interesting (not that the specifics weren't, but you get the picture! :-)
When one is entangled in a long jugalbandi, of wit, humour, spontaneous poetry and intense innuendo, there comes a time when one realizes that one is nearing the edge, and precariously at that. Then it becomes similar to those insanely long points one comes across in tennis from time to time, where one can't help but laugh at any and everything, and pray that the opponent blink first!
In such situations, one is no longer in a position to think beyond the primitive instincts of survival and the like. And then, when in such a state of potential vulnerability, not to mention at a stupendously unearthly hour, two young adults dole out (arbit) gem after gem, one cannot help but wonder at that which fuelled this whole fire.
As one sets one's own sanity on fire, bit by bit, in sporadic yet systematic maneouvres, a certain part of one's mind takes a backward step, and just watches. It takes on the role of observer, in our battle with the wits of another equally well endowed individual. What that observer noted down in his black box, prior to his mysterious and spontaneous self-destruction the moment the war ended, is what I am trying to decipher.
From the moment one loses active control of one's senses, what one does, is driven by one's innermost beliefs and understandings (conscious or otherwise). This may also lead one to incorporate certain points, from the deepest recesses of one's existence, that one may have otherwise felt too precious for a forum as trivial as this. While some part of the brain does give a flailing, half fused red signal in warning of the impending confidentialty breach, one can only watch oneself float on, waving towards said light in a manner not unlike those in high spirits.
Thus, every single thought that comes to mind, gets directly translated to words, bypassing the now-grumblingly-temporarily-laid-off Aunt Discretion, and subsequently is shot off the mouth/gtalk. Of course, gtalk does have the advantage of giving a momentary preview of the missiles about to be launched, thus allowing one's senses one final chance for exercising any form of restraint, a luxury absent in the more free, speech. However, irrespective of political correctness and safety even, one can safely conclude that whatever comes out, is the closest one can get to knowing oneself devoid of self and social desirability biases.
Of course, the other extreme measure to realize this ideal, is to find one's banyan tree, and sit, and think. However, that path seems nicely well documented, as also beyond my adequate comprehension (not that this method is crystal clear!), and thus I choose to restrict my journalistic duties to this method, for now.
Thus, if I were to conclude with a reckless generalization:
One catches a faint glimpse of one's true self (and one's real relations with one's surroundings), in times when one loses control over it. Of course, this revelation lends basis to one's perceptions of one's own potential as well - which may be disproved, or exceeded, with equal measure.
Thus a dictator going mad with infinite power, a man fighting a ghetto mob for his life, and even two little kids going insane, having met on gtalk after a long day - they are all equal in how they can reveal what is popularly referred to as 'character'. Of course, the levels of interpretation to be dug into before one can conclude that the character mine has been breached, remains open to debate, discussion and discourse.
Further, practical utility and societal considerations would tend to distort the equality of the above (randomly) mentioned instances, and rank them in order of significance, but that would naturally be just one of several coloured glasses to look at the world with, wouldn't it?
PS: Quoting what I felt was something real that escaped my discretionaries during the mad rush, the insane laughter, and all the colours that come flying by...
PPS: Hmmm... :)
What was perhaps THE most arbit random chat I have had in ages, lasted all of 447 lines and 80 odd minutes. In what can only be described as absolute bull
However, this post doesn't intend to summarize or build upon that conversation; that would be a certain shot between the eyes to whatever little sanity still survives.
Instead, it is just a premature, spontaneous lookback, at what exactly happened behind all the dramatic, lunatic thass, that flew across cyberspace in all its unbridled glory. Naturally then, this post remains open to future edits, perhaps more so than others.
Anyhow.
While this subject tempts me greatly to try and define thass, I reminisce of my several previous instances of having done so (with varying degrees of failture), and prudently decide against it.
I thus, in all earnest, now, begin.
What transpired in those 80 minutes, at a level above that of minor specifics, is rather interesting (not that the specifics weren't, but you get the picture! :-)
When one is entangled in a long jugalbandi, of wit, humour, spontaneous poetry and intense innuendo, there comes a time when one realizes that one is nearing the edge, and precariously at that. Then it becomes similar to those insanely long points one comes across in tennis from time to time, where one can't help but laugh at any and everything, and pray that the opponent blink first!
In such situations, one is no longer in a position to think beyond the primitive instincts of survival and the like. And then, when in such a state of potential vulnerability, not to mention at a stupendously unearthly hour, two young adults dole out (arbit) gem after gem, one cannot help but wonder at that which fuelled this whole fire.
As one sets one's own sanity on fire, bit by bit, in sporadic yet systematic maneouvres, a certain part of one's mind takes a backward step, and just watches. It takes on the role of observer, in our battle with the wits of another equally well endowed individual. What that observer noted down in his black box, prior to his mysterious and spontaneous self-destruction the moment the war ended, is what I am trying to decipher.
From the moment one loses active control of one's senses, what one does, is driven by one's innermost beliefs and understandings (conscious or otherwise). This may also lead one to incorporate certain points, from the deepest recesses of one's existence, that one may have otherwise felt too precious for a forum as trivial as this. While some part of the brain does give a flailing, half fused red signal in warning of the impending confidentialty breach, one can only watch oneself float on, waving towards said light in a manner not unlike those in high spirits.
Thus, every single thought that comes to mind, gets directly translated to words, bypassing the now-grumblingly-temporarily-laid-off Aunt Discretion, and subsequently is shot off the mouth/gtalk. Of course, gtalk does have the advantage of giving a momentary preview of the missiles about to be launched, thus allowing one's senses one final chance for exercising any form of restraint, a luxury absent in the more free, speech. However, irrespective of political correctness and safety even, one can safely conclude that whatever comes out, is the closest one can get to knowing oneself devoid of self and social desirability biases.
Of course, the other extreme measure to realize this ideal, is to find one's banyan tree, and sit, and think. However, that path seems nicely well documented, as also beyond my adequate comprehension (not that this method is crystal clear!), and thus I choose to restrict my journalistic duties to this method, for now.
Thus, if I were to conclude with a reckless generalization:
One catches a faint glimpse of one's true self (and one's real relations with one's surroundings), in times when one loses control over it. Of course, this revelation lends basis to one's perceptions of one's own potential as well - which may be disproved, or exceeded, with equal measure.
Thus a dictator going mad with infinite power, a man fighting a ghetto mob for his life, and even two little kids going insane, having met on gtalk after a long day - they are all equal in how they can reveal what is popularly referred to as 'character'. Of course, the levels of interpretation to be dug into before one can conclude that the character mine has been breached, remains open to debate, discussion and discourse.
Further, practical utility and societal considerations would tend to distort the equality of the above (randomly) mentioned instances, and rank them in order of significance, but that would naturally be just one of several coloured glasses to look at the world with, wouldn't it?
PS: Quoting what I felt was something real that escaped my discretionaries during the mad rush, the insane laughter, and all the colours that come flying by...
"apne mastishq mein chhupe kaksh mein jao, and jhaanko
tumhe har dwar ki kunji wahin padi milegi..."
tumhe har dwar ki kunji wahin padi milegi..."
PPS: Hmmm... :)
Thursday, March 19, 2009
The hand from many days past
It en-gladens the mind and everyone else, when one chances on a sight SO perchance, while in the midst of a moribund party, looking for things to colour the blankness.(No, NO Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, or ANYthing going there! :-)
This'll be a simple elaboration of what the wandering mind thought of the image captured above, so many days back, in a world that seems so distant and yet so distinctly present.
At first glance it seemed to be little more than the inter-dimensional portal wherein the hand meets its shadow, only to find the wall beneath becoming fluid, so as to open the doors to another universe.
Then, one was hit by that which one refers to as the 'Falling feather phenomenon'.
This was first observed on one of my countless walks across the wonderful IIMC campus. Something about the way in which the feather travelled, hit me. Within moments I realized that the root of all the awe was in the mutual journeys that the feather, and its shadow on the street-light lit road took; how both travelled from afar, covering severe obstacles of the unthinking wind and passers-by on one hand, and the many terrestrial objects that litter one's path on the other; how both looked each other in the eye, long before any connections were discovered, not even thinking of what lay ahead; how both felt the need to become one at some point in time, and then spent their every waking moment, scouring the environs so as to attain that the earliest; how both had started out in 2 worlds, and yet how their union was immovably fixed (by definition perhaps!). As in popular parlance today, "it was written".
In fact, the moment their outstretched hands touched on the ground, one could almost hear a distant 'sigh' underneath.
The union between the hand and its rightful partner is rather self-explanatory, in light of the phenomenon described above.
Finally, one last story which hit me this very moment.
The hand is what one is today.
The shadow is that which one becomes tomorrow.
It is as if there are 2 persons standing there, with palms in direct contact; one is the self of today, and the other, that of tomorrow. The interface between them, is the moment of 'now', the only time that we actually live. And our existences are made meaningful, by the stitching together of several such 'now's, each in effect the communion of the self of today, with the self of the morrow. Each such meeting, is the seed for a million possibilities. The present is after all, all that one really has.
Further, one may observe that this instant is where life truly exists, for inspite of all of man's social-ness, are not all his interactions and experiences aimed, finally, at attaining oneness with the self? Borrowing loosely from 'Siddhartha', in this entire cosmos, of several countless alien beings, colours and elements, is it not the self that man is most distant from?
Sigh... Nice it is to find oneself getting still newer insights into things one had considered long understood, long consumed, long dead.
Such is life I'm sure.
On cinema...
This was more pertinent to the other, less active, more neglected blog that I had wanted to keep for more 'real' issues, and thus found its voice there.
For the sake of my fans across the world, who've gotten used to visiting this page for their daily dose of colour, rope, dope - life, here is the link.
This shall be the practice from now on, for topics of the nature mentioned above, till further random changes affect my thinking.
Thus spake the quintessential one.
Muahuahuahua indeed!
For the sake of my fans across the world, who've gotten used to visiting this page for their daily dose of colour, rope, dope - life, here is the link.
This shall be the practice from now on, for topics of the nature mentioned above, till further random changes affect my thinking.
Thus spake the quintessential one.
Muahuahuahua indeed!
Random lyrics from this moment in time, ever present, ever changing, yet ever constant by virtue of its first derivative:
"They call me The Seeker
I've been searching low and high
I won't get to get what I'm after
Till the day I die.."
-- The Who
"They call me The Seeker
I've been searching low and high
I won't get to get what I'm after
Till the day I die.."
-- The Who
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
That which cannot be named...
The post shall follow soon...
For now you may feast on one of the major contributors:
(Part of Edit-2 => find full piece here.)
Edit -1:
Given that the PGP2 farewell is finally done, and so are my exams, and that I'm drunk as a skunk senseless/sleepy, with specs rendered useless from an ill-fated post-party footer challenge, perhaps its best this edit ends right here. Not even Rita ji's miraculous strains can revive the needy self in me, which, having waited several days for its own sunshine, now is threatening to call out a strike. An unheeded call at this stage of deserved attention, could only lead to nine-stitch preventabiliy moralled fables that were once part of our Class V syllabus.
Cheers duniya!
Cya soon! :)
Edit - 2:
Its been tooo long now.
PGP2 farewell done - self recuperated (sort of at least!) - visit to Shantiniketan done - returned home (got 'complimented' for my poetic looks on the way as well!) - went gaga with my nephew - met up with friends - finished 'Siddhartha' - and today met up with N, the bestower of joy, and then heard from S, the perfect creation, after a gap that seemed like a zillion years.
Many last straws have been dealt. Please don't die on me now. I'm here.
- - -
This post came to me first, walking around campus, near the grand audi, a night before the exams (the first of which was none other than the legendary CorpFin!).
It may be traced to that slightly sinking feeling, of the impending departure of the wonderful pi-batchers from the hallowed portals of jokaland. It was an emotion, more like a growing torrent of awe, fast-paced perspective setting in, and above all, a beautiful combination of nostaligia and consciously temporal sorrow.
I don't know exactly what I want to say here, but I guess it would be fitting to describe that which forms the title to this post. As I had scribbled down those n days back (given that writing is more conducive than speaking, at least to me). Or wait, that should perhaps wait till the end. Yes, at the end it will be.
All one's life, one is blessed to come across people, who affect the manner in which one looks at things. And as one grows beyond the familiarities of home and its people, one grows smaller in a world growing at a rate greater than 163 times the speed of sound in vacuum. In such a time, in the midst of all the chaos, one finds one's self grappling with new facts and truths that life lovingly packs in the kaleidoscopic fabric of confusion, illusion, delusion, and the ilk. While all of this contributes to all that makes life beautiful, and indeed worth living, it certainly does leave the self rather tired, withered, and generally, in search of occasional rays of light that may find oneself suitable enough for their grace and presence.
In this world; this time; this epoch of increasing loneliness (different from solitude one may note); this dimension that pushes one deeper and deeper into its dark recesses; here, one learns the true value of man's 'society', and the wonders that were all around all along, waiting for one to take a break from one's own absorptions.
In Jokaland, one was fortunate enough to have come across several such gems. And one pauses, and thinks of the days that have been before that; and the same is found to hold for those long stretches as well. One finds oneself remembering everything: the thass after Spic events, the inane number of CV mentoring sessions, and subsequent drafts thereafter, the many 'Aanandam' moments that punctuated our mutual existences, the first intimation of escape from the dreary clutches of this incredible week; EVERYTHING comes rushing back to one, as one ambles around campus, the night before one's exams.
One is filled with a sense of grave, impending loss, till one's deepest apprehensions are transformed to a collective spring of undying hope and life. This happens, through the strategically positioned role of the perfect one, at the holy hour when:
"OMG! How/when will we ever meet again? :( "
changes to:
"As this beautiful chapter draws to a close, know that we will meet again. :) "
And with that, all of one's fears of losing one's prized treasures to the bottomless ocean of the world, vanish, in a gradual yet powerful display of His grace. One realizes that those who would be stepping out of one's existence tomorrow, would even then remain part of the same elemental ecosystem, and thus potently alive, and inexorably present in their being.
Some things never change, they say. While one does not necessarily fall in this, one is comforted to catch a glimpse of a complex underlying framework, by which changes in the environment, and those in the self tend, perhaps, to mirror each other, if not directly, then at least through the round about manner of negating indifference. For the lay amongst us, the latter is simply the process by which 2 entities change by themselves, in a manner which naturally drifts their meandering paths apart.
And thus, not without a certain degree of faith, in life, in love, and in Him, one sets out to "give his CorpFin exam - organize the PGP2 farewell - recuperate - go off to Shantiniketan - ... - meet up with some of the most amazing people (N, A, S), one had ever met, gifting to them the greatest asset one could be blessed with: one's vellapan..".
Coming now, to that which forms the title to this post, which was the first visible offspring from the revelations that en-lightened many burdened travails lingering within the self; still unnamed, yet clearer in its importance than ever before, in its conscious existence in the back of one's mind...
Further, to quote on the awesome duality of its being, from that which awaits the entire passing out pi-batch:
For now you may feast on one of the major contributors:
Edit -1:
Given that the PGP2 farewell is finally done, and so are my exams, and that I'm drunk as a skunk senseless/sleepy, with specs rendered useless from an ill-fated post-party footer challenge, perhaps its best this edit ends right here. Not even Rita ji's miraculous strains can revive the needy self in me, which, having waited several days for its own sunshine, now is threatening to call out a strike. An unheeded call at this stage of deserved attention, could only lead to nine-stitch preventabiliy moralled fables that were once part of our Class V syllabus.
Cheers duniya!
Cya soon! :)
Edit - 2:
Its been tooo long now.
PGP2 farewell done - self recuperated (sort of at least!) - visit to Shantiniketan done - returned home (got 'complimented' for my poetic looks on the way as well!) - went gaga with my nephew - met up with friends - finished 'Siddhartha' - and today met up with N, the bestower of joy, and then heard from S, the perfect creation, after a gap that seemed like a zillion years.
Many last straws have been dealt. Please don't die on me now. I'm here.
- - -
This post came to me first, walking around campus, near the grand audi, a night before the exams (the first of which was none other than the legendary CorpFin!).
It may be traced to that slightly sinking feeling, of the impending departure of the wonderful pi-batchers from the hallowed portals of jokaland. It was an emotion, more like a growing torrent of awe, fast-paced perspective setting in, and above all, a beautiful combination of nostaligia and consciously temporal sorrow.
I don't know exactly what I want to say here, but I guess it would be fitting to describe that which forms the title to this post. As I had scribbled down those n days back (given that writing is more conducive than speaking, at least to me). Or wait, that should perhaps wait till the end. Yes, at the end it will be.
All one's life, one is blessed to come across people, who affect the manner in which one looks at things. And as one grows beyond the familiarities of home and its people, one grows smaller in a world growing at a rate greater than 163 times the speed of sound in vacuum. In such a time, in the midst of all the chaos, one finds one's self grappling with new facts and truths that life lovingly packs in the kaleidoscopic fabric of confusion, illusion, delusion, and the ilk. While all of this contributes to all that makes life beautiful, and indeed worth living, it certainly does leave the self rather tired, withered, and generally, in search of occasional rays of light that may find oneself suitable enough for their grace and presence.
In this world; this time; this epoch of increasing loneliness (different from solitude one may note); this dimension that pushes one deeper and deeper into its dark recesses; here, one learns the true value of man's 'society', and the wonders that were all around all along, waiting for one to take a break from one's own absorptions.
In Jokaland, one was fortunate enough to have come across several such gems. And one pauses, and thinks of the days that have been before that; and the same is found to hold for those long stretches as well. One finds oneself remembering everything: the thass after Spic events, the inane number of CV mentoring sessions, and subsequent drafts thereafter, the many 'Aanandam' moments that punctuated our mutual existences, the first intimation of escape from the dreary clutches of this incredible week; EVERYTHING comes rushing back to one, as one ambles around campus, the night before one's exams.
One is filled with a sense of grave, impending loss, till one's deepest apprehensions are transformed to a collective spring of undying hope and life. This happens, through the strategically positioned role of the perfect one, at the holy hour when:
"OMG! How/when will we ever meet again? :( "
changes to:
"As this beautiful chapter draws to a close, know that we will meet again. :) "
And with that, all of one's fears of losing one's prized treasures to the bottomless ocean of the world, vanish, in a gradual yet powerful display of His grace. One realizes that those who would be stepping out of one's existence tomorrow, would even then remain part of the same elemental ecosystem, and thus potently alive, and inexorably present in their being.
Some things never change, they say. While one does not necessarily fall in this, one is comforted to catch a glimpse of a complex underlying framework, by which changes in the environment, and those in the self tend, perhaps, to mirror each other, if not directly, then at least through the round about manner of negating indifference. For the lay amongst us, the latter is simply the process by which 2 entities change by themselves, in a manner which naturally drifts their meandering paths apart.
And thus, not without a certain degree of faith, in life, in love, and in Him, one sets out to "give his CorpFin exam - organize the PGP2 farewell - recuperate - go off to Shantiniketan - ... - meet up with some of the most amazing people (N, A, S), one had ever met, gifting to them the greatest asset one could be blessed with: one's vellapan..".
Coming now, to that which forms the title to this post, which was the first visible offspring from the revelations that en-lightened many burdened travails lingering within the self; still unnamed, yet clearer in its importance than ever before, in its conscious existence in the back of one's mind...
There are some things money can buy,
For everything else,
There is that, unnamed,
and gloriously unaffected in its power & might;
Invisible to the unseeing eye,
yet potent even to the stones that mark one's path;
Which reduces the greatest of wordsmiths,
to helpless pedestrians on a dark night;
In which lie a thousand towering questions,
as also the answer to satiate all;
Which cares not for that which surrounds it,
only to find its way through every thorn;
Which fuels the idealists that meander in us,
with no thought for what was and will be;
Which is there always,
Burning bright by the side;
Waiting only for the one,
To open one's eye.
May you find that, and through it,
all that you wish for.
For everything else,
There is that, unnamed,
and gloriously unaffected in its power & might;
Invisible to the unseeing eye,
yet potent even to the stones that mark one's path;
Which reduces the greatest of wordsmiths,
to helpless pedestrians on a dark night;
In which lie a thousand towering questions,
as also the answer to satiate all;
Which cares not for that which surrounds it,
only to find its way through every thorn;
Which fuels the idealists that meander in us,
with no thought for what was and will be;
Which is there always,
Burning bright by the side;
Waiting only for the one,
To open one's eye.
May you find that, and through it,
all that you wish for.
Further, to quote on the awesome duality of its being, from that which awaits the entire passing out pi-batch:
1. The Doors:
"This is the end
Beautiful friend
This is the end
My only friend.."
2. TS Elliot:
"What we call the beginning, is often the end.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from."
Sigh.
Hoping that this was a respectable translation of the flood that broke out upstairs, further made perilously challenging, by the timeless battles against Hypnos and his increasingly powerful forces.
Be happy.
Take care.
God bless.
And shine on, all of you! :)
"This is the end
Beautiful friend
This is the end
My only friend.."
2. TS Elliot:
"What we call the beginning, is often the end.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from."
Sigh.
Hoping that this was a respectable translation of the flood that broke out upstairs, further made perilously challenging, by the timeless battles against Hypnos and his increasingly powerful forces.
Be happy.
Take care.
God bless.
And shine on, all of you! :)
Monday, March 2, 2009
Cosmic smilings in the sky!
It was a silent, innocent walk back from WH. My existence was enhanced by 'Ma Reva' playing in my ears. Each step felt no different than it usually does. I was only as drunk/high/happy/sad/alive as I normally am.And then, as fate would have it, I looked upward. Fortunate not to be hit by any of the bird-love that graces our campus at the twilight hours, I caught a glance of the moon pictured above. At first, it was reminiscent of N, who had described a similar sighting as an endearing smile, long long back (or so it seems at least).
As I continued, a host of everyday objects crossed my line of sight with the smiling moon. The dark tree branches, the orangely hued electric wires, the buildings in the backdrop. And all of a sudden, the smile hit me again. This time though, it forced me to pry beyond the visible. In my attempts to derive some sense from the confusion, it occurred to me that the smile was not that 'of' the moon. Rather, the moon was the smile. But then who was smiling. For want of an adequate term, I called it the cosmos then, smiling down at us, watching through the many shades it wove around our childishly-amazed-mouths-gaped selves. The trees, the lines, the birds, the crap, quite simply our very existences, seemed no more than embellishments on that immaculate face that smiled upon me then.
I had never seen a cuter sight. The clear sky, in all its late evening darkness, with the odd features etched here and there, smiling as one, whole being, in that daintily shaped form, shining bright into the night; a night ever living, ever present, all encompassing, yet paying its respects to the one crescent that shone in its midst; the crescent, that changed shape every day, but tonight was sculpted to perfection, to find its place in a scene so much bigger than itself; a perfect creation indeed, adding life to an existence that could so easily slip into meaningless oblivion; a creation perhaps unaware of how much it has meant to humankind since the dawn of time, perhaps not! The face that smiled... was that of an unnamed and invisible entity, to be described (inevitably inadequately!) in the next post; for now, suffice to say that it was just beautiful, and very, very much at that.
Smile on, you wonderfully, immaculately, gloriously crazy diamond!
Kandisa!
Sigh... So much love!
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These works by Anand Justin Cherian are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-Share Alike 2.5 India License.
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