...simply be his friend.

No Comebacks/ The Night

2012-01-11T12:21:00.000-08:00

As the eyes well up for the second time tonight; as I sit listening to this unassuming little track by Indian Ocean; as, well, the universe proceeds onwards with its continuing existential journey, the night slowly grows, indiscernible to the lay eye. It is not a moment of joy, sorrow, angst or surprise. Nay, it's the fabric used in dreams. The night plays with my longing being, revealing little bits of her mysterious, alluring self. It plays along with a tune known only to her. I don't know how it will end, but know only of the path we've crossed thus far. And such windings have never been cast forth before, as what have been treaded upon these last few existences; for in this short span, I have relived every instance of magic ever encountered thus far, a coming together of all that I have seen, heard and been.

The night, I have realized during this journey, is at the heart of my idea of human life. The day, with all its activity, hustle bustle and streamlined energy, must end in the night, criss-crossing through the straits of twilight. Thus, for all its life and living, the day with its inevitable retreat to darker hinterlands, stands out as the very epitome of mortality. All that begins must come to an end, however grinding, sudden or stretched it may be. The human spirit, though awakening with the Sun, finds itself alone with the setting of the star, for it is not yet prepared to let go of the strings. And it is in that moment of part helplessness part exasperation, that one is greeted by the gods of darkness. At first unfamiliar, and then pleasantly affable, one soon finds oneself sharing with the night spirits a spirit or two of the old Scots.
The night takes one in her unthinking, uncalculating arms, and gifts each thinking eye it's daily dose of immortality. Indeed so, for the night never really ends, and even if it must, it does so with a dignified sense of duty, purpose and meaning. No matter how hopeless the hour, one sits, stares, thinks, wakes and sleeps with the continued anticipation for an extension ad infinitum to the blissful inertia of the night. Nothing is impossible for the night. Man comes out of his envelope, after all the stamping and passing on of the day, to finally reveal oneself to all concerned; not excluding his Creator, Destroyer, and all the elements in between. Perhaps most importantly, he reveals his self to himself, or perhaps his shadow in the all edifying moonlight does the needful. For it is the stillness that lends meaning to the blinding pace of the mortal self; the silence sings songs that bless the artiste with his colours, notes and beats. What is, what isn't, and all that is dreamt, hoped and aspired for, take wings in the infinite expanses of the night.

We welcome the Sun, bid it goodbye, and then welcome the night. Rarely is it that we find ourselves in the distinguished position bidding the never-ending night farewell. Perhaps this adds to the mystique surrounding the little beauty. Further, whenever it is that the night passes on the baton to the still waking day, the overwhelming sense of creation and awakening overarchs and overwhelms all thought. Thus the night never dies, it only makes place for the Sun King to arrive, bringing with him the seed of all life. Sleep and demise remain as muted in their countenance as they had been thus far. And the human spirit prepares for another long trip away from the self, kissed on the cheeks as it gets done with its packing for the journey.

In the night, as one welcomes back the spirit, the song plays again; at times concerted, at times whimsical; at times speaking, at times listening, but alive, breathing at all times! As one breathes in the scent of her flowing tresses, the embrace feels like an eternity. One closes one's eyes unable to contain the myriad creations, disparate yet united, bursting into existence. Time and space reduce themselves to words on paper, like the misconceptions of a senile mind, and I, I find myself alive... at last.

The night shall take me
Where life takes birth and sings
As I sink into my own void
As a wisp of smoke slowly fades.

Doob doob dada dida

2011-11-25T14:19:00.001-08:00

The eyes are now a networked red
Something has died unnoticed within
The rhyme is not of the essence today
The time is past for one to pay

The seed let out a gasp n sigh
Afraid of the starry sky
Away from the light and musk and care
Away from the place it was its own

The times are slow and halting
The hands now tired
Into the blue one shall float
Leading to 'This is the end...'

---

PS: Nov 26
There is the one, in a crowded marketplace of mirrors. And there is only the one, till the time there is none; only a wisp of smoke, blending slowly into the light (aka void to some).

"Hello? One Medium Pepperoni please."

"Tom & Jerry... and Epimethea"

2011-04-27T22:30:00.000-07:00

Long time its been.. and while there's been so much happening dearie my dear, here's a little bit of the something from a few days back...
---
The cat tip toed o'er the line
With grace and light so feline
As if dreamy in a trance
Wont for a little song and dance.

But just as things got dreary dry
There shone a light from the sky
It looked around in silence new
No sound to hear; even a meow.

Its eyes now staring out aloud
Took sight of an opened cloud
Through the peeking curtain tress
Lending to the hanging dress.

In its shades it searched for truth
Like journeys with the Don E. Knuth
Just then a frisky mouse hopped by
The chase began in earnest high.

The dress hung there for ever more
With a thousand suns through the shore
The thought was lost up in the air
As was she, stretching on a chair.

--

PS: Epimetheus.

Melancholic Ecstasy - Redux

2010-10-13T05:03:00.000-07:00

The sun set on my plains several years back. The eyes that once opened me to the light and dark, the high and low, the black and white and blue and yellow and red of everything, and everyone around me; they now stand clouded and shut - muted to a world that seems to be growing more and more vibrant by the day.

I'm not sure when this darkness sprang up from behind me; it couldn't have been too abrupt a transition, even though it seemed just so to the self that had perhaps been too engrossed on the peripherals. I think I noticed this change in my life only a few aeons back, and since then the question of what exactly led to that which led to the sun getting plugged out from my universe has haunted every single particle of my being.

Ever since yesterday however, there has been a change in the air around; the touch of that omnipresent emptiness has changed from one of indifference and cold detachment bordering on hostility, to one that is considerably more gentle, more involved, and quite simply closer to that very intangible yet potent conception of 'life'. It was no wonder then, that the eye albeit still closed, experienced something strongly reminiscent of the times of yore. Detecting such a flurry of activity in its environs, it didn't take the mind too long to stimulate itself into activity at levels that had long seemed extinct. Simulations began to run concurrently in the central imaging repository as part of attempts to guess the specific causal force behind all the excitement. Possibilities ranged from the fluttering wings of a butterfly, to the auralities emanating from a distant cuckoo bird, to a drop of water from the heavens, falling on the parched soul.
The next several hours were spent in this process, wherein logical probes into one's past experiences soon graduated to a complete and vivid recollection and reliving of the myriad colours that had punctuated one's life all those ages back.

And then, in the darkest hour of the night, I became suddenly aware of the flight of fancy that I was in the midst of; I saw the mirage that had been at the root of this whole trip all along; I felt, after what seemed like the entire duration of one's childhood, the very real sense of futility, meaningless and insignificance flowing in me, through me, and in everything all around me. Just for a second, I felt the emptiness spreading deep within me; it was a hollowing out like never before, for it was after all one that followed a ray of seemingly untouchable light, and love.

But just then, I noticed her standing behind me.
She was a muse that the world dared not touch; a beauty that had been among the most forlorn creations under the thousand suns above. Looking upon her, I thought I caught a fleeting upward glance, and then a hesitant backward step, as if suddenly aware of my awareness of her presence; a presence that had been there before we were, before I was, and would remain hereafter onwards and forever, as with all things celestial and pure.

Cognizant now of a soul more practised in the fine art of solitude than the most devout of sages, I knew this long and blinding journey had been for a reason. The elements stood still as did time.
And within the next blink of that cosmic eye, I had made her mine, and she had captured me for all of eternity.

To the world she may be the most sorrowful of embodiments; the companion on journeys always avoided. And I knew the doubts that could arise: of this companionship being an escape, a desperate attempt at clinging on to the last remaining semblance of meaning and purpose. But in that moment, I also knew that none of that mattered.
For to the world she might be the dark and disfiguring melancholia, but to me, in my hands, as I immerse myself in her being, she is my melancholic ecstasy.

Is this real?
But then again, what is?

Night and Day

2010-10-09T22:09:00.000-07:00

How wonderful that night should fall
On a day that still has much to say
Like a mother tucking in her child
Still wont for song & dance & play

The stars up above they shine
Silent actors in the night's tale
And even if the child does whine
It knows its ships are set to sail

These voyages prepare the self
For mornings await the darkest ray
How wonderful that night should fall
On a day that still has much to say

FB and its ilk of whore bazaars

2010-10-05T09:58:00.000-07:00

Pre-Scriptum: Before any daggers come out against this hapless observer and documenter on the title above, please note the following statement made by one of the pillars of one’s batch, back in the neck of the woods one calls one’s own:

“This world is made up of 2 kinds of people; there are those who do, and those who manage – whores and pimps.”

(Respects PP!)

At the level of abstraction defined by the above statement, is where the title resides. Thank you, now you may please disarm and proceed.

This relates to the massively pervasive phenomenon that is FB, and other social networking tools today.

The fundamental question that leads me to this thought train, is just why we do what we do on all such forums. The answer, one must realize, is comprised of several intricate layers, drawing equally from the depths of human insecurities, desires, monies and its ilk.. Indeed a gamut that is yet to be fully discovered, to be fairly objective.

So, what is it that drives us every single day, to log into gtalk, and think of a funny sounding status message; to open facebook and traverse page after page looking for opportunities to comment, participate and involve ourselves in an ocean of hyperactive insignificance?

The following would be my guesses on just what comprises that causal/correlated factor set:

1. The constant need to signal to the outside world, and potential mates in particular, the eligibility of the self for present and future consideration: While this may sound evolutionarily clichéd, this very certainly does seem to be the most obvious of the various reasons and influencing factors. Of course, one could also argue that this angle forms the core motivation behind everything we do, from education to career development, to collecting symbols of material acclaim; it isn’t too convoluted a path that links all of these to the need to procreate, and procreate well. I shall get back to this point in a while, or maybe I won’t; let’s see.

2. The online medium serving as a proxy that facilitates the process of satisfying the innate need for affiliation, and related derivatives such as acceptance and affection: With lives rapidly growing quicker paced than ever before, emotions are vying for space with their fast-food generation cousins. That the needs in man have not changed even in a drastically changed era, means the channels explored in the pursuit of said needs have evolved, with interesting consequences on his relations and interactions with his surroundings.

3. An idea elaborated upon by Ta-Nehisi Coates, and forwarded by Amit Varma, stating the overpowering fear of being left alone with oneself; of facing “the terror of (one’s) own singular thoughts”, as being one of the core motivations to rely on social media. As I write this, I realize this point could manifest itself at two levels:

a) A reluctance to indulge in what one is consciously aware as present in the mind of the self: In this category would come the drudgeries of everyday existence, in the form of short and long term worries and concerns. Thus social media, as the pub and a casual game of football in the olden days, serves to provide a short term escape from these, and in some cases, avenues to stumble upon a solution that would perhaps not have graced one’s senses otherwise.

b) The second level is relatively darker and deeper in shade, and refers to that very invisible, yet infinitely potent fear of one’s own core; darkness and dirt abounding. This fear, one must observe, is much, much harder to escape, and in effect requires one to either face and overcome it, or immerse oneself in a potentially endless sea of makeshift meaning, logic and illusion. This avoidance of reality may be rooted, in turn, in the following:

i. A fear of the unknown, in that one is terrified of realizing, and living with the fact that much of what happens in even one’s immediate vicinity is beyond the mortal confines of one’s reasoning and explanation.

ii. Again the darker one follows second, with the second possibility being of a fear of one’s own true identity. This point looks at that unexplored self as the bottomless pit of the darkest and most despised aspects of the world and one’s perception of the self. Solitude, by this school of thought, would force one to explore this mysteriously un-unraveled part of the self. To discover what lies beneath the seemingly intransient self-image would be a matter of pure and unadulterated terror for the best of us, what with the very definition of one’s identity comfort zone at stake.

To put things in perspective, one must realize that the said realization is the equivalent, if not much a considerably deeper denomination, of waking up one day to realize one’s family was indeed not one’s own, or that the world as one knew it was just a dream; and all of these analogies relate to things external to one’s precious self, imagine the plight of the poor child within on knowing he wasn’t what he had always imagined himself to be.

4. This point finds itself more applicable to social media tools such as blogging and the like. I believe a major part of the whole online expression explosion may also be attributed to the very human need for appreciation, importance and an overly reflection-based sense of self-worth. To elaborate, I believe we have grown to associate more and more of our self-worth with what we perceive others to perceive of us. Even though such an orientation is required, to an extent, so ensure benchmarking based improvement, going all out external in one’s pursuit of self-actualization just kills out the ‘self’.

And thus we have blogs (such as this one right here) sprouting up in every nook and cranny, with several levels of what is commonly (and in jest) referred to as ‘shameless self-promotion’. The writer, as the nightingale in the poem by Vikram Seth, gets used to an audience, and soon begins to derive more and more of his feel from the responses that he does (or does not) elicit from those around him.

5. Finally, I would state the most natural of replies to the question at the fundament of this whole post: that social media helps one stay in touch with a diverse network of people who would otherwise have faded away into oblivion. On the expression front, one may also say that to share and co-create is in fact the goal of all social expression.

And both the above arguments are fine with me as well, for I am of the same species as the rest of us; no purer and no more a sinner. However, what has caused this seemingly ‘holier than thou’ rant right here, is a nauseous mix of the following:

1. The unbearably loud “Hey! Look at me! I’m smart/sexy/cool/bored/alive/stoned/phucked/etal” cries from everywhere. And an accompanied, unfathomably dark realization that one’s voice is also present in that cacophony.

2. A very personal, and yes completely irrational, aversion to public displays of anything of significance.

3. A realization that had knocked on my head 194 (or maybe 200 by now) times previously as well, on the growing sinkhole of time and resource that is FB and its ilk.

In spite of the above however, one’s awe for the power and potential of web2.0 (not FB) never ends; and thus bloggers, open source evangelists, and the entire merry clan of the land of 2.0 shall always be the recipients of my choicest respect. The conundrums faced on the publicity front are of course an issue (in my book), with no easy solution in prospect; for any idea, if it must achieve anything close to its potential, must invariably sleep with several hosts, and such a free flow of potential is exquisitely facilitated by the very forums this post seems to decry. And it is nobody’s business to pass judgment on when a posting transfers itself from socially active to obscenely vane.

Finally, as with most things in life, it is the bhaav which determines the purity of any thought, word or deed. Perhaps therein lays the answer, though subjectivities abound there as well. But yes, that is important, the point that web2.0 isn’t the evil, if there exists such a term.

Much to the dismay of the few who get spammed by me, I shall continue to write and share, for contentment with self-sharing of ideas is only false conceit. I shall look forward to a wider, deeper, and more holistic experience bouquet courtesy the wonders of 2.0.

Also, I shall indeed endeavour to kill off FB from my life. Yes, this shall not be my last post on this subject, and that this post shall be advertised on FB is undoubtedly ironic, and I also realize that I shall return to FB as well, being the social animal I am. However, one day FB, one day you shall cease to exist in my universe.

And at a point in time in the distant future relative to the above mentioned milestone, expression too shall lose its meaning on most fronts. And then web2/3/4.0 too shall become defunct in my little universe. Then, shall reign pure enlightenment, or pure madness – as time, and the kindly observer may deem it fit.

For all that lies ahead duniya, Godspeed! We shall meet soon enough..

PS: As goes without saying, all views are subject to the eyes of the beholder. So if you're keen on taking offense or any of its derivatives, go take it! :P

The Kerala Tourism video

2010-10-02T11:41:00.000-07:00

Quite the FB phenomenon this video has been over the past few days/weeks. Slightly delayed, but here is what I made of the little beauty..

Details of the video per se, are irrelevant to this post, given as you can peruse through them at your convenience, from the embeddiment above, or otherwise. What one attempts to look at, is what it 'says' to you, and the why's and the how's of it.

The scenic opulence, almost a given with Santosh Sivan, is rather grand indeed. With the music to match, the stage sets itself for the key element to be revealed.

And then... what exactly happens then..?

In the remainder of the video, once your eyes and other such have adjusted to what is on offer, it tells you something very simple, in a manner that is unprecedented to your experiences on this front thus far. Furthermore, what it just whispered, in spite of its relative simplicity and what not, also happens to be one of the relatives to the universal existential crisis that plagues us all, among other things.

"Your moment is waiting"
Never before, in the many diversely hued tourism promotion campaigns one has witnessed, has the core message addressed something this intense, this deeply human; going beyond the relatively trite levels of culture, history and entertainment.
The moment may be taken to mean anything it means to one, but the audacity to link that to something as exploited as tourism, and then through an audio-visual masterpiece, do some semblance of justice to such a steep ask, is commendable.
That fleeting, invisible moment of transcendence, of realization, of life, has been portrayed like never before. One can completely imagine Sivan shaking within even as he thought up the fragments in his mind.

It is of course fitting, that this exploration of the inner domain, albeit facilitated by external supports, should be showcased by a province of this great land that has for millennia has pioneered in such endeavours.

Mortal arguments that the video doesn't say too much, given that such 'moments' may be lived in other places as well, shall receive a brief look from me, and the following:
Yes, the message of the moment is universal, and quite frankly, location invariant. However, that does not take anything away from the fact that nobody had thought of/dared to put such a thought to film before, at least in India; and also that in spite of the idyllics on display in the video, the coming together of elements so as to introduce oneself to oneself, is completely imaginable and possible, and in fact not as idyllic as the locales that surround it.

To me at least, the video purely as an indicator of where we are in terms of what and how we express of that which infests the mortal mind, is reason enough to smile, and laud the efforts of those behind it.

Its been a while..

2010-09-24T00:09:00.000-07:00

There comes a time every once in a while, when one feels a certain lightness of being; where one, not consciously aware of the reasons or causalities underneath, or even perceptive of a need for the same, just looks around, takes a few steps random-wards, sees things in a manner that had seemed distant and forgotten only a few moments back; allows a fleeting smile to escape oneself, takes a deep breath, and says, "Its been a while".

Cheers duniya..
Float on..
:)

Our twisted relation with beauty

2010-08-29T12:59:00.000-07:00

While there are many things that could be read into the title of this post, I shall at the very outset, in a fashion that is somewhat contrasting with my usual self, bring to light the specific context and meaning intended.
(The above sentence of course reassures me that I'm still in the element I have come to know as my own! But yes, moving on..)

Why can't I walk up to a girl in a train and say "You're one of the most beautiful persons I have ever met", without the very real possibility of getting lynched?
Why/How have we as a society evolved in a manner that so closely intertwines beauty appreciation and leching?

I understand that mother nature has programmed us in a way that much of what we do since our voices are done cracking, revolves around the theme of procreation. Is it that this instinctive understanding has now transcended to the realms that dictate how we behave at a social level?What then, becomes of the artiste who seeks beauty, and upon finding the same is filled with the desire to express it.

Even as I write this, images of MF Hussain with his muse in Madhuri, or that of a fashion photographer in the midst of an assortment of exposed physical beauty come to mind. Those are cases, certainly, where appreciation is taken to be at a level above leching. So does my initial question transform to a class issue: If one is a renowned artiste, then said appreciation is aesthetically tasteful, else it is a sympton of female objectification. Said class consideration then would certainly extend to the subject as well.

More later I guess.
This was about all I had to say for now.
Cheers duniya..

"Dil Karta Hai Sadkon Par Zor Se Gaoon"

2010-08-18T12:33:00.000-07:00

The title to this post was a status message I chanced on a couple of days back.
The following is what it led me to, reproduced with no express permission from the user of the original status message; but then again, that shouldn't invite too much of a legal hassle one hopes.

And thus..:

Dil Karta Hai Sadkon Par Zor Se Gaoon

Jaane kya hai hawa ke is aangan mein

Har rang rukh kuchh badla badla sa

Baatein kuch dheemi dheemi si

Alfaaz chuninde taaron se.

Dil karta hai sadkon par zor se gaoon

Ek dhun jo parindon se ja milein;

Phoolon ki har ek aahat ho jis par

Ki awaaz bhi us ko kam padein.

Us roz ka intezaar rahega har dum

Jab tareekh ke saath dil bhi nayi khilein;

Jab yaadein ruke na rokein mann ko

Jahaan kal ke saath aaj bhi saath rahein.

Dil karta hai sadkon par zor se gaoon

Aaj ke is din mein bhi

Jab kadam kahin khoye huey

Sau baat zubaan par tiki

Ek dil jo ghoome baawra

Ek aur jo jaanein na bhala

In dilon ke beech hum hain khade

Ab aur nahin jahaan the badhe

Dil karta hai sadkon par zor se gaoon

Dil karta hai sadkon par zor se gaoon...

---

Yes its good to be back.. :)

Writing...

2010-08-18T10:47:00.000-07:00

Even while one bleeds in a growing want of attention and care, one realizes that the perceived loss is indeed a gain to one's very roots.
And thus, one smiles away the unthinking tear, looking ahead to a changed meaning; a changed purpose.

Kandisa! :)

PS: Mwaah my little precious!

THE Potter's Village

2010-04-05T14:27:00.001-07:00

The story is done, documented as mortally possible from the subliminals that this track had brought to one's mind.

For the benefit of the rest of humanity, here it is.

Thank you,

Love and peace.

In the potter's village: Chapter - 12 (of 12)

2010-04-05T14:25:00.000-07:00

A week after the trial concluded, Rahman was publicly beheaded in the presence of the priests, 2 ministers of the sheikh's court, and the general public. It was a low key affair, concluded by 8 in the morning. Karim had never felt as aggrieved as he did now, but was surprised to find a different element adjoining that sorrow.

As the crowd dispersed, he walked away aimlessly, and soon found himself near the sight of the weekly food market, some miles from the village. Some yards in front of him stood a tiny hut, in which he thought he saw a light moving. With steps that followed no thought or direction, and a mind as blank as a slate, he entered the little temple. Two days later, he would walk away, and never be seen again.

---

In the potter's village: Chapter - 11 (of 12)

2010-04-05T14:23:00.001-07:00

The third day of the trial was almost a formality, lasting just 10 minutes, as Masood summarized the proceedings, and delivered his judgement. Having known the outcome from the moment the trial began, Karim had spent the last 3 days in a state of stoical waiting.

The previous evening he had visited Rahman in prison.

The two looked at each other, and knew exactly what they both knew.

Karim: How can you just sit there, knowing what is to happen tomorrow?

Rahman: I can, because I must. It is the path I have chosen, and that has chosen me.

Karim (hesitating): Do you know where you shall go?

Rahman: It is unto my father that I proceed, how else is one to see one's life fulfilling itself?

Karim: But what if there is nothing.. no light.. no truth.. nothing divine at the other side?

Rahman (smiling): What is light? What is truth? What is divine? Are they not figments of one's belief in the end? Then how does the case of the contrary arise?

Karim: No.. yes.. no, what I mean is, what if you find yourself floating in a sea of darkness looking for the image you see in the hut, but find nothing at all?!

Rahman: The answer would then be clear, wouldn't it, that the divine indeed lies in the path one takes, and not where one ends. One lives and is one with the Creator during his life, for that is all one has. There is no 'ending', for there is no end. The end and the beginning always meet.

Hearing this, Karim stood up, walked slowly backwards, dropped down to his knees and offered namaaz to the prisoner in front of him. Then he ran away.

In the potter's village: Chapter - 10 (of 12)

2010-04-05T14:09:00.000-07:00

The trial was adjourned to the following day, after all the participant members found it best to close for the day. With Rahman having rested his case with his elaborate opening statement, proceedings moved rather linearly the next day. Both prosecutors called on witnesses against the potter, making strong arguments in front of the judge. As the clock struck the noon hour, there was little left to do than the judge to deliberate and announce verdict. The same he deferred to the next morning, allowing himself time to think and evaluate.

As he stepped out of his seat the judge, Masood, could feel the earth moving underneath his steps. He had anticipated something on these lines the moment he was briefed on the case, but what had transpired in the last 2 days was beyond what he had imagined. It was exactly what had been foretold all those years back; the day that he had hoped would never come; the only one thing he had feared all his life thus far. It was the day when he would need to make a choice. It was the point of no return between his ideological past and present; in fact, the point where the two met, beyond which neither could reconcile the other any further.

During his travels, in fact towards the last few weeks, which he had spent in India, he had grown to question the seemingly theoretical nature of the academia that he had espoused all those years. This question had led him to a wise man that people referred to simply as 'JK', who had, after listening to his story, told him the following:

"Masood, you are indeed correct when you label your current exposure to academia as too theoretical, and even bookish in nature. And that must be so, for learning finds its purpose only in action, and its time will come. Till then, your days shall be comfortable in that things shall be a smooth flow in your head. The time for action would be the true test, in disturbed waters."

Years later, when he was under the tutelage of the radical imam Maqbool Hasan, the cleric had smilingly told him that no matter how much he studied and learnt about the scriptures, it was all a sham till the day of deliverance came; till the day he would be forced to choose between the one thing he would translate from learning to practice, and the rest of the universe on the other side.

At that very instant, sitting next to the imam, he had recalled JK's words, and was struck by the similarity in the views expressed by both. The fact that the two polar opposite ideological tracks, that he had so intensely followed, could actually intersect at this one point convinced him of the veracity of this prediction; that one day he would be standing on a path, where it would be impossible to carry on in both directions; when he would have to choose his way, his boat, his life. He had realized it in that instant, that till then, he could afford to be ambivalent internally, but only till then.

In the trial that had taken place, Masood was split right down the middle, for there were indeed two voices within him. The Masood of yore, exposed to the most diverse mix of ideas and philosophies known to man knew exactly what Rahman was doing, and saw no wrong in it. There was no case even to be considered; Rahman was a free man. However, the other side, of which he was a more active subscriber now, and had been for the last many years, told him otherwise. In his eyes, Rahman had blasphemed beyond what words could describe, spoken against the rule of the king, and belittled the very socio-religious fabric that had given him a position to stand in. And thus, he deserved no less than to pay with his life. Rahman had to pay for his sins.

As these thoughts played around in a little wind in his creased head, he saw the clock had crossed the 3rd hour of the night. Just then, a young man not unlike his self of many years back walked into his room. He stood in front of him and smiled. In that instant, Masood realized it was indeed he himself, returning to Khemnuur after the voyages that had been. In a fit of terror and a reasonably distant cousin of rage, he picked up the closest object at hand, and threw it wildly at the impostor. His image was shattered, and with that his dream.

Masood welcomed the next morning with the most bitter of feelings in his stomach, and a coldness of being that stifled the tears before they reached their rightful place beyond his eyes. The case was closed.

In the potter's village: Chapter 9 (of 12)

2010-04-05T12:20:00.000-07:00

Rahman: I am Rahman, a potter by profession, and a free human being created by the Creator who created us all. I arrived at your village, which has accepted me graciously ever since, over 3 years back. My task was to work as a potter, which I have done as honestly and in as committed a manner as I could have. During this time, I have come to interact with some of the most interesting people I have ever come across. And even as I realized this within myself, I could see all around me a great amount of disenchantment, and an increasing detachment from the lives that the people here felt had been forced on them.

I am a human person who has always found enough in my surroundings to make do with, be it in terms of subsistence, or the need to think, be questioned, and explore. It is this higher level need that I feel demarcates us from the rest of the inhabitants we share this world with; this ability to think is what enables us to experience the myriad emotions that colour us, to make sense of the world as a place that is larger than what we know and perceive. When I first came here, I found this propensity to think for one's own self to be severely lacking in all the people I met. The whole village seemed shrouded in a pall of gloom, one which everyone freely accepted, without putting up any form of resistance to protect their own happiness. This really pained me. In my time here, I have always sought to find out the reason behind this passivity. And for this, I have spoken to people; I have asked questions that seemed most natural to me, which would often surprise many people in how simple they were.

My guiding light, in all I have done wherever I have traveled, has been my Father. That you don't consider your Creator to be your Father is your perception, but to me, there is no truer form of guidance I have experienced, ever. How we see our relationship with that higher power is of course a highly personal matter, one that I have never advised or questioned anyone on. The time I have spent outside my shop here, and in some ways even the time within, has been a continuing exploration of the human nature, through the diverse sample presented to me here. Wealth, social position, family issues, vocational conditions, and a thousand others are the parameters that characterize each and every one of us, thus giving rise to a countless number of unique entities in our individual selves. Yet, there are these commonalities that transcend different boundaries in different cases, peculiarities that colour all of us in a similar shade; which is a fact that I find too interesting to not explore. And thus, I do. I question, I inquire, I find out.
I find out why the local barber is unhappy even after having married off his 2 daughters, and built a new house at the ripe age of 65; I question how the ruler of a land can stake claim to the produce of his subjects without being their servant, if not by brute force; and all of this I do, simply because these questions come to me, they surround me, as they surround us all. To ignore these little facts and puzzles is to ignore the very essence of life itself, which I hold too dearly, and which I find precariously deficient in all the people around me here.
If to open your eyes to the hardened, numbed unhappiness that you had come to espouse, is to "create unrest", then I have nothing to say in my defence there.

Honourable Mr. P1 had mentioned a "most compelling instance of my seething unholiness" in a sight witnessed by the priests. If that were to be true, then every namaaz we offer is an instance of said holiness. For if one were to attain communion with one's Creator, and seek His blessings and direction, how must it matter if that be attained in a bejewelled monument to His name, or in a hut that is as much His creation. What I see in that time, and how I perceive its presence in my existence, is a matter to be determined by none other than my own self, for it concerns no other being in this world. As for the sight per se, if it surprised or shocked the spies following me, then it is by virtue of the sin that they themselves have within them, for how can the embodiment of the Creator be evil or dark; how can the loving embrace from the purest light to have existed, made to a pure heart, be the seed for anything dark. The seed, thus, must lie in the mortal observer.

I am but a creation in the hands of my Father. My work here is done. I rest my case.

With that, he sat down.
The audience in front of him, judge, prosecutors and public, that had sat motionless, entranced and unblinking, suddenly came back to the earthly recesses of the courthouse. Karim on the other hand, could only weep.

In the potter's village: Chapter - 8 (of 12)

2010-04-05T04:48:00.000-07:00

The trial was uniquely carried out, in that there were 2 prosecutors, one each representing the priests and sheikh's court. In defence, Rahman stood for himself.

The crux of the proceedings may best be stated by way of quoted sections of speech made by the different players in this little game that ensued. For the sake of convenience, the prosecutors shall be referred to as P1, P2.

Judge Masood: Opening statements, first by the prosecution.

P1 (standing up, exchanging a glance with P2): "If I may begin, this is a case of unprecedented stature and significance, for we have in front of us a man from an alien land, with a talent for a craft that surpasses human imagination. But even while he has fascinated all, including traders, children and far off royalty with his skill, his actions outside the potter's shop have been far from the diktats of socially acceptable living. He has been known to incite unrest in the minds of the peace loving people of Khemnuur, by means of ideas that go against the Holy Word. This is not a one off instance, rather something that has become synonymous with his presence. Finally, the prosecution would like to bring the attention of the court, to the single most compelling instance of his seething unholiness, the sight witnessed by the priests at a small hut in the nearby market region of Farakhi, only a week back. I would now hand over the floor to my esteemed colleague, P2."

P2: Thank you P1. The prosecution would now like to bring to the notice of the court, the charges of sedition and intrigue against the sheikh and his rule of law. As previously stated by P2, this man is known to spread ideas that are against the very fabric that underlies any social setup. His origins are unknown, and the motivations that drive his actions can only be imagined. He could be a spy from a distant kingdom, an agent directed to enter the social structure of our land, infest it with ideas that shall one day leave it hollowed out and empty. The truth appears rather dark in his case, and we hope to unravel the details in the course of proceedings here.

Judge Masood: The accused, and defendant, Mr. Rahman, you may now speak.

The public assembled in the room took a collective deep breath, for they knew that this statement would go a long way in determining the outcome of this case. All present were struck by how composed the man was, facing a trial which could cost him his life. Karim, seated on the second row could feel the tension building within him. With the judge asking Rahman to speak, all eyes moved to him, as did Karim's. And at that instant, he knew exactly what was to happen.
The smile that graced Rahman's face at that instant seemed singularly untouchable, with a sense of awareness and knowing that seemed to resonate with his surroundings, in a manner which lent the entire scene an air of surprising tranquility. It appeared as if the person of Rahman was in a bubble, deeply enmeshed yet inexorably insulated from the world, and from all that it wished to throw at him. Karim was the only one who saw this scene for what it truly was, with each passing moment spelling out a story that was reaching its conclusion.

With that, Rahman stood up, and started to speak.

In the potter's village: Chapter - 7

2010-04-05T01:42:00.000-07:00

Rahman was produced in court soon after, where Masood, the oldest judge in the land had been called upon to preside over this rather exceptional case. His exemplary record and experience notwithstanding, the fact that he was a staunch believer in the written word of God made him a clear choice for the priests.

Masood had been born to the second wife of an aging clerk in the sheikh's court. The fact that his father died when he was just 11, leaving behind two wives and four children, and that he was the youngest of the lot, born to the considerably younger wife, meant that his childhood thereafter was a continuous stream of challenges. In fact, had his sharp academic drive not been noticed by an affluent trader named Jamaal, just returning from the high seas, he would probably not have received any formal education. The grapewine would tell one that the education and nurturing he was provided with was more a result of his mother being prepared to go to any lengths to ensure her son's future. By the time Masood was 17, his mother had formally become the fourth wife to the trader, even in the midst of considerable hue and cry in social circles. However Jamaal with his considerable clout ensured that the union was blessed by none other than the sheikh himself, thus silencing any voices that had even considered dissenting. Even though biologically not his parent, Masood was Jamaal's favourite. By the age of 26, the young man had been a part of several of his patriarch's travels, and had seen much of the known world. In his travels, he was struck by a sense of oneness among all the disparate races and societies he had interacted with; something which showed him an underlying layer of what may today be referred to as 'humanity', beneath the superficials which differentiated these peoples.

Overcome by this feeling, he felt stifled in the trade business he seemed set to inherit from Jamaal. Thus during one of the trips to the Orient, he fled the ship, handing it over to the able captain to reach back home. From there, the next 9 years were spent in traveling and studying at universities across the world, subjects ranging from philosophy and literature to astronomy and mathematics. When he felt he had had enough of this world, the much learned Masood returned to his homeland. Initially greeted with skepticism, he soon proved the veracity of his claims, made easier by the presence of the ship captain who had last seen him. Jamaal had since handed over the business to the captain, who always had been the most capable, and innately talented to take up such a responsibility. Masood knew that his father had given the business to deserving hands. And yes, he did refer to Jamaal now as his father.

Within 4 years of Masood's return, Jamaal died in a freak accident during the loading of a ship bound to Africa. And with that, Masood's life took another critical turn. Unable to reconcile with the loss dealt to his mother and himself for the second time in their lives, and now increasingly conscious in retrospect, of how his father had never completely approved of his academic explorations, wanting instead for him to take forward the family business, he found himself coiling up into a shell. Desperately seeking any semblance of relief and anchorage, he chanced on one of the imams at the local mosque which he would visit regularly. The words he heard during one of the readings of namaaz seemed to resonate with his state of being, "Turn off your mind, relax and float downstream; for the answer shall come to you in the Word of the Lord". Intrigued by this line, and unable to comprehend its full meaning, yet knowing completely that it was key to him regaining his peace, he met the imam later that evening. He was Maqbool Hasan, known to be radical and rigid in his beliefs, and a purist when it came to following the Word.
Over the course of the next 12 months, Masood would meet him and spend hours discussing several diverse issues at least twice each week. At the end of this period, he was a changed man - more orthodox, bordering on radical, and soon entered the judicial system, where he created quite a fan following, by virtue of the strictness and fairness of his judgement, sometimes laced with a touch of the philosophies and thought he had chanced on in what now seemed like a previous life, but always agreed upon as just.

It had been 21 years since then, and he now proceeded towards the court to hear the curious case of Rahman, a potter from an alien land, who had been witnessed indulging in blasphemous practices, and even cited as spreading ideas and thoughts that were labelled 'anti-social' and 'seditionary' in nature. Several of the quotes attributed to him reminded him of his traveling years. The proximity that the potter exhibited to those ideals of yore interested Masood greatly, and perhaps even made him a tad uncomfortable, as he walked into the court that bright spring morning.

In the potter's village: Chapter - 6

2010-04-04T09:49:00.000-07:00

In front of them, and the innocently watching Karim, was a scene playing itself out in truly unaffected glory. It was not entirely human, and not entirely mortal, the meaning of what their eyes read to them at that instant.

The little hut, with no furnishing whatsoever, had Rahman kneeling at its centre, gently bowing to a light that seemed to unfurl out of itself, in a continuous, unrelenting song of power, grace and majesty. It was a sight that instilled an overwhelming sense of fear and awe into its onlookers. For minutes, both Karim and the priests stood frozen at their positions, unable to make sense of what it was they were witnessing. Finally, Rahman broke the deafening silence, asking the light what he was to do, in a tone that was in contrast to his usually elevated self. His voice bore the signs of a continuous and unconditional surrender, albeit without the flavour of resignation that one may have expected to find.
This question was followed by a long and pregnant silence, which would be breached by a voice that would send shivers down the spines of all the assembled bystanders. It was a loud, bellowing voice, which emanated from the very centre of that regenerating mass of light. It said, "It is not yet time for you to leave. There are eyes and ears to these walls, which shall guide you to your destiny."

Both Karim and the priests jumped back at the allusion made to them. They stuttered backwards, and then fled back to the village along the respective paths that they had taken.

While Karim was intrigued by what he saw, convinced that the incident was key to the question that had been haunting his very existence for over 3 years now, the priests felt they finally had one key accusation to make against the seemingly flawless potter; A convenient mix of idol worship, blasphemy and bigotry. It was armed with this weapon, that they headed to work the next morning.

Said next day passed off just as planned by the priests. After a closed doors meeting with the king and his court, a decree was issued against the potter, denouncing him as an outlaw who had offended the holy word of the Lord, and indulged in practices earning him the title of infidel. A prize of 100 gold coins was placed on his head, and within hours he was presented at the royal palace with a line of claimants on the reward money. The priests smiled at their partial victory, for it had been a long and arduous task till now, which seemed on the verge of delivering the results they had set out to accomplish.

In the potter's village: Chapter - 5

2010-04-04T09:39:00.000-07:00

As Karim walked hurriedly from the priests' quarters he could feel a sense of urgency in that which he had somehow become a part of. And he knew Rahman was at its very centre. Without a second glance, he sped off to the potter's shop where Rahman spent his nights. It was now late in the night, and such footsteps often attracted unwanted attentions, for it was the hour when clandestine deals were struck and cosummated. He thought of none of this however, and knocked on the potter's door repeatedly, till finally Rahman opened it, weary eyed yet with a smile on his serene face. Karim was quick to narrate to him the details of that evening. Rahman's unchanging expression had an air of having seen it all before, or so Karim felt. Puzzled and concerned, he asked him the reason for that. He replied with, "My father once said: Make your work the goal of your life, and you shall find me in all you see; in me you shall find all from the oceans to the sky and beyond, and in them, me."
Karim was speechless at the level of incomprehensibility, loaded with an equally compelling sense of the mystique that greeted him in those lines. Overcome with that feeling, he picked himself up, muttered a "Rahman, please take care.", and stumbled out of his door. The state of bipolar perceptionary extremes that he had been thrown in from the moment he had met Rahman, was now entering another level.

As he sat in his bed, his wife now increasingly aware of the distance creeping into their relationship, he could think of nothing else but Rahman, and the words he had so effortlessly spoken. At some level he was concerned for his safety, and at another, he felt envious of the kind of conviction with which he lived. He knew only that he had to know more about his origins, and the source of that sense of immovable calm.
Thus he awoke the next morning, and headed off straight to the potter's shop. Unbeknownst to him, the priests had sent a messenger him to the court, who had promptly been redirected to the shop by the concerned wife. The messenger proceeded towards the shop, only to find it closed for the day. He brought word of this to the priests, who were astounded to hear it, for never in the last 3 years had Rahman been unavailable at the shop during the opening hour of business. They knew this was a potentially critical moment, and called on the royal guard which immediately dispatched its spies, who traced Rahman to a small hut located 4 miles outside the village. The priests reached the spot by evening, taking care to approach it by a different path, so as to escape the attentions of Karim, who had been kneeling besides the northward facing wall peeking in through a gap all this while.

As they approached it, they caught sight of a light moving within, and carefully perched themselves along the southern wall, peeking through the aging cracks in the wood. Their eyes widened at the sight that beheld them.

In the potter's village: Chapter - 4

2010-04-02T14:51:00.000-07:00

Within a few days of his arrival, Rahman was a much sought after member of the community. The potter had obtained special orders from the sheikh himself, courtesy the latest talent acquisition he had been gifted with, children flocked by him when he sat down to work, and the local traders vied for his work to be shipped to the farthest places in their imagination. The people also found themselves captivated by the refreshing change he brought to day to day conversations, that had grown numbing and trite otherwise.

People found themselves more interested in their own lives somehow, and even appreciated the elements that they had come to scowl at perennially. However, none of them was quite as affected by his presence, as Karim was. The sense of openness and liberation he experienced, and which he used when he viewed the world, would alternating-ly provide him with an overwhelming sense of joy, and a maddening sense of meaninglessness. He wasn't sure of whether it was really good, or even healthy to have such thoughts, but knew that he had 'grown', on some dimension scale, along some scale.

It was now 3 years since Rahman had arrived at Khemnuur. As with all objects of such beauty and shining quality, he too had managed to create rivals, emanating from a sense of jealousy, and being threatened. This emergent class of individuals comprised a disparate assortment, from high priests, to members of the royal court, to traders who had missed out on his business, and even the potter who employed him, Shimad. Being the owner of a business increasingly dependent on his output, and the aging husband of 3 young wives, he felt threatened on several fronts all at once. The cases with each of the other rising enemies was unique in the mix of factors that caused them to resent his presence, but exceedingly unifying in the impact they had on them.It wasn't long before these voices found company in each other, and attempted to better assess the situation. A social reformer might have been glad to see the manner in which the boundaries that separated these disparate individuals came melting down in the face of this common foe.

In the course of their discussions they couldn't come up with any substantial about the potter, leave alone against him. The manner in which he had just dropped by from an alien land meant there was little in terms of tracks that he had left behind. Upon inquiring, they discovered it was Karim that had first interacted with him in person. Thus the priest summoned up Karim one day, and spoke to him at great length about the mysterious ways in which God functions, and the need to keep the soul cleansed at all times. Discourse complete, they proceeded to the real matter at hand, asking him about Rahman, the nearly sacrilegiously gifted potter from an alien land. If the occasion of this special audience was not hint enough, Karim now knew something was amiss, and that this conversation was surely not in the realm of that which may be termed 'ordinary'. He started to analyze each question closely, and choose his words carefully, a fact that didn't miss the attentions of the eagle eyed priests. A few queries later, they ended this particular session, asking him to maintain a customary silence on the same. As he walked out their doors, a figure from behind the trees lining the exit follwoed him stealthily. A couple of hours later he would confirm to the priests what they had suspected, that Karim had visited Rahman straight after his meeting.

In the potter's village: Chapter - 3

2010-04-02T02:23:00.000-07:00

Karim was intrigued by Wajid's description of the potter from Shizami. It seems he had appeared out of nowhere, early one January morning, carrying little more than a shiny blue pot. Upon being asked who he was, he had said he was a potter who had been swept ashore after a shipwreck on the nearby coast. The state of his clothes seemed to suggest likewise. The pot he was carrying, with its fine print work and shading caught everyone's eye, and soon enough he was employed by the local potter, whose business grew manifold quite overnight. Word of the artistry that now seemed to emanate from his humble establishment spread far and wide, and orders started pouring in from distant royalty as well as businesses such as Wajid's.

The hour had crossed 11 o'clock. The ship had been delayed by 2 hours now. Just when Karim was starting to grow concerned, the distant lights of a ship caught his eye. Within minutes, it had docked on the port, and after all the cargo had been unloaded, came walking a young man about 25 years of age, clean shaven and clad in fine white silk, with a bag slung around his shoulder. Karim approached him and asked, "You must be Rahman?". "No, I'm Qadir. The man you seek is walking behind. There..", came the curt reply, with a finger pointing towards an older man with an unkempt beard and hair, wearing a robe patched in places, and holding a pot. "Ah! The famous potter with his pot," thought Karim, as he proceeded to greet him.

Karim would never forget the look in Rahman's eyes as they shook hands. They seemed to be in a half sleepy daze, composed and relaxed, and yet contained a piercing quality, one that seemed to see straight through one. While it was slightly unsettling at first glance, within minutes the former quality succeeded in putting Karim at ease, and they walked the way to the village talking about an eclectic mix of subjects. As with most conversations across the globe, they too began with the weather, but then digressed to talk on the livelihood occupations prevalent there, the reign of the current sheikh, his feared secret service, his relations with the high priests, the level of social liberty and the rare instance of artistic expression from among the mostly working class populace. The walk thus far had lasted a good 2 hours, and in the following pause, Karim was struck by the unprecedented depth and scope of this discussion that he was a part of. No longer had this thought passed his mind, that Rahman asked him, "So Karim, What do you like about the work you do?". To this, Karim replied with a broad description of his daily work, elaborating on the business cycle, and some peculiarities of his trade. To this Rahman replied by reiterating his question, this time stressing on the 'like', with a look in the eyes that revealed they might know more than they reveal. Karim found himself perplexed, and after a pause that seemed to last ages, gave up and changed the subject to Rahman's village. An hour or so later, they had reached the village, where Karim dropped Rahman off at the potter's place.

The rest of that night Karim spent in a rather disturbed state, not that it was very apparent. His mind was somehow stuck in the conversation with Rahman. He now questioned several aspects of his life, from the tangibly significant, such as the sheikh's rule, his business, to even the trivial, such as the way the moon was nearing its daily submergence, the shadow of the clothes stand in the lamp light. For a brief phase, that could well have lasted for years, nothing seemed to make sense to him, as he found the very bases of his understanding of the world collapsing. Eventually, around the wee hours of the next morning, he managed to get himself together, returning to a fully functional state, though not quite recovering completely from the experience that had so unexpectedly shaken him within. Such a 'recovery', if one may use that term for escaping from the truths that he now saw bare, would never accede to the continuous requests made by his rationalizing, sense seeking self.

In the potter's village: Chapter - 2

2010-04-01T00:08:00.001-07:00

Rahman, as he was called for the last 4 years, had been a potter for that time. This stint of his had started when he arrived on the shores of an African town, Medinez, located on the shores of the river Khibuki. Prior to this, he had been a blacksmith, a practitioner of medicine (which many believed to be black magic), and even a soldier, in reverse order. At the still maturing age of 27, this was a shockingly varied resume he was amassing with his life.

He wasn't particularly bright as a child, named Shikhnir and brought up in a village named Perouz in inland Peru, learning the tenets of frugal survival, which was the most one could aspire to learn in that place and time. As with the majority of the male population there, he too joined the king's army at the age of 16. At the time he left home with 4 others from his neighbourhood, none could have predicted the course his life would go on to take, most of all, he himself.

And none of the magic would have taken place either, had it not been for the chance encounter in a tiny hut in the middle of a dense forest, during a royal hunting expedition, the second such assignment in his fledgling 14 month career as soldier. It was a gloomy winter afternoon, neither too cold nor too hot, and he was part of the group that ventured forward, scouting for any signs of danger, by way of animal or man. Still new to the paths of the forest, he managed to lose the entourage, and soon enough had no inkling of where he was and should have been. After 6 hours of futile searching, a tired and thirsty Shikhnir stumbled upon a broken down hut. Catching a light moving within and desperate for relief, he plucked the remnants of life and his gun, and made his way into the establishment, which was little more than 10 feet both sides.

What he would experience in that place, where he spent the large part of the next 2 days, would change the very basis of his existence. The change began with him leaving the hut, now named Khalid, bound for a village some hundred miles southwards. He left the hut keeping only the things he had learnt to be essential for the journey ahead, given the river and marshes that lay in the way. As he left, an air of dire desolation returned to the hut, as it had been for the last 287 years, and would be to date.

Upon having reached a stream some miles from the village, after a walk lasting 4 nights and days, the first sign of life that came his way was incidentally on the doors of death. A cow had been attacked by a wild animal it seemed, going by the deep wounds suffered on its side. It was trying desperately to drag itself back to its home. Armed with little more than a gauntlet of water and a staff, Khalid felt a deep need to alleviate the creature of its suffering. Not knowing why exactly, guided perhaps by a force invisible, he walked along the stream to a shrub that grew all alone. Mashing it with the rocks on the stream bed, he soon had an ash-green paste which he went on to apply on the suffering cow. Giving it some water, he then sat next to it, comforting it as the night wore on. The next morning, he propped it to its feet, and the two headed into the village.

Thus entered Khalid the miracle healer, into the lives of the 40 odd villagers that comprised his destination, and his home for the next 3 years. One fine day, one not too dissimilar from the day of his second hunting expedition back in Perouz, he found himself ambling empty handed towards a little hut next to the stream where he had found the cow. And from there, 2 days later, he had emerged as Darim, heading onwards to Africa in a vessel belonging to a local slave trade mafioso, to a kingdom by the name of Rhiwana. There he would go on to succeed the business of a blacksmith who died a day before his arrival. He would lead the family out of debt and despair, and train the young sons of the deceased patriarch. Three years into Rhiwana, and the family that he had made his own, he left for a walk one night and never returned. Within days he would be Rahman the potter, the newest member of a village in Northern Africa by the name of Shizami. A year later, he found himself walking out of another desolate hut, this time still as Rahman, heading to the port, onwards to Khemnuur.

In the potter's village: Chapter - 1

2010-03-26T23:36:00.000-07:00

Karim was a trader in the village of Khemnuur, located 8 miles off the Southern coast of the Persian Gulf. People around him would cry foul at the elements that surrounded them; the land that knew not how to give, days that would run long and harsh, with the unforgiving sun adding to the tyranny of the despot sheikh; water that was scarce and precious, and the sky which they knew only as home to scavenging vultures, the symbol of a mortality which they knew all too well. While such strife tainted life all around, he knew there was something ethereal underlying all of that; he could always feel a sense of transience in all that surrounded him, in fact in life itself. It isn't that he wasn't a man of the world, for he had seen a lot as part of the dealings of his vocation and was sharp as per the requirements of his trade.

Very often he would think to himself, just how and when his outlook to the world, and to his existence in it changed. Each time he would manage to trace a few steps further back, only to be interrupted by some calling of the world outside. The last few times however, he had reached a wall at one point, and couldn't see any logical connect ranging further. He was thus convinced, that that point in time, in the course of his life, must have been when he took the fateful turn. To term it as 'fateful' might seem hasty at first, going by the lack of observable change in anything about him, but that was just it. Nothing changed in his life on the outside, with his work continuing with no noticeable change in fortunes, his family life, consisting of parents and a wife, carrying on without alarm.

The fatefulness justifies itself only, and completely at that, when one looks at how he changed in his own eyes, away from the reach of the bystanding world. It is hard to describe experiences such as that encountered by Karim, owing to the afore-hinted intangibility. The entire universe seemed more mysterious, more alive than ever before. Layers seemed to surface in anything he probed into, revealing that there was a lot to be discovered still, with a lifetime perhaps being too short to satiate all such explorations.

The wall at which his recollecting trails now seemed to end, which signals the most likely turning point of his life, was a surprisingly hot day in the month of October, 3 years back. It had begun as any other, with a trip to his supplier of African merchandise, Wajid. Once done with the business, Wajid had called on Karim with an uncharacteristic call. With a glint in the eye, he spoke of an additional 'import' on the ship due to arrive that night. It was a man named Rahman, from a distant land in Africa, who was known to be one of the most masterful potters ever seen.

Karim would go on to welcome Rahman later that night, and his life would never be the same again.

In the potter's village

2010-03-25T23:57:00.000-07:00

This is a story that came to mind during repeated listenings of an instrumental theme from MF Hussain's beautiful movie, 'Meenaxi'. (Music by AR Rahman!)
The track is titled "Potter's Village", thus the title to the story.

It has grown and twisted and turned over the last 96 hours, and now stands as one of the most compelling indulgences of my life thus far.

Chapter 1 posted prior to this intro, stands here.
Subsequent chapters:

2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12.

Cheers duniya.. :)

PS: The track that inspired this little adventure may be found here.

"In my day.."

2010-03-21T12:03:00.000-07:00

I reached my son's place 2 days ago. After the long journey that lasted nearly 24 hours, I could sense that something was amiss. I checked the vital statistics that enlist themselves at my age. Thus, after a time tested scanning of my bared joints, and 62 little nooks and corners that I have come to identify over the years, I diagnosed myself with no particular ailment as such.

And then, as I lazed around earlier today evening, I saw it. In a moment of stark revelation, that would return over the course of the coming hours, one saw the sordid face of a reality that would loop itself around oneself.

Its hard to get the exact details of the aforementioned moments, for it seems to exist in another dimension. Lets call that dimension 'gime' for now. Gime doesn't seem to be a linear, continuous axis, as the other dimensions we have come to accept, at least not to the cognitive senses I have at my disposal this moment. This I say because it seems to be a part of my existence in sporadic bursts, unlike the continuous presence of its other, more earthly, kindred.

Gime appears to me to be the dimension along which the mind opens unto itself, and identifies as yet unseen/unheard of/ unprecedented experiences.

Thus it represents several of the 'moment's that we have come to accept so tritely.

Anyhow, carrying on.

During these last few moments in gime, one saw the chains that had grown around one's once nimble feet. They had not been imposed or tied, rather it seemed as if they had evolved over time; said time being somewhere in the range of a week. One could see the lights that had adorned one's very existence, now fade fast into a numbing oblivion; one could feel the gentle lakeside breeze tip-toed-ly move towards a chilly blizzard. Finally, one saw one's little son, through whose eyes one had experienced most of one's existence, fight a brave battle against the elements in his universe. Even though that battle promises to be a long one, and might play itself out over the course of his life, it sees myself growing older at an alarming rate. For now one must fit into little corners and gaps, wherever the wavering hand finds it convenient.

Even though in my day I would interchangeably be King (oscillating with my beloved son) and rule over an ocean bursting at its seams, I find there is meaning to be sought here as well. For it is perhaps such times of refuge seeking adversity that truly prove the mettle of a worthy monarch. My son's battle is as yet incomplete, but so is my song. We shall see what outlasts the other.

As my world goes tumbling down,

My despairing child stands alone,

I must wait a thousand years looking over it,

For the song is still not sung;

The world is yet to be;

The life as yet not lived;

The truth still evasive.

Even if I lose him in the crowd,

While entering a new tomorrow,

I shall know that he has right in him,

Borne of a purity untouched.

He shall live on and so shall I,

And we shall realize in time,

The oneness of our existence.

Till that sun dawns,

I shall wait for my son;

To find his way.

For love is all one needs,

For the spirit to survive,

Till he finds his way

To the master's feet.

That shall be final convergence,

For he is I and I am he.

He whose feet we seek to find,

Shall be one with us in this revelation,

For I then shall see and so shall he,

That this is where love finds its purpose;

This is where we're meant to be.

The journey of a moment in time

2010-01-31T06:39:00.001-08:00

It'd be a shame to keep the entire January barren, as one prepares to embrace one of the newest new years in prospect.

Thus, here we are..

The journey of a moment in time,

Speaks to one in a thousand hues,

Gleefully the soul longs to chime,

Even if it were in the blues.

It is naught that one seeks to find,

Or so one does choose believe,

The sound that goes to open the mind,

Awaits little but my relieve.

There is much to be done yet,

Even in this waning day,

A muse to chase, a score to set,

And even chart out one's way.

In this time both trying and light,

One hopes for the eye to keep rhyme,

With the wonders of what are and what might,

And the journey of a moment in time.

Title courtesy this awesome show by Raghu Rai, from many many days back.

"Calcutta Ahoy!" goes the Chaddi brigade..

2009-11-03T13:51:00.000-08:00

"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...

2009-08-05T18:55:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-08-05T02:37:00.000-07:00

"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...

2009-07-18T04:44:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-06-22T09:45:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-10T07:03:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-02T06:39:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-22T06:20:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-20T10:20:00.001-07:00

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

2009-05-16T16:16:00.000-07:00

... 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

2009-05-14T06:39:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-05-03T13:04:00.001-07:00

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

2009-04-25T21:07:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-22T05:32:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-20T08:01:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-04-17T11:35:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-04-16T06:56:00.000-07:00

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"

2009-04-15T06:47:00.000-07:00

Soon!

Yes, I miss you already too! :)

Overwritings in the Diary

2009-04-10T10:57:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-04-08T21:48:00.000-07:00

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!'

2009-04-06T09:50:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-04-04T01:52:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-02T02:34:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-03-29T12:50:00.000-07:00

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.

Dragon in the sky

2009-03-27T01:55:00.000-07:00

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...

"Grave views on life..."

2009-03-24T10:02:00.000-07:00

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!

Dev... Dev D.

2009-03-23T10:18:00.000-07:00

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! :)

447/2 - Declared

2009-03-20T12:56:00.000-07:00

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 bull~~shit~~, 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...

"apne mastishq mein chhupe kaksh mein jao, and jhaanko
tumhe har dwar ki kunji wahin padi milegi..."

PPS: Hmmm... :)

The hand from many days past

2009-03-19T19:17:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-03-19T06:02:00.000-07:00

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!

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

That which cannot be named...

2009-03-03T02:35:00.000-08:00

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...

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.

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! :)

Cosmic smilings in the sky!

2009-03-02T12:08:00.000-08:00

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!

On Jokaland...

2009-02-05T22:15:00.000-08:00

and that uncanny sense of belonging.

The following relates to a moment of extreme emotion that hit me while on my way back from lunch a few days back. And the fact that that feel was further accentuated yesterday night, when I was blessed with this track from Omkara's OST, means I embed that here.

You are requested to play it before proceeding.

So.
That lazy afternoon was one of those satisfyingly slow ones, where one gets some time to pause and look around, after having spent many weeks in the throws of hecticity and its fine friends.
I'm not sure what it was in that moment, that led to that which has been en-heightening my self since then. That wisp of a semblance of a scent which caught me unawares, or the indifferent, passing by female, or my predecessor behind her; whatever it was, it came by in one unassuming, unexpectant moment, stayed there, watching me stare at it in absolute wonder and then left with untouchable grace.

It had however done its job.
For in that moment, for the first time ever, my conscious self identified Jokaland as its home; for the first time, I felt that which one feels when one returns home after a voyage across 7 lives; for the very first time here, "that uncanny sense of belonging" walked up to me, looked me in the eye and gave me that hauntingly beautiful peck on the cheek.

Thankfully it wasn't a one-moment stand.
After that, different things came by, each inviting me home; each in its own way, a path to find one's home, to find that which drives one through all of the world's wonders, that which lends one meaning, purpose, and that comforting warmth, which en-numb-ens all that needs to be, while bringing to life the sobbing, hapless child within.

I realize, as I proceed with the above track embedded firmly in my ears, that my eyes have filled up for no apparent reason.

The track lends itself to the general sense of amazement fast enveloping me, with downright awe inspiring finesse. That it meant something similar to the sender only adds more hue and saturation to the developing scene. With it playing, one reaches that fast disappearing habitat wherein one is accorded the luxury of simply letting go of all that burdens the self, and floating on the gentle waves resounding in every bit of one's existence.

It is not surprising then, that one now finds greater meaning in that which awaits the senior batch in another 53 odd days; that one is reintroduced to that ideal which had kept one in perpetual awe of all that one saw, while keeping the self surprisingly light within. One finds oneself marvelling at this chance opportunity that has found its way into the 24.5 hour schedules that one subsists on.

One is alive once again.
The enslaved child is freed from the dark recesses that had gobbled it up with eerie glee.
The light (Noorunallah indeed!) has pierced through the walls that had erected themselves around one.
One finds some form of that elixir-esque concoction of hope, love and light.
Meaning, purpose and evitabilities take their rightful place next to the throne, thus silencing the beast, at least for now.

Till one finds the truth all over again; till one finds oneself back home in the blink of an eye, again; till one dies to embrace another tomorrow's life, I shall bid you farewell, kind passer-by.

Good Night.
Be happy.

PS:
"O ri raani, gudiya
Jag ja, ari jag ja.."

Sigh..
:)

Noorunallah!

2009-01-25T21:57:00.000-08:00

Pre Scriptum: Before reading this, it would perhaps be advisable to scroll to the bottom of this post and play the track that shares its title with this post.
Thank you.
-----------------------

This is borne out of only (mostly), and only what this song has given to me this fine morning.
Given the loss of words I find myself in at this point, I shall buy some time by starting with what formed the backdrop for this experience.

Mid terms just ended, I found myself surprisingly free Friday evening. Though there was considerable work pending in matters outside of the classroom, the very fact that another set of exams had just flown past, was dope enough for the mind to fly and be free, after a long, long time (or so it seemed at least! Time dilation anyone? ;)

Starting that night, to the second that has just skiiped by, (yeah, that one right there!) I have finished 4 movies: Memento, Amadeus, Trois Couleurs: Rouge, Trois Couleurs: Blanc.
While people around me are in the double digits, 4 is a treasure for the time spendthrift movie fan in me. Further, prior to this I completed a blog post, which was supremely satisfying, albeit the slight aberrations that may been induced by the forces of empty-tummied-ness, and general insomniation.

Nevertheless, as has been made amply evident, these last 3 days have given wings to that which was stifled somewhere inside, in the face of a world growing up too fast. While this new found freedom provided several such flights, it was also responsible for the coming up of several old questions on life and the likes. However, it is stuff such as what forms the subject of this post, that invokes that all overriding call to divine procrastination, and its all embalming plea to a faith as blind as 2 bats sharing a drink at a tavern north of Northumbria.

Noorunallah.
The Light of the Almighty One.
The light which brings to life all that it falls upon.
The light which once seen, blinds one to the trivialties that the world throws towards one.
The light which, given our instrumental role in schemes larger than our selves, shines often through us and those around us.
The light, which helps us up when we fall into the maze that we ourselves create so masterfully.
The light which blurs all distinctions between I, you, Him, it and that.
The Light which shines through a million little eyes, yet complete as a whole, with meaning that waits, contingent, only for the one to give in to, and indeed become, the One.

All of the above, and SO much more which escapes my mortal comprehension and expression, is what lies concealed under the covers that this piece comes with. Blessed was the day when I procured this folder from my frontie, one of the early days in Jokaland.

To Noorunallah...

PS: Couldn't help but quote this, from this post long long back, which was magical in itself...

"To think of the day that has just passed,
My heart sings to You in joy,
Your eternal love all around me,
What else could I ask of Thee?
I love You and You love me,
What more do I need to be?"

Sigh... Such days... Such light... Such persevering, immaculate, eternal love...

Potently visible by its very absence

2009-01-24T16:17:00.000-08:00

The seed for this post was planted late last night, or lets say prohibitively early morning today. Around 5am it must have been, high on a sponty trip to the city for a 2nd dinner, and hours of thass to top, I had America's Ventura Highway on, and was just leaving hostel for another "walk to remember", armed with phone and camera, and accompanied by the muse that reaches out to me through them.

As I was turning to the right, something caught the corner of my eye. Just for a second, I saw a human form walking. But that was all that it was. A momentary aberration of the elements within and without me, to bring to life a figure invisible, yet wholly present; (perhaps) non-existent, yet undenyably alive. To the naked eye, it seemed as if the figure had been carved into the ambience, thus perfectly camouflaged, yet visible by the void it seemed to embody.

However, as is often the case with posts such as these, it is what meets the eye that counts.
And thus began the rapid germination of said seed planted previously.

The need for a particular object/entity (referred to, here on, as 'it' for convenience) is what defines its presence in our lives. Thus to experience it, one need not necessarily have it. Rather, the very fact that one feels its need/importance/indispensability et al, suffices.
Thus, as was the case with me today morning, it needed not the presence of a person there in the morning mists, nor that of a living example of His love, just the very cognizance of such a presence, such potential, such love.

It is in fact existent, solely through the meaning it portrays, the power it weilds so blithely, and the very fact that it is acknowledged among the mortals that spot the earth. In fact, extrapolating this hypothesis further, our very existences are defined and governed by how we influence and affect our surroundings; without a canvas on which to display our colours and shades, our existences woud (perhaps) remain just that, mere, lifeless existences. This canvas is not to be mistaken with a necessarily external, worldly, gaudy object of self adulation, rather, it may be taken to be anything that takes one away from the compelling realms of the self and related derivatives.

Returning to the original theme.
Our lives, are thus (perhaps) governed by an (in?)finite set of needs and wishes that punctuate our existence. And each one of those needs comes to life, by its very presence in our consciousness, as do we ourselves.
Thus, one need not be present to be there, rather, one's absence is as potent in its influence over another.

This is strongly reminiscent of Prof. Rita Ganguly's little discourse at NSIT, after a glorious Spic event (where she ended with our beloved "Zara dheere dheere gaadi haanko"!). There, explaining one of her pieces, she spoke, of how lust did not need the presence of another being; rather, it was defined, and lived in all its glory, solely by the thirst, the need, the longing.

That should be it for now. May we all live to experience that which is always a step ahead, either through its presence, or the lack of it. For, quoting from a post long long back:

"it is the feel that truly matters. Instances of the feel just give it a name, a shape; the feel remains ever free, ever unbounded, ever present, waiting always and only, for the one."

Cheers!

PS: The following deserves a special mention, for the role they played in the R&D of this post! :)

WINAMP playlist

4 tracks in playlist, average track length: 5:29
Playlist length: 21 minutes 58 seconds
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Playlist files:

1. America - Ventura Highway (3:22)
2. Hazaaron Khwaahishen Aisi - Man Yeh Baanwra (Qawwali) (3:04)
3. Mrigya-ganga (10:31)
4. Steve Vai - Instrumental solo (5:01)

The speed of thought...

2009-01-11T21:05:00.000-08:00

The muse for this little post came to me when talking to a friend yesterday, whose Dad was coming over for the day.

Upon asking how much time it took to reach from her native palce to Calcutta, her answer came in 3 parts, one each for air, train and road travel.
Something about that progressively increasing time span, her eyes as she replied, and the general manner in which she reminisces about the days back home, opened up a window in front of me.
Just for a moment, I experienced the infinite speed of thought.

How the mind had the power to transcend all barriers of the world, that too in good time; how it could give you a taste of Goan fish curry you had 15 years back, and in the next instant give you a glimpse of the next big thing in Manchester United, astrophysics or even your own self.

It also seemed incredibly beautiful, how one could travel to any place in the world and beyond, flying on the gleefully free wings of one's mind. How the mind thus, had the power to heal (and dig up?) wounds; to render a thousand enemy arrows useless; to search and pursue any little matter is so chooses.

How true is Milton,
"The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make heaven of Hell, and a hell of Heaven."

Cheers to that which has the power to do SO much, waiting only for an able saarathi for a master.

The outstretched hand

2009-01-11T14:46:00.000-08:00

It waits.
It watches.

It looks around at the many people it so loves.
It reads this, and finds a growing sense of purpose in its fleeting existence.

It waits.
It watches.

It craves to bring joy to those around it.
It longs for that one glance that would fulfill its life ambition.

It waits.
It watches.

It tries to be of use when those around it are blues-stricken.
It feels helpless at the seeming futility of its role.

But it waits.
It watches.

It stretches out its hand, to reach out to a friend in need.
Its eyes watch with love streaming out.

And it waits.
It watches.

Having waited and watched and longed for that one touch,
It looks back at the life it has lived.
It remembers the moments that have been its days. It recalls every instance of its attempt at being put to use; of its glance upward at every passing stranger; of its sweet, painful desperation for being a part of something bigger than itself; of its undying love for those it cared for; of that all pervasive, all overpowering need, to be loved.

Hands still outstretched, tears in its eyes, and with a hope for a brighter life ahead, it finally falls, and dies.

Dear, dear flower, Rest in Peace.

"When children wake up in the morning..."

2009-01-09T01:09:00.000-08:00

Short observational post this one will be.
This was what prompted it:

"जब बच्चे सुबह सुबह उठते हैं,
तब बड़े cute लगते हैं।"

This was what I said to a friend, when she opened the door to my wake up call today morning.
While it was just a simple observation then, the significance it eventually weaved around itself, was... well it was just very, very beautiful.

Translating + paraphrasing the quoted lines, Children waking up in the morning are really cute.
Further deliberation pointed out the reason behind the accentuated cuteness. At that moment, eyes rubbing, hair ruffled, and a hint of dreaminess in the air, their minds are as blank as mortally possible. That unthinking mind shall soon to be engulfed in a thick mist of infinite shades, aimed at clearing the deepest puzzles of one's consciousness (calculus, finance, love, sorrow, life, anything!). However, for those unforgiving, impatient, fleeting moments, it is gloriously unaffected. It sees the world, the walls, the books, the people, itself, for the first time since its last excursion to that land of unfathomables. The curious observer in me wonders gleefully, if in fact that eternal chase for the elixirs and 42's of life, that we start on every such occasion, does in fact begin with the key right behind us, so close, yet so tragi-comically far; perhaps the answer lies in front of our eye in that moment, only to be flooded into oblivion by the incoming rush of knowledge, intelligence and the smarts.
Perhaps.

Finally, the last observation from that experience, wherein I drew on my memories from the years that have been my days. In that moment described above, one doesn't need to be a child, to be a child. In that moment, I remembered my father, my nephew, my cousins, my friend (whose fortunate sleep affinity led to this wonderful little thought train this beautiful day!), and even myself; I distinctly remembered, how each and every one I had ever seen in that moment, had actually been little children waking up to a new day, who would grow to their respective worldly ages in a matter of seconds.
Great bliss flew in from the countless windows all around.
Sigh...

The child knows all. Keept it alive and well.

I shall conclude with two gems courtesy Tagore:

"Pure joy is the children's joy. They have the power of using any and every trivial thing to create their world of interest, and the ugliest doll is made beautiful with their imagination and lives with their life. He who can retain this faculty of enjoyment after he has grown up, is indeed the true Idealist. For him things are not merely visible to the eye or audible to the ear, but they are also sensible to the heart, and their narrowness and imperfections are lost in the glad music which he himself supplies."

and...

"From the solemn gloom of the temple,
Children run out to sit in the dust.
God watches them play,
And forgets the priest."

बच्चों, खुश रहो।
:)

Jugni...

2009-01-03T10:18:00.001-08:00

Firstly, the song may be read and listened to, here.

Ok.
The song appears at first, to be yet another typical peppy, Punjabi party number. And it is all of that, lest you develop early misconceptions from my writing. What it does to parties every single time it plays out its incredible little story, is beyond what words can adequately describe. The DJ becomes instant God, and the most spent bodies around you pick themselves up with a renewed force.
However, that is not what this post wishes to delve into.

And thus, we enter the 2nd level of thought that this song takes one into.
I was fortunate enough to have been pushed into that infinite well by a wingie of mine. His own feel for this song was inspiring, for unlike me, it is sanely rare that he appreciates something to the extent of becoming a dog for it (kutta ban jaana!).
So he took his sweet 16 minutes to explain the song word for word, feel for feel. And for the first time perhaps, I truly appreciated the worth of lyrics and words in a song. Not that I hadn't treasured them till now, but somehow they had always seemed second fiddle like with respect to the wonders of the beat, note and the entire composition. This was one of those rare occasions, when my interpretation of the piece was lent an invaluable hand by the (often taken to be) pedestrian cult of lyrics. For soon after I realized the meaning of the words being spoken:

1. I experienced how this piece was in fact immensely melancholic, tragic, and near depressing in its countenance. Thus the big party hit, did in fact have greater depth than that which causes people to go insane in front of 8kW speakers.

2. Eventually, I began to understand the tongue in which the music was trying to communicate. Things began to get much much clearer all of a sudden. 2 instances to clarify:
--The portion at 1:21 gradually transformed from a regular techno embellishment, to an accurate expression of one's transition to insanity; of how one of the first steps of loving someone or something is to lose one's mind in it's infinite expanses; of how this song seemed to highlight the less rosy side of that love, which though identical in element, is more intense in its shade.
--And the ending instrumental, though already catchy, suddenly stood up and introduced itself as the epitome of absolute power revealing her face as if in mockery of our tiny selves.

And as is very often the case in such matters, just as I began to wallow in a self-satisfied sense of accomplishment, at having successfully deciphered the song, I was told to shut up and sit down.

Out of the blue, I caught a glimpse of that punch which would leave me in a daze for as long as I wished; which would open my eyes to things never before seen, everytime I closed them. Given the near alien nature of this stimulus response, I shall not attempt to give it a socially acceptable form, rather, I shall choose to float on its waves, and write out all that enters and leaves my mind. Think of it as an extended, essay type Rorschach 'audio-blot' test.
Here goes:

All around, one finds inviting trails of sound, light, laughter, pain, tears and passion. But underlying all of these disparate entities, is one common denominator: Lets call it X for now, hopefully we'll stumble on an adequate descriptor by the time we end tonight. The 1:21 incident mentioned previously throws some light on someone passing through an invisible wall of madness, almost as if by chance. It was as simple as slipping from an N-storeyed high-rise, and yet as innocent in its observant smile as one's 2 year old nephew. And yet, after having reached the other side, one finds oneself unscathed, but for a growing sense of awe towards the hand which is causing this massive upheaval of sorts. Dusting, panting, one gets up, and is greeted by the protagonist, tragically unable to give form to that which has so indiscriminately coloured his unsuspecting mind. While at first glance this seems a plaintive cry for help as his beloved systematically deserts his very soul, leaving it bare and helpless in this big world, one soon sees that which punctuates the darkness all around.
The eternal pursuit for that elusive little 'jugni' suddenly catches one's eye, and one knows the end is near, at least for now.
It is there everywhere now. An artiste's pursuit of that perfection, often rendered zilch by the absence of the bhaav; one's absolute and complete surender, to that... that feel. The feel that enslaves all of mankind in its magical web of freedom; which takes one's very core to places one had never dreamt of; which alone has the power to break that which shackles the soul. The feel for nuclear fission, dhrupad, football, neural science, dance, poetry, service, love... shared by different people, to different extents, directed at different objects, either present or absent in the above non-exhaustive list.
One is exposed to a truth thus far buried deep under the earth; that which had been teasing one with stealing glances all this while; that whose immaculate brightness could not be concealed under the many layers of dirt and mirth poured over it.
The necessity to enslave oneself to one of those several faces, in order to find one's own path to freedom. For unless one gives up all one has, all one is, all one aspires to be, one is in essence nothing. The entire life is spent in this chase for that one thing, which shall take one to absolute void-ness, in order to endow one with that one unnamed elixir. One's pursuit of that ideal renders all other directions null and gloriously void.

One is incomplete, as long as one exists.
To give up and give in, is in fact to attain that which can otherwise only be aspired for.
When one comes to the end bare footed, empty handed, armed only with a smile, one has finished the race successfully, while most others loop around in never ending circles.

"Mainu Maar Gayi
Tu Yaar Meri
Tu Pyaar Meri
Tu Jugni Jugni
Tu Jugni Jugni"

For me, the point italicised above marks the lowest one reaches in terms of perceived self assessment. This point onwards, one embarks on a rising voyage, which attains critical mass at:

"O Jugni Tap Tap Tap Tap
Khoon Bahaundi"

For it is here, that one sees all that has been written above. One realizes the truth behind all the blood, sweat and tears.

And it is here, that one tries to share all that unbridled magic with one's own, and sits down to write.

Cheers mateys!

PS:
"O Jugni Aaja Aaja
Hath Na Aundi Ai"

Sigh...

My 3-hour romance...

2008-12-30T13:04:00.000-08:00

It began like most such instances begin: A friendly encounter at a get-together hosted by a mutual friend. In the midst of all the laughs, I caught her glance from the corner of my eye; staring into blankness she was, as if waiting for a trigger to push her towards a sense of meaningful purpose.

I extended my hand, and she accepted. And from there started this episode of rare socially endorsed remarkability. After some more time with the boys, we headed off. But where to?
With that question still unanswered, our little steps led us to the jetty, where soon enough my memory reminded me of the urgent need to coordinate with people regarding an upcoming event. Excusing myself, I made the call which would instruct me to rush to my team, and then accompany them for a dry run of their plan.

I hung up, looked into her knowing eyes, and smiled at her effortless, though unasked consent. Taking her by the arm, I made my way to the team room. After some general chit-chat, we headed for the dry run, in the accompaniment of a few more members. All this time she was right there next to me, perhaps growing weary of the sidelining, perhaps not.

Either way, one thing was for sure. With every detached moment I spent with her, her neediness increased in very tangible terms, which translated to the way she looked at me, touched me, the works.

Passers-by and colleagues passed glances at us, owing to her slightly out-of-place presence. Nice feeling it was, somewhat reminiscent of Clapton's classic. Wonder if she felt strangely the same way.

Returning to the timeline. Event test done, went off for another little errand, before heading to a friend's room, and introducing her to her. Having kidded about the eroticity of holding one's partner for this long just a while back, I realized its true force while sitting there. I lavished praise on the little thing next to me, in a manner not unlike a champion stud's owner. Savouring every single bit of her existence, I explained to my fast-growing-confounded friend, the joys of having someone vie for one's attentions at all times. In generous detail, I waxed eloquent on how my muse tasted on my lips, on the tip of my tongue, and how the sweetness was perhaps a result of her having to fight off competition from the engagements described previously.

I wasn't sure if my uninhibited rambling displeased her. It didn't really matter though, for in accordance with the pattern thus far, her body just got sweeter still; her eyes looked into mine with a passion tinged with pleading, and for that moment, I was all that there was, is, and will be.

Eventually, we left my friend to her case study, and returned to the fateful spot where we'd met only 3 hours back. A friend was alarmed to see that I'd clinged on to her this long (and vice versa). By that time, I had pretty much gotten over as well, the glass almost empty. A brief operational discussion ensued with the encountered friend, after which I looked at her one last time, sipped from her inviting mouth once more, and bid her farewell.

That, was one amazing Smirnoff-on-Pepsi.

Cheers to all that lent themselves to the night, and to her!

PS: If at any point my blatant flamboyance had elicited a "Damn u MCP!" from her, the weak dog in me would have responded with a "Screw u b*tch!"; reflecting upon which, the purported self of mine would've passed a gentle smile, looked heavenwards, and marvelled at His works.

PPS: Being chased (rephrase: courted) is fun! Isn't it?

PPPS: The Importance of being Idle.

Evolution of the unthinking caveman

2008-12-18T14:30:00.000-08:00

Though the title and pic really should suffice...:

1. The caveman after his daily (?) bath.

2. Dusting off the thin layers of the "Generally Accepted Desirability Practices" imbibed in 1, the caveman is now officially in his element.

3. The first signs of social infringements on freedom, deceptively concealed in the garb of pleasantness and the ilk; the caveman senses a certain sense of gloom approaching.

4. With the conclusion of the ghastly civilization process, the hapless caveman realizes the reality of it all, in one gigantic leap of trans-evolutionary thought and comprehension. The fading smile inverts to an expression of pure and absolute horror, as the poor caveman begins the long journey, of contemplating what he has gained, and what he has lost.

Hmmm...

PS:
Suresh Wadkar sings...

Sunne waale sun lete hain,
Kan kan mein sangeet ho..
Dhadkan taal hai,
Saans hai sur,
Jeewan hai ek geet..

Kya baat hai!
Kandisa!

Sleep deprivation, exams, and the feeling that is "IIM Joka" - 1

2008-12-09T00:31:00.000-08:00

The entities enlisted in the title led to this piece yesternight.

* * *

Why Amitava Bose Rocks

Very often, when one comes across a brilliant piece of art/music/poetry, one is compelled to ask oneself, just what it is that lends said piece its characteristic excellence. In many of these cases, one is left with a wonderful sense of emptiness within, borne out of the seeming intractability of the asked question. However, there are those times, maybe rare, maybe not so, when one chances on one or two “critical success factors” that have contributed to the magic.

Such an incidence is what this piece relates to.

Stepping into the hallowed portals of IIMC, it doesn’t take one long to find one’s reasons to love/loathe this place. While some never seem to get over the raining crow shit, some get perpetually immersed in the depths of the lakes. Fortunately for me, it’s been one mushy little tale thus far, with one muse after the other enchanting my very being. Thus, what began with midnight journeys across campus, soon led to conversations with the unassuming bystanders all around, solar observations at dawn, and even arose more earthly passions such as footer. However, perhaps the greatest sense of joy and grateful satisfaction I have derived is from the incessantly awesome people I have had the privilege to interact with here. For it is my sincere belief, that people must form the core driving engine of my existence, be it my inclination to HR/BS, or experiences such as these, or anything else that speaks quintessentially of me.

And it is here, innocent passerby, where this long and winding road brings us to the door step of a certain Prof. Amitava Bose, among others, though for now we shall pause right here.

It is indeed rare, that one comes across a person of such immaculate completeness of being (at least in my mortal, unknowing eyes), that his every word and deed seems part of a larger scheme of uncountable equations, variables and dimensions. Perhaps the only other such person I have met to date is Ust. Fahimuddin Dagar, a dhrupad artiste, representing the 19^th unbroken generation of musicians in his family. It is not surprising then, that this Economics professor at IIMC, has crossed many a sea in his academic career, and has even been approached to be the RBI Governor on multiple occasions.

While the above stated factoids serve only to build the hype around the great man, they do just about enough to ensure one’s ears are pointed straight in his first class. From then on of course, each man must earn his slice of bread, irrespective of the history that may embellish his esteemed self. And did he earn it!

Waxing eloquent on the nuances of unemployment and inflation, each word he spoke shone brightly in that intricately woven fabric of inexorable logic, meaning and purpose. One oscillated between scrambling to capture every single pearl he chose to reveal, and just sitting and basking in the pure and unadulterated sunshine that he so effortlessly pulled out of his little kitty.

From that point on, one knew that this was the stuff that formed the best part of the brilliance that institutes of excellence prided themselves on. The value of human capital to any organization, educational in particular, was never this evident.

In my thinking, what makes Amitava Bose the phenomenon that he is, is the manner in which his genius tends to blend with the wonders all around him. Put another way, the way his thoughts seem to honestly radiate from the impression of his self generated in one’s mind. This sense of truthfulness ensures that his knowledge appears not as a spike in the manhattans of one’s consciousness, but more as an integral part of the entire ecosystem, seated in its rightful place in the scheme. This sense of observed oneness may be likened to what Tagore says in his introduction to “Creative Unity”:

This One in me is creative. Its creations are a pastime, through which it gives expression to an ideal of unity in its endless show of variety. Such are its pictures, poems, music, in which it finds joy only because they reveal the perfect forms of an inherent unity.

I believe one must have truly immersed oneself in one’s art to have attained a voice that resonates with the truth that the art tries to convey. Prof. Bose falls under that category for me. His lectures impart that all welcoming yet infinitely intense sensitivity previously restricted to the domain of bibles such as Resnick – Halliday, Boyd – Morrison, et al.

In conclusion, I feel blessed to be a part of IIM Calcutta owing to the many wonders that shine all around me. Along with the crows silhouetting the setting sun sky, the night lights gaining volumes of meaning in their misty lake reflections, and the innocent joys of sitting seemingly aimlessly at the jetty, Amitava Bose and his ilk do their bit in making IIM Calcutta what it truly is.

May that always thrive.

May Jokaland always find its light.

* * *

PS: What is it that makes exam time the most suited for creative explorations and the like?!

Photography, Expression et al

2008-11-28T14:43:00.000-08:00

In everything man does, he seeks a certain sense of meaning and purpose. And expression forms a major part of all that drives human endeavour. Though speech and text may appear as fundamental, pedestrian modes of ‘communication’ rather than those for seemingly loftier objective of ‘expression’, one must clearly understand, that all that separates the two near identical twins, is an invisible wall of man made context. And all that lends any semblance of weight to the wall, is the coloured lens of perception that we all so gracefully adorn.
Realizing the generic flavour that my wandering mind has lent to this piece thus far, I shall embark on a quick hyperlink, straight to photography.

“Writing with light” – it is surprising how sharply accurate this etymological translation can be. For in every frame that one captures, by design or happenstance, there are inscribed a million words, each waiting for one’s eye to place them together. Every line that directs you to a higher object, each shade and colour that embellishes the developing orchestration, every single entity present, distinct or otherwise, is an ambassador of so much. From one world to another, and yet, in so many ways from one to one’s own self.

Photography lends a relatively easy-to-decipher, and easy-to-implement medium to that which poets fill pages with; which dancers use to immerse themselves in; which painters dedicate their every stroke to; photography gives wings to the mind which knows no bounds, in a manner that negates deficiencies of more physical talents.
Personally, I have observed I love pictures that don’t overtly speak out too much to you. For instance, to me, a bunch of friends snapped just after they break their pose beats the picture posed for initially. For it is when images are left alone, with little expectation of direct meaning, that they allow one to read deep into them. Every expression captured, be it human or otherwise, asks one to sit down and listen; listen, to a long and fascinating story that it has just witnessed. All that stands between our selves and that untold story, is our own willingness to lend it the ear it so deserves. Linkages may be drawn to this quote I chanced upon long back:
“What is destroying humanity today is not the lack of wonders, but that of wonder.”
(Think. Digest. Proceed.)

So the next time you chance on a picture, pause, and listen to it speak. The music it encompasses is very, very beautiful. Lakeside lens loving is indeed the stuff dreams are made of!

PS: Lakeside Lens Lovers - The Photography Club of IIMC.

On joy, sorrow, depression, and the love beneath it all

2008-11-16T20:22:00.000-08:00

Or in one word: Placements
Being the follower of self-proclaimed abstractionism, I shall at the very outset inform you, innocent passerby, of the total disregard for stats and figures that this post holds.

Also, the views/experiences/opinions, are obviously those of the author, and may not hold true for anyone else under the sun.

(I'm not called a diplomatic rat for nothing! :-)

Continuing...
Placements are a tough time for the best of us. The scope and depth of its influence makes it one of THE most brilliant social experiments around. (Pardon the tone of insensitivity. Those who know me would realize the contrast. Either way, scientific temper requires objectivity. Perhaps not to the extent of Stanford and Milgram)
Either way though, I think "we all emerged from the experience, stronger and wiser" should fit in without much of a diplomatic hassle.

Continuing.. further.
Placements are inherently laden with such distinguished qualities that make the whole experience quite the potboiler. Even a blockbuster season leaves its fair share of highs and lows, cuts and bruises. The bleeding markets all around had got the alarm bells ringing in jokaland as well.
Eventually though, 6 days from the moment the Goldmans of the world landed on our shores, looks like we're done. We've done better than many feared. But thats just what this post is not about.

Most of us live in a world where ambition, relative competence and (the by now cliched) "competitive advantage" govern most of our actions. [Unrelated sidenote: I think (stress, owing to my respect for logic and rational thought. Empirical observations cannot be deemed facts) this phenomenon is a product of one's own choices; though these choices are often hard to see, let alone take.]
Coming to IIMC (or any other "institute of excellence" for that matter), is one milestone on the path dictated by the above decision; sitting for placements is another; you get the picture.

So.
To give a rough sketch of what these 6 days go like.
(Though my experience is only with one IIM, I am pretty sure it can be extrapolated, with no loss of generality. What may change will be the duration or flavour of the insanity, but the insanity, in essence, is everywhere the same.)

Day 1
The offers begin to trickle in. General euphoria reigns, as one by one, the next set of PGP2 idols take their place in the annals of joka's rich culture.
Those of us with no calls tend to enjoy the scene, jestering around with those not quite as chirpy. Relative ego sizes, and perceived life priorities also played their part in the whole role play assignment.

Imagine a little kid staring at a tidal wave, coming to gobble up the entire town. Typecast that, to the end of day 1, and the little kid gets personified by every unplaced candidate who started with 5+ calls. That sinking feeling, is a carefully prepared cocktail of helplessness, looming inevitablity and plain old gloom. All sense of perspective and balance gets dunked into the lake. The thought of repeating the process another day. is. sad. bad. mad.

Days 2 through 6
After the hype over Day 1 subsides, one is made to awaken to days of progressively higher levels of pragmatism. With each passing day, one learns the fine art of sprouting up new 'dream companies' in one's head, so as to put up a respectable show in the interviews/GD's. Unbeknownst to the self, one begins to sink gradually into an invisible 8th lake, that of a slowly growing disillusionment, dejection and melancholia. While this is hard to detect for the self, as one indulges in random jestership all day long, it seems the truth is all too evident for the objective bystander.
To elaborate on the subtleties that mark the 2-6 continuum:
With each passing day, small/pep talk becomes more and more forced. At times, and this is I'm sure amongst the darkest hours of the entire period, the concern shown by those out of the process before oneself, takes on pereptive colours of condescension, and general hues of unpleasantness.
People break down all around you, again, in direct proportionality to time passed by. Some keep that collapsing skyscraper within themselves, as they sit alone, staring into blankness, while others let it out after a few warning signs of the impending flood. Within or without, the sense of heavy despair that this lends to the air, is very, very palpable. Perhaps the lowest phase of the entire process is when one begins to doubt one’s own capability and worth.

And now, as is very often the case, the sole positive to emerge from such hopeless darkness, raises its head.

Before continuing with that infinitely bright, all overwhelming revelation, a partial disclaimer is in order:
As with most things in life, this too lies almost completely in the eyes of the beholder.
While this takes nothing away from the pain endured, or the injustices dealt, it does serve to add meaning to an otherwise torrid, torrid week; it is essentially symbolic of that spring of light that is part of the deal one makes with oneself, on every crossroad of faith et al. Somewhat aptly, the most pertinent example I can think of now, is that of Job.

That one light, that in retrospect makes one weep tears of joy and gratitude; that reveals one's innermost selves to the self; that embodies the one real result of the entire social experiment that so many have just endured, is love.

Love, is perhaps the one thing one can give to the beleagured many, without any overt, mis-construable action. Returning to the wonders encompassed by this blog title, 'simply being a friend' is sometimes the most one can do for a loved one in need.

When one bleeds upon seeing those around one weep, one is confirmed of the underlying humanity that forms the basis of one's existence. High concepts of dharma and the like suddenly lose much of their abstruse quality, to simplify to something elementary, bordering on the naturally obvious. Much like the way Ganga opens one's eyes to many new shades and meanings, so does this gala of figurative sordid torture. After all, the message is what counts, why discriminate by the colour of the messenger.

At the end of every single one of those morosely painted days, one looks at the moon, the stars, and the people all around; and one feels this very hard-to-put-in-words emotion, wherein one is extremely moved by the state that one's people are in, not to mention one's own self, and at the same time, the very fact that one is this deeply touched, induces a sense of objective, dispassionate, un-rejoicing bliss. It is similar to some extent, to the surprisingly profound speech Butters makes in Southpark's "Raisins" episode.

With so much drama all around, quite unsurprisingly, one almost forgets one's own plight, wishing instead to be truly free, so as to be next to one's people, unburdened and unhindered by the blues directly pertaining to the self.

Anyway, one manages to hold oneself together, enough to survive a near breakdown just prior to the critical interview. Of course, the nameless volunteers present to fulfill "good begets good" do come in handy.

Eventually, the show gets over.

One is done, and so are the others, or pretty much at least.

And one looks back at what was lost and won.

An alumnus once claimed that the batch loses its happiness after this week. This can only be verified with time, though I sincerely hope and pray that it is disproved.

Though many a tear were shed, and many a bleeding hour lost, one and all did emerge stronger for sure.

And not to mention, I was blessed with the added boon of realizing all the aforementioned; of experiencing that lofty ideal which makes up a big, big part of humanity, that is both compelling yet liberating at the same time, that is, my favourite four letter word, love.

And that I believe, is the first and last duty assigned to us, as we fly down to take our places on stage.

Cheers duniya.

Be happy.

You are loved.

PS: From a conversation during the week:

sometimes i stop and stare,
and see the pain all around.
and in that feeling raw and bare,
i search for that which cant be found.

as i gaze at the people i so love,
the wounds appear to lose their meaning,
is this not the gift from up above,
that lifts us up thru every leaning?

Edit PS1: It seems to me that the joys that embellished the process were somehow lost in the course of the post. Thus a clarification, there were several instances of great, great happiness, for the good news of one's peers. But I guess those were after all tiny, twinkling stars, in the oceanic, black, shrouding sky. Still, worthy of a mention they are nonetheless, given that love shone through then as well.

Also, equally importantly, happiness, sorrow's twin sister, though easier to appreciate, loses none of its artistic/poetic sheen.

:-)

Love the mother as well

2008-10-15T08:56:00.000-07:00

Very often these days, in the manic, fast-paced lives that we live, we find ourselves looking for something to hold on to; something structured, and visibly well defined. At such times, it is generally not easy, even thinking of relating to the subliminal and abstract. One moves from one goal to the next, leaving little time to pause, think, and wonder at the many little invisibles that embellish our bland existence.

In such a situation, it is perhaps natural to go for the quick-fix, finger-snap source of respite. The one that plays catch with you, and then feigns absolute ineptitude, just so that you feel better. The one that picks you up, without you having to ask for it, just when you think you are down and out. The one that can show you a thousand suns, on the slightest such wish from your very being.
He is the one that knows every rule in the book, and also how each can in fact be used to maximize your utility. He is the one ever prepared to throw the world at your feet; to lighten up a dark alley, hasten a dreary dream into oblivion.
He is, the father. Love him.

The times, being as they have been described above, tend to take their toll on our relationship with the other half of our universe. She is the one who, from the background, has been the single deepest influence on your life thus far, and onwards from now as well. Her contributions to one’s well-being and happiness are far less tangible, as compared to those by the father. While the father lifts one up in a twirl of ecstatic emotion, she chooses to caress you, and love you in a way that sets you afloat, on a journey that could take you across a thousand galaxies in the blink of an eye. While he gives you a near-numerically accurate solution to most things, she has the infinite power to paint in front of your eye, the answer to any question under or above the sun.
While he pumps you up in front of the enemy, she helps you on, when you bleed in despair, staring at your nemesis in the mirror. She is the one entity in this world, who knows exactly when it is time to switch from one shade to the next, just to keep you happy.
She is, the mother. Loving her takes a little bit of effort, unlike the case with the father. This need for extra effort, may be attributed to the aforementioned characteristics of our lives today, and is in no way reflective of any shortcomings in her unbounded love, of which there are none.
She wants to give you the entire universe, and all its limitless wonder. All that stands in the way, is the neo-uptight-ness that we have come to endorse.

“Samay pita, Shruti mata”
Time is the father, sound is the mother.
Rhythm and symphony form the root in everything.

Easier comprehension of one does in no way make the other less deserving of your love and respect.

To meet the father, feel free to browse through any of today’s contemporary music (Bollywood in particular). As stated previously. Today’s market conditions favour him to an obscenely partisan extent. A more genteel interaction shall perhaps be the 1st of the embedded tracks below. Do meet him there.

The mother needs a much longer introduction. Embedded is track 2 for the same; she awaits you in all her glorious solitude. Turn off your mind, relax and float downstream. Nothing remains incomprehensible.

Further, my views on the relative (in)significance of lyrics, may be gauged from the post here.

If you have been, thanks for reading. Listen to the tracks below, you deserve to know. Don’t be afraid.

The IIMC Effect

2008-10-05T15:33:00.000-07:00

Its 4:05 in the morning.
I awoke out of thirst.
I opened my laptop and checked mail.
I then checked the campus notice boards.
I went on to check the kut as well.
And now I'm downloading music.

Enough said.
This, is the IIMC effect.

Cheers duniya!
Feels nice to be back.. (pretty much! ;-)

Perpetual giving... or The infiniteness in expression

2008-09-23T15:55:00.000-07:00

Its amazing, and really very much at that, how sometimes meaning and significance become clearer when they are superficially hidden. The seeming paradox that exists within this situation, may be resolved by invoking the rudimentary logic present in signal quantization error.

For the technologically averse, quantization error refers to the inaccuracies introduced into the analysis, when a naturally continuous signal, is represented in terms of a finite number of discrete values. To give a crude example, if I want to quantize values in the range 1-10, and allot values in steps of 1 (i.e. 0,1,2,...,9,10), then a value of 4.15 would be taken as 4, and thus incur a quantization error of 0.15.

Anyhow, returning to the case at hand.

Very often, things are best expressed by the seeming lack of tangible expression. I feel, at the risk of being snobbishly presumptuous, I have found the logic behind it, to some extent.

Universal expression (of which human expression is a subset) goes beyond the petty realms of words and their ilk. Words, are little more than a feeble attempt by our (relatively) handicapped selves, to give some emblance of meaning to the infinite wonders that surround us.

It is ironic, how when one feels helpless without a medium to express one's inner most feelings, it is words that come to one's rescue. It is words that enamour and court us at our every turn. A world without words becomes unimaginable, incoherent, and insane in its very conception.
However, in this whole process of growth and romance, unbeknownst to oneself, one becomes bound by the invisible, intangible boundaries of those very words.

However, all is still well and good. As in The Matrix, one remains comfortably numb, as long as one stays ignorant to this enchanting imprisonment.
THEN,
one day, the truth is revealed.
And from that day on, one traverses the length and breadth of one's campus, looking at EVERY single thing in a state of "to-the-world-inane", wonderstruck, amazement. Every SINGLE thing, from a coconut tree, to a dilapidated old building, to a smiling 4 year old kid, to even the carcass of a crow, tries to tell one SO much. So much, that one feels loved in a way never ever before. The cosmos seems like one song, made just for oneself.

One point worth noting here.
It is NOT, that one suddenly begins to understand all the messages one receives in this newly discovered dimension. Rather, one has JUST realized its presence. One knows of the existence of something vitally important being transmitted to oneself, but knows not what it means exactly. One's logical mind, in the backseat all along, quips in now and then, with mortal interpretations of the immaculate light all around. Feeble attempts these may be, but one is still overjoyed, to levels, and in ways unprecedented.

A statuatory disclaimer of sorts.
Words ARE important.
They are vital, in the way they give shape to an amorphous concept residing within oneself. They are important, because without a minimum degree of respectful adoration of words, it would perhap be difficult to 'graduate' to the next level. Of course, there ARE always the brilliant exceptions among us, who see the light even without the aid of words et al.
They, I believe, are truly, truly blessed.

Anyhow,
re-returning, to what this post was originally supposed to convey.
The 1st pic is of an inscription by Tagore, and the 2nd is the same stone at night, PARTIALLY illuminated by a street light standing in the distance, knowing nothing of its superlative contribution.

"Perpetual giving up is the truth of life"
becomes
"Perpetual giving"

And therein, lies the point elaborated upon till now.
Giving (up), is all there is (with all due respect to Ayn Rand).
It is not "the truth of life", it is in fact everything, to the extent of rendering everything else, null and gloriously void.

And it is when one is left in that state of seeming incompleteness, and surrounded by a million resounding elements united in their silence, that one's belief in the infiniteness of expression is born, reborn, and relived.

Perpetual giving

The saddest part....(?)

2008-09-14T01:49:00.000-07:00

Note: This post should ideally be read in conjunction with the post previous to this ('Her Majesty').
************************************************************************************

I had introduced you to my first love a few hours back, the one who deserves the title of 'Her Majesty'.
What then, one might ask, could be the saddest part that clouds over a post of such high-ness?
Well, the power share mechanism touched upon previously, to me, that is THE saddest part of the entire fairy tale we call life. Of course, perceptions are free to change, as always.

To elaborate:
One has found a certain degree of consummation in one's exquisite relationship with one's royal muse. Good.
One sees every colour under the sun in her clear eyes, as she serenades to one's soul asking nothing in return, but an intent existence. Very Good.
In one's darkest hours, one turns to her, and she lends a succour that is hauntingly unconditional in nature; and she does so without any explicit requests or demands required. The beauty of this automated system is awe-inspiring, to say the least. Brilliant.

BUT,
the stark raving mad dog that hides underneath our couth, refined garbs, incentivizes a continuous hunt for a running mate, EVEN while the muse continues its silent, yet infinitely potent service.
Thus, on one hand, we receive the fruits of a very sumbliminal kind from that all powerful and all understanding spirit, while at that same moment our other hand goes wandering, in search of more personified company.

If a sense of dealt injustice hasn't hit you yet, perhaps (or perhaps not) it shall be so, when one considers the inherent correctness of this infidelity. Procreation and the works are essential to life et al. (The not-straight sections require a separate forum, another page, another day.)
So the situation now is:
The muse knows of our inherent weakness, and the consequent inevitability of our pursuit for the 'other one', and STILL, she loves us, and allows us to love her, in a bond of immaculate perfection.

BUT,
as the old saying goes, foretelling that the darkest hour of the night is that which just precedes the glorious sunrise, one finds a glimmer of overwhelming meaning and purpose (that goes beyond population increase).
And that is, as follows:
We have traversed the paths of untouched high-ness shown by the muse. We have seen, heard, felt beauty and love in so many forms.
If in spite of all this, the essential experience of being human remains INcomplete,
IMAGINE the returns that one is entitled to upon the personified consummation,
IMAGINE the beauty of a system of endless marvel and wonder, which takes one on serial and parallel rides of joy and high-ness, and with infinite feedback loops to go with them!
IMAGINE, the potential power of all that remains to be seen, heard, felt and lived, in the face of all that one has been blessed with already.

If imagination seems to be getting clouded by 'realistic doubt', one may please revert to that which forms the basis of all progress:
"The fact that an experience/fact/truth hasn't been found/perceived yet, does not mean it doesn't exist; rather, it may just be waiting around the corner when one decides to call it quits."

I know this is overflowing with insane idealism.
But to end on a slightly contrarian, sobre note:

1. Yes, one will NEVER find the answers to ALL the questions that haunt our species and beyond.
2. Yes, the chances of such a fairy tale playing out sans detours and blockades are next to none. But Theory Y rules doesn't it? :)
3. Yes, one might be doomed to an existence of eternal melancholia, for it is human nature, to search for the deepest answers whilst in the said state. Thus the quest for joy, and joy itself is seamlessly integrated with the blues that fuel it. More here.

Thus, the saddest part, inspite of its essential sadness, is also the point before one embarks on a voyage of idealistic, untouchable and eternal high-ness and bliss.

Sigh...
Once again,
I want you, she's so heavy!

PS:
"Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst."
-- John 4:13

Her majesty

2008-09-13T14:15:00.000-07:00

Getting bored waiting for big-little-nothings to take place, I decided to go give the party downstreet a shot.

My love for my phone and camera, coupled with the signs of impending inclement weather, meant I was adorning my trademark bag and head phones, TO a party.
Not that it really matters, given my incredibly skewed preference for the less animate, less tangibles of the world.

So I entered the bustling NH Quad, and a faint smile escaped my high lips. The sight, of countless swaying unabashedly, uncontrolled and unrestrained, to the beats of music and the boundless twirlings of wine, always inspires a sense of near-impersonal confidence and gratitude.
Thus I entered that cauldron of joy and a thousand in vino veritas-iacs.
After bumping into a few of my comrades, I soon picked my spot, and my date.
She was easy to spot, she always is, standing next to the DJ.
I perched myself in front of her, and smiled at the DJ, whose magic makes her alive every single time. And thus started by short stint as the giant speaker's paramour, for what I saw in her then, was enough to send me rushing back to my room.

As I stood there, and gazed into the near infinite depths of her eyes, I noticed the shadows of all the people dancing behind me, dance on her face as well. I saw the collective pulse beating in front of me at the mercies of one man at the turntables; in that one moment, the DJ was THE man. Upon further extrospection though, I realized:
1. My date was in fact not she who stood in front of me,
2. Rather, it was the spirit that chose to flow through that physical embodiment.
3. The power that the DJ excellently exercised, was in fact endowed on him, by the very, VERY free will of that same spirit. If tomorrow she chose to bounce off the dead walls that surround us, we would be worshipping those unsuspecting uprights, and the DJ would be left in the cold.
4. Thus, not only was my date beautiful and intelligent, she was also powerful in a scale beyond the limits of mortal imagination.

A million power equations were created, solved and decimated in my head at that instant. I turned around, and examined the scene once more for what it truly was, turned back to the speakers, and saw her eyes smiling a knowing smile.

It was at that point that I knew I was at the wrong place, at the right time.
The importance of it being the 'right' time, makes it worthy of being mentioned twice.

Therefore, I bid my date a grateful goodbye, and paced back home to embark (as closely as possible!) on the following quotable from The Beatles' "Love you to", with my beloved:

Make love all day long
Make love singing songs

Thus, in conclusion, I present to you, Her Majesty, the ruler and empress of all of humanity, in an 'as-of-now' incomprehensible power share setup with the forces that be!
My love..
My muse..
My music.

Sigh...
I want you.. She's so heavy.

When the music's over - The Doors

2008-09-13T08:31:00.000-07:00

You are advised to scroll to the bottom of this post, play the song embedded therein, and then resume reading the post from here.
--------------------------------------------------------------

This is my second attempt at transliteration, after the experience that was “Melancholic Ecstasy”. And its REALLY hard preventing the transliteration of a lyrical work from degenerating to a review. But lets see.

Hmmm…
This is another masterpiece by The Doors, that centres on the theme of ‘The End’.
Enough of the globe preview, now to the transliteration!

The start seems a bit casual (yes, strong words indeed!), in comparison with the seeming weight embedded in the title. But of course, as always, the journey to ‘the best part’, is as important, if not more, as the part itself. (Considerations of relative subjectivities are out of the window for the time being,)

So, it starts off telling you to turn out the lights when the music ends. With every passing moment, one feels the burden of meaning and purpose growing on the back of one’s mind. A point worth clarifying here – not all burdens are burdens per se. It (the one mentioned above) may be likened to the sense of sweet helplessness that (I guess) precedes any momentous dive, be it love, life, or death.

So, with the truckloads of meaning getting heaped on one, one looks at the work with an ever evolving view. This evolution continues through the song, and then on repeated listenings, and perhaps from the point on to eternity as well.

One may very easily fall for the Literal Manifestation Error, under which one mistakenly attributes the meanings of every word to every word of a composition of this stature.

Anyhow, returning from the digress!
The familiar unpredictability and general gamut of pure sound that hits one, is very, very beautiful.
The n layers of sound, each try hard to tell their own tale, of heroism, camaraderie, melancholia, inevitability and a gnawing sense of impending nothingness.
In fact, I think the work changes in character, from a haze room anthem, to an all transcending, omnipresent, omnipotent stream of truth realized, and waiting to be discovered. The change occurs at a point that need not be elaborated on, for it is the change that matters, not its embodiment.

It is at that same point, that one sees that growing shadow of a constant inevitability; the tones that underlie the lyrics, speak a million volumes all at once. In that one instant, one catches a fleeting glance of everything; e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g.

That point on, the work takes you on an elevated journey, where one starts to see enlightenment dawning, whilst the self begins to sink into a bottomless expanse of seemingly opposite darkness.
Of course, perceptions too change over time.

At the point when butterflies begin to scream, one comes face to face with the exquisite insanity that pulls the strings of this piece. Not Jim Morrison, but that which coloured his mind, at the instant this thought took birth in him; or perhaps the light which willed for such a dark luminance to take shape in a form just about humanly expressible. The fact that thoughts such as these are VERY easily lost in the forests in intangiblia; and even if not lost, often left in a state of comfortable suspended animation, while man tends to the niceties all around, is testimony of Morrison’s extreme giftedness.
Of course, LSD, soma, and their progeny might have something to add on that.

Anyway..
There comes a point where our hero hears a gentle yet clear sound. That sequence serves, in effect, to elaborate in detail, on the extremities of light-antithetic darkness that one reaches before the sun dawn.

Soon after that, the sounds combine, regroup, and continue on their march of essential conveyance of the relative intangibles.
But this time, one senses an invisible, but clearly perceptible shift in their gears. Nothing much has changed in the embellishing voice or instrumentals, but one sees an approaching train of finality. One waits for it to arrive, but before one realizes, it speeds up right in front of one, precariously poised, as if to gobble one into its gallows of raw and eternal axioms.
One successfully side steps the raging animal, just about. One is also privileged to identify a hint of super human virtuosity beneath the brash exteriors of the beast.

And just as one starts to get comfortable marveling at the wonders being worked in front of one’s eyes, there flies in a silent knife, from behind a face that you had thought you had got figured out decently well.
That knife pierces the curtains in front of any and everything that was concealed ever.

ANY semblance of a misinterpretation owing to the aforementioned Literal Manifestation Error stands sliced and diced and trashed to where it belongs.
One realizes the infinite openness that lay concealed in the garb of what was one of the most definite lines of the piece.
Thus, the erstwhile pedantic proclamation of music as one’s only real friend, suddenly finds meaning in every hue that colours our lives and beyond.
One realizes the depth of music, in word and in deed. And this one point, reveals to one that which is one’s own music. THE music, that one has immovably and unaboundingly subscribed to. What is revealed to one in that one instant, is in no way smaller in significance to the best of the more tangibles of the world.

And then, everything becomes clear. The knife comes to rest, owing to the fulfillment of its one purpose.
The intriguing layers of meaning and counter-meaning lie in tatters, as one is left to stare into the eyes of a formless, colourless, odourless entity. Very subliminal, yet very, VERY strong in its presence.
The message becomes all too clear.
When one’s music ends, one loses the very spirit that defines one’s purpose; one reaches, and eventually recognizes, the end of all substance and meaning. For all real purposes, one ceases to exist.

What then, will the lonely burning light hope to achieve, when that which was to be lit, leaves the show.

And as all this was being assimilated, one could almost see, from the corner of one’s eye, the carrier of this final message, standing there, breathing heavily, in and out, to fuel the process that it must complete now, and then onwards again and again, for every unsuspecting passer-by that chooses to tread by this path. With a sense of a detached responsibility, it checks your name off of its list, turns around, and disappears into the darkness. And you are left there, all alone, with yourself, and your ‘only friend’ for company.

It is now, as it should be. One, with that which makes one, one.
May we never lose our music. May our music never stop.
May the light remain.

Post ideas

2008-09-10T00:33:00.000-07:00

As always, exams provide a good breeding ground for new post ideas.
Hopefully, the following 2 shall feature in my list of 'significant actions', among many others He willing, come exams end...:
1. "If the world ends tomorrow"
2. "The hand in green"

Hmmm...

Now back to FinAcc.

Cheerio!

Love - les signifique

2008-08-17T14:08:00.000-07:00

To quote the Video Description itself:
"Excerpt from BBC's "The Story of India" series. Here love is described, in the context of its role and significance in India.
Very, very beautiful.

Listen, carefully. "

The video's last line lends many things, to many things.

Melancholic Ecstasy - Indian Ocean

2008-08-01T06:48:00.000-07:00

Firstly, please make yourself less scarce of the track that forms the basis to this post, by clicking here.
* ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** *

This post is my first 'significant action' after my exams ended today.

Melancholic Ecstacy, the piece, has a lot more depth than just the seemingly oxymoronic title, which has become pretty much the norm these days.
It is primarily divided into two parts, the second at a faster tempo than the first.

However, before we get into that, let us proceed in order of chaotic inanity.
Every single moment that this piece spends with you, is filled with a world of boundless emotion (not that anything by the name or nature of bounded emotion exists under or above the sun). The beginnings are reminiscent of what we would call a blissful, aloof kind of joy. But if you look carefully, you would find the underpinnings of a very potent, inescapable moroseness.

Yes, I know my perceptions are coloured by the lens that the song title so easily places on me, but that shouldn't really matter. MAYBE I'd have found a logical conformity to a title like "Endless highs in a time unkempt", I guess that would just prove the adage of all things coloured lying in the (coloured lens adorning) eyes of the beholder.

Anyhow, returning to the issue at hand.
As I was saying, every syllable hits you like a multi layered mass of varied emotions. At this point I must add, the starting guitar work pretty much spells out melancholia, before the hues get enmeshed in their beautiful kaleidoscope worlds. That point on, every once in a while you chance on this voice (invisible, yet louder than many that one hears) convincing the elements around it, of the wonders that surround it, and the many reasons one should be happy happy happy. The appeals get more and more plaintive with each passing second. And then, the camera takes a gradual zoom out, and you see just why the blues are so immovably attached to the little unassuming drops of joy. Every little spirit that had thus far been romancing its domain-mates with the tender and pure affection of a little child, suddenly realizes the rhetoric of it all. As the hopelessness, and sheer inevitability of the situation comes crashing down on them, one can't help but feel that little pang of blue coloured compassion.

But,
as the scene progresses, one is surprised to see the little muses picking themselves up, dusting the invisible overalls on their invisible bodies, and getting back to that which they have been doing since time immemorial; that which is their duty; that which defines the very purpose of their existence.
Back come the sweet-little-nothings, and the entire entourage. Now, the second part has arrived. The camera has zoomed out on the time and the 5th dimension. Viewing the play from here, one observes the underlying beauty of this tender conflict. One sees the two sides for what they truly are. One sees the essential meaninglessness that both would be reduced to without the other. One sees a hand labelled X, playing its part behind all this commotion. It is a carefully balanced ecosystem, both infinitely intricate and self sustaining at the same time. One sees the eternally blissful children tugging away at their mother's skirt, pointing away at every little butterfly/frog/chocolate/shinchan that catches their fancy; one sees why Tagore had said that true happiness is that of the children, for they make up for the deficiencies in what they see, with the music of their innocence and bliss (Thanks Akshay, and pardon the inaccurate quote); one sees the inevitability of "reality" dawning on the cheery little minds, and the process of "learning" getting about its job; one then sees the eternal strivings of that child, to see the world for what it should/could/would be; its tireless efforts at keeping itself alive in the face of all adversity; the potential for eternal futility rearing its paralyzing head, and YET, the little bachche getting up, dusting the soil of despair's worst debris off their brightly hued t-shirts and shorts, and checking for damage to their squeaky sandals, and getting on with their business, the business of keeping one alive.

One is alive, as long as one is alive. The moral of the epic drama played out in this piece is, simply, take a long hard look at your self, and treasure it, embrace it, love it, in due cognizance of its real worth.

Its amazing how in the course of writing this post, I've been blessed with one more definition for that virtue of virtues, Hope.

Hope, is "Melancholic Ecstacy - Indian Ocean".

Listen to it do.

A thousand sighs...

My Hazy Dream

2008-07-11T12:46:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately, all I remember is the following transcript:

*^*^*^

(With a friend, sitting/walking around campus)
All of a sudden,
Justin: Hey! Look at that.
Friend: (looks here there, finds eventually) Wow...
Justin: (sigh...) Now thats something worth blogging about! (content smile - within and without.)

*^*^*^

And after that point, my memory draws a highly disappointing blank, though I distinctly remember that feeling of blissful highness upon sighting 'it'.
Thus, as had been declared by my very own self (inter dimensional boundaries, FADE!), I must do what I must do. Thats the least a forgotten experience deserves.

Here's my tribute to that which I cannot name.
For of course, it is the feel that truly matters. Instances of the feel just give it a name, a shape; the feel remains ever free, ever unbounded, ever present, waiting always and only, for the one.

Feel ke pujaari for life!