...some random crap

I feel numb. Numb…now when I speak this word, I realize that it refers to something completely different from what I always thought it did. Things always made me believe that it means blankness, a state of void where nothing exists. Perhaps what one experiences with a few kilos of weed running in his blood. Or something when one succeeds (or fails?) in detaching himself from any pain…the state primarily caused by a state of extreme happiness or the lack of it. Today when I say this word…I realize how wrong I was…no, correction, I don’t realize…I just think I realize. If what I thought sums up the meaning of numbness actually sums it up…then it can mean anything but numbness. If I can define it, if I can feel it…then perhaps I am anything but numb. Numbness is when I stop feeling…even stop feeling numb. When you walk out of the funeral of a loved one and don’t even feel or realize that during the entire cremation ceremony, not for a moment you realized what the death of that loved one means. Its when all that you can think of is that you wont get to talk to that person ever again. That’s it. No pain. Just a weird silence of senselessness that one not very often finds oneself in.

In the midst of the wormhole of emotions, one suddenly realizes that he doesn’t know what these emotions are.

I dont care if it doesn't rain

A drop of sweat trickles down my forehead to my brow bordering the whiskers of my eyes, like a thirsty rattle-snake treading through the sands of the Thar. The weather forecasts last night were not encouraging. I think its touching 47 degrees outside. Am lying flat on my bed waiting for a whiff of air to brush my sweating forearms and face. I have been waiting for quite some time now. This silence…this blanket of stillness…there is a strange numbness that seems to have fallen upon everything around…not like the dewdrops of a white winter morning that fall on the sleeping surface of sleeping leaves rustling softly in the chill of the fog, but like a thick soot that falls from the chimney of the square-rectangle-edged factory, on the faces of the silent laborers, who, darkened with the tar, stare aimlessly into the grey oblivion of the stationary chasms of time. In the metal of the stationary fan above me, I see the reflection of the Da Vinci’s man, limbs all stretched, pinned to the bed like a ravished butterfly, staring drowsily at its reflection in the metal of the fan above it. Quiet. My room smells of rotten time. My armpits smell of rotten onions. I am sweating. Had it been some other day, I would have been restlessly trying to ease myself, but strangely enough…I am still. I can feel my eyelashes soaking in sweat, but I do not move to clean them dry. There is something inside my head that stops me. The thought of you. I hear a hazy whistling sound in the background which doesn’t seem to die. But I am not feeling uncomfortable…because, perhaps, today I am learning one of the most important lessons of my life. Just a few days before my life is to enter a new phase, I am learning to do something that I have never been able to do my entire life.

I am learning to let things go.

Nothing seems to pain me any longer.

PS: I don’t care if it doesn’t rain even today.

A Tribute to Him

Its raining outside. I know, not just because of the sound sight smell of it…I know it because I have just come in. Some 15 minutes back when it started to rain, I said adieu to my books, got out of the bed, wore my slippers, removed them (???)…and went out! For the first time in the last 10 hours, I could appreciate the weather…and not curse the electricity board (for the abundant power supply to the city already enjoying the hearty shower of the blessings by our very own sun god (pun intended (for the lame ones who dint get the joke))), lousy fan companies (for making fans lousy enough to silently retire during a 41 degree C afternoon, leaving some miserly souls to thunder-wonder at their sudden un-heroic departure), mosquitoes for biting in all the wrong places (you know what I mean) and myself for missing the aims while trying to squash them with a slap (and hitting myself in those very wrong places). Keeping my hands on the rail, I stretched my neck out and let the drops fall on my face (and then I also remembered to remove my glasses). I felt a different sensation run through me. I smelled a different fragrance fill my nose. And when I opened my eyes, I saw different colours! “But rains supposed to be just colourless water, isn’t it?” I thought. To see if it was really colours pouring down in that midnight shower, I asked my right hand to go under the shower, and I asked my eyes to follow carefully to detect the first tint of colour to fall on my hand…it did (the hand)…and they did (the eyes). It was actually colours pouring from the heavens!

I stood there in sheer amazement for about 5 minutes…looking at my hands get motleyed and rainbowed in the most beautiful and the transparent of the colours, and then decided to get back. While returning, I noticed the weird yet-unwitnessed freshness that that plant had taken up…or did the rain do it? (I suddenly also noticed that I had been smiling this while). Returned to me bed, got up, walked up to the mirror…bitch that I am, I still wanted to check if colours really poured. And what I saw was more astonishing that the rain itself. One look at the person in the mirror told me that the plant alone hadn’t taken up that weird freshness…the rain had done something to me as well. I saw a radiance in the being in front of me…I had never been so happy to see myself ever; weird, isn’t it?

And now, sitting straight in my bed, I think of equally weird things. First, my feet would not leave the ground; remember, I removed my slippers before going out?; even now that I am in my bed, my feet are firmly stationed on the wet marbles, spreading the colours of the magic rain in all sorts of places in the room. Why???

I don’t know!

Secondly, why do I feel these colours have been following me since evening? Not that I am sad about or anything…but just that, you know, its kind of unusual if everything around becomes so colourful and charismatic! Does “he” have anything to do with it?

I don’t know!

Maybe he does. I think it all happened after I met him this evening. Ok, let me not indulge any more in these cheap thrills of suspense and tell you that this “he” is my 30 months old cousin. As I entered his house today (cribbing and cursing the electricity board, lousy fans, mosquitoes, myself), I realized that my cousin was fast asleep (for a change)…but not for long. “He doesn’t sleep” aunt said. I knew. But today it stuck me. There was this 30 months old boy who doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat, doesn’t drink, doesn’t sit, definitely doesn’t walk, maybe sees, maybe hears, seems to understand when his mother scolds him (seems to)…just lies there aimlessly all day staring at something in the empty space. “The doctor suggests that we should relieve the child of this life”, aunt said and started weeping. “What life would he have even if he survives…”; “guruji said he would live for 55 years…but doing what? Lying there all these 55 years, possibly not even aware of the fact that what he is experiencing is a magic called life!” I closed my eyes…and felt a strange numbness drown me. And next when I opened my eyes, I saw these colours! I think he did something…

Yes, he did. In an instant he told me how blessed I am. I realized what I have…I have a life. I realized that when I say that life has been harsh with me…I am so wrong; because, apart from life, there is something that I have…a penchant for life…a passion that helps me survive whatever shit comes my way…the bug of optimism that helps me see good in everything and helps me glide through highs and lows of whatever life makes me see. I have something that not many people have…and surely my cousin doesn’t. I opened my eyes and saw colours!

And now…sitting straight in my bed with my feet still smuggling colours in the corners of my room, staring at my incensed radiated coloured palms, I want to believe that there is somewhere a god out there. I want to believe in His presence…But faith is not something that one can close his nose and gulp down like a foul-tasting medicine. But I want to believe...because I know, if there is anything like a god somewhere, he loves me. He does...more than he has ever loved anyone else...

I know the taste of water...

Sometimes I wonder if I am really mad. Mad to see the world the way I do…mad to do the stuff that I do…mad to think so much, to peep into the sparrows nest on my rooftop, and then smile to myself on seeing the feather family celebrating the new rays of sunlight of the new day…mad to stand like an idiot in the middle of a rain showered road, to let my nostrils fill with the aroma of the thirst of the dry heat suddenly satiated by the innocent droplets of water…mad to be what I am…

My common sense tells me that I might just actually be one…because you always say so. But I wonder if it would be so different being “you” and not “me”. Do you also feel your thoughts wandering into the tranquil zones of desire when you see birds flock near that temple, and fly in symmetry upon the slightest of the whispers to disturb the silence of their silent world…do you also feel your hands tremble with excitement on witnessing a lost ant meander here and there, and finally reunite with her kingdom, just to be lost in the crowd the very next moment…do you find yourself smiling when that pigeon shits on your vehicle every morning…do you feel all this? Or am I really mad?

You told me today that you don’t dream like me…but I don’t dream either!!! Trust me…I don’t. I don’t think of the mountains when I see the sun rising from beyond the horizon…I don’t dream of the hills when I see it go down. I don’t dream of heavens when I feel the raindrops on my eye lids…trust me, I don’t. All I do is feel…taste…see…sense…be. But is it really so different being “you” and not “me”? I want to know…to know how it feels to be you. What do you feel when the hushed evenings greet you with a bitter cup of coffee and suddenly you realize that there is more to life than just office and work…what do you feel when you take the first sip of that coffee, close you eyes, and drown into that couch like a kitten does in the comforting haven of its mother. How does wind feel like in your nostrils? How does that music feel like in your ears? How do the cold window panes feel like on your fingertips? How does it feel to be you…?

I know the taste of water…but I don’t know what it tastes like to you…

The day gone by...

Mirror Mirror…show me the day again…the day the world on this side of your surface showed me today. That walk down the river with the first of the birds picking on the first of the fishes…with the crystal droplets of water made priceless by the first of the sunrays falling on their innocent faces…with the early morning breeze, just awakened by the “new day” call, filling in my nostrils…with the holy chants from the temple down the holy stream. Mirror Mirror, show me the day and let me live it again

Show me the innocent untamed road through the woods again…show me the rusty metal of that unknown bridge again…those leafless trees, those treeless leaves…those voiceless lives, those lifeless voices…show me the day and let me live it again.

I can still hear the voices of the dry leaves rustling under my steps…of the wind whispering near my ears…of the crammed greetings of the jungle birds, which made me feel a part of it all…show it me to again…and let me live.

Have I been sleeping all this while…and am still sleeping too, dreaming all the cherished memories that I have from the day just passed by? Or was it all one of the sleepless dreams that are seen not from the mind, but from something about 12 inches below it? Was it the immortal manifestation of my desires that pulled me, though ephemerally, out of the angular world…or was it really a day, like any other? Whatever it was…show me, and let me live it again.

Yes, I see it now…this wooden door behind me that I see in you is the one that opened it all to me today…the pebbles outside, kicking a few of which I took my first step towards the “worldless world”, like the first steps that a child takes…and starts walking…walking into the horizons of the unknown, the beautiful, the mysterious. The smoke rising from the distant village, escaping the fingers of the vociferous branches, and getting lost in the silent skies.

But I know these are mere images that you show me. What is real to me is just an illusion to you…what is real to you is just an illusion to me.

Religion, spirituality and some thoughts…

Driving my way home in the evening, suddenly a thought stuck me…oh, its diwali!! I should have been home by now…I saw the light turning red and decided that if anybody called up from home, I would tell them that I am almost there and would take only 5 more minutes. The halt was a petrifying one…but different too, from the sensations that it usually arose when I experienced it every now and then. Sometimes my senses become too acute to anything noticeable (to sometimes unnoticeable things too) that it becomes difficult to contain the thoughts then…they run like wild boars…pretty unconcerned to what comes their way! The countdown…7, 6..3..1…the green light, and here goes a cracker right in the middle of the crossing “boooom”. The sound was baffling…rather scary.

The sounds are something that have always attracted me. The hymns, the chants…the music…but crackers?? Can it be possible that all the people who are lighting these fireworks, actually like the sound of it? Or is it the vision, the brightness…the illumination that makes them fire these “dummy bombs” and enjoy. Or is it nothing more than “who spends more” philosophy? But sure it cant be the sound.

The road seemed quite different. “I have been using this road almost everyday for more than an year now…is it that if somebody blinds me…brings me to this road…and gives me back my vision…will I be able to make out where am I? Would I know that I am on this road?”. I looked around at the trees and other accessories displayed on the banks and thought…”off course!!”. “But is it not that…I know where am I right now…so I think that I ll know even then”. I looked at the trees and the accessories again…trying to forget that I know where I was…trying to unlearn the relationship with the space…and suddenly it all changed; the road that I had been cruising twice everyday (atleast) since time immemorial seemed all new and distant. But how could that be possible?? How can I possibly not relate to the space?? How come I had to think at every turn “to turn or not to turn”, when usually the “familiar” road itself drives me home?? I said “Focus on the road…take lessons in life…you don’t want “it” to get repeated, do you?”. The very thought of the series of incidents that had happened an hour ago sent chills down my spine.

I reached home…with tones of thoughts beating my head like a drum…I barely remember how I parked the car, if I had taken out the keys before locking…what exactly was the time when I reached...et al. All I remember is the “pundit” with John Abraham hair and white attire from tip to tow reading out chants to my parents. He was quite amused to see me…guess mom had already done the fieldwork! But the first thing that really attracted me was the sound…of the whole ritual. I sat next to the white man and tried to participate in the performance. Yes, I call it performance…not in a derogatory sense, but because performance is a part of the ritual. How important are sounds in Hinduism! How much importance does this religion give to the effect that “good” or “bad” sounds can have on a human. I remembered the days when in school we were to pray to Jesus and thank him for all that he had done for us. But those prayers were like…so unlike these sing-song chanting that this holy guy was doing in front of us…they were more like interacting with somebody in our day to day language…I also remembered how, despite being the black sheep in a highly religious and pious family, I had always been attracted by the mere sounds of the “shlokas” and “mantras” that were sung during the “havans” and the “yagyas” that happened every once in a while in the world around me. “To listen…”, the pundit suddenly said, “is of supreme importance in this universe. Good listening helps one succeed in any and every run of life. The holy sensation that listening is…even if someone hears the Sundar Kaand everyday, unintentionally without understanding it, he would be blessed because the sound it self has the power to grant wisdom.” Sounds…interestingly enough, it jelled in so well with the “questions cauldron” that my mind was at that moment. I didn’t notice much that happened after that…though I still remember the sensations that those sounds ignited in me.

The priest, once through with the whole affair, starting interacting more pomplessly now. I remember him asking me “why don’t you speak much??”…I was startled, as if woken up from a dream. I said “yeah, I do sometimes” and I could see the amusement on his face on hearing my voice for the first time in the evening. Sounds…its indeed important to listen. Had “he” listened, “it” wouldn’t have happened. If he had just listened to the car honking, perhaps he wouldn’t have had that accident!! If the driver of the vehicle would have listened to his cry…perhaps he would have stopped to see whom he had run over!! If the other people on the road would have listened to his groans…perhaps they would have stopped by to see if anything could be done to save him!! And what if even I, like others, wouldn’t have listened to hi pain…perhaps I wouldn’t have taken him to the hospital then!!

What if this priest could listen…listen to the hard truths and realize that there is more in life than just reading scriptures and worshipping gods all day long...he would surely know that religion is wonderfully scientific, and nothing super-natural!! What if my parents would listen…listen and realize that at that moment, to save “his” life was more important than to keep myself away from any police case that I might end up getting into…I would have shared with them what happened that evening!!

High on grass…or high on life??

PS: Happy Diwali!!

The Kingdom of the Night

Bonjour Tristesse!!

Had been hibernating for a while…out of work, out of relations…out of life. I had thought I would never live again…but here I am, up and kicking…again!!

Lots of things have happened…lots of things have changed…old cracks opened…old wounds come alive! Its been a month of agony, loneliness, madness…a few semi-suicides. But the sun is here again…I looked out of my window this morning and there were a dog or two, ruling the empty amphitheatre of the meandering roads…a bird or two, stretching their feathers out of the dark blanket of the night, pulling up socks for a new day…a man or two, too engrossed in their early morning labor, half asleep, walking like zombies, with a cigarette or two between their teeth. In a few hours, life would take over…the meandering roads would become a choking market place; the beautiful kingdom of the night would end!! But just then, somewhere, in some other part of the world…the birds would again stretch…the dogs would rule (not sure if stray dogs are the same in other countries as they are here in India)…

How different I feel today…wont call it good. Ya…Peace…its been so long since my last rendezvous with the sensation that it seems completely alien now!! Got up early today (if that 15 mins nap can be called a sleep), exercised (one artificial way to be happy), a quick shower…a wheelie onto the grub table, and off I go!! Called up a few old friends while zooming through the roads…man, their expressions of surprise told me how long it had been since we last talked!!

I know there are things I am into which I shouldn’t be…I know the old chasms are not the life that I always wanted…but the…

…I ve gotta to live!!

But…I have realized…

…that I am stronger than I thought I am!!

The Rhythm of Pain

This river flows besides me

This bridge across the river… which I see beyond the horizon

the bridge I want to cross… wish I could cross it

The sun shines right in front of me… I wish I could turn my back to it

but this hole in my chest…

… and the bullet inside it

Like pain, death follows a cycle. The Death Cycle. Somewhat similar to the water cycle that we studied in school. Water evaporates. Gasses rise. Then clouds become. Condensation. And the free flow of the power of nature. Pain does the same to you. I ll refer to pain as death hereafter because:

1.I don’t see much difference between the metabolism behind the two.

2.after a certain intensity, both give the same sensations.

Death makes a droplet out of you and makes you a part of this whole gas-water-gas-water-gas never ending vicious cycle of concurrent loss and gain of ideological and physiological structures. One moment I feel an intense energy inside me. I feel like a pressure cooker. Like the whistle on the pressure cooker which functions to remove the extra pressure from the apparatus so as to keep it going, I feel my fingers performing the same task for me…letting out some bits and pieces of that pressure, the minimum amount which needs to be released to keep me going straight into the second round. They (my fingers) shiver with the outflow of pressure. The intensity makes them pain…but who cares, there are more important things to be worried about. Then my nails get active. They move towards my other body parts, very subtly, not letting me know what they are up to. The pressure releases. I hear the whistle…and I see blood. The whistle did its job. The blood (or the pressure) has been let out. My ears go numb and my bloody nails come to rest. The evaporation has happened. I feel the weight going away. I feel less heavy.

But its worse.

Because when the whistle is still, you don’t know what’s happening or perhaps what is about to happen. All you know is that something is cooking inside. When the clouds are up high in the sky, you don’t know what’s happening inside them. But the cloud knows. Perhaps. The pressure cooker knows. Perhaps. Or at least it can feel what is happening inside. I feel the turmoil dieing. But the thought of it is there to remain. Here comes the pain…stage 1 to stage 2 is basically a shift from the physical to the metaphysical. Death has various avenues to explore. It was the body and the bloody nails in the first case. It’s the ability to think and the ideological backbone of the whole existence that are the front this time. Stillness takes over. The dark power of silence takes over. I feel that I am completely in my senses, the next moment I realize that I was not in my senses the very last moment…only to realize the very next moment that even in that moment of realization, I was not in my senses. The house of cards falls over and over again. I sit still there. I want to destroy. I want to act. I want to put my bloody fingernails to work again… and destroy anything and everything within arms reach. But I cant…the hands wont move. They wont move because perhaps I want them to move, but I am not being able to move them. The brain is not sending signals to the hand…it has better things to do. And the worst part is that I know all this is happening. Water again. The pressure cooker is again picking pace. The clouds are getting dark and heavy. Its time to empty the cooker and consume the preparation…and get over with it. End. Or a new beginning? Remember, its not an act. It’s a cycle…The Death Cycle.

You’ve got to die over and over again.

The river keeps flowing.

The bridge I cant cross.

This hole in my chest and the bullet inside it…

Thou still unravished queen of silence...

It’s not always good to think.

Sitting here alone in this room at the writing desk, with a huge mirror in front of me, I look into my eyes and find a question shyly peeping out. Don’t ask what it is… you’ll know it soon. This mirror seems like a painting… starting with a half filled glass of water from the left hand bottom, dark wooden floor, a crampy bed, a night lamp just bright enough to fill the whole picture with a golden viscous light, and me in the midst of it all… I feel the question… Why now??? Why is it that I am a part of this picture? 6th June 2006… an unknown person in an unknown city… in an unknown civilization. Why am I here?

I wonder why I wasn’t born a few centuries ago. The picture wouldn’t have changed much, except that the night lamp would have been a candle… the water in the glass wouldn’t have been mineral water. Perhaps the picture wouldn’t have been that empty. I would have been filled with something… the knowledge of my world, the age I would have been living in. What if I would have born during the freedom struggle days? Would I have had courage to be a revolutionary… the courage to be selfless… perhaps. I know those times had something to replace the void which is there in this picture in front of me. And my knowledge of my world would have filled me.

But here I am. Know nothing about the world outside the brown wooden frames of this picture. But maybe I was born for some purpose… maybe there is a reason behind all this, a reason that I haven’t discovered yet. Maybe there is some force outside my realms that wants me to be here. Because without me, this picture would have been incomplete… at least this much importance I can grant myself.

I guess I am reading too much into all this. That’s what happens when you don’t have anything to do except sit and eat. When the whole humanity is the result of a bloody chemical reaction that accidentally occurred ages ago… I am no exception.

I shouldn’t think much… Its not always good to think!

Random rambling

I walk and walk and walk and walk… I don’t have a very good sight but impeccable olfactory senses. I smell grub from far off…sniff sniff! I gather food… and that’s all I do (at least). I know we are social animals (animals???), that’s why I don’t work alone. Also I am too miniscule to make a difference alone (as if we make it when we work together…). We work together. We… many others like me. Look-alikes. Strangers??? The stranger walking next to me secretes a fluid and keeps dropping it all the way it goes and I, with my nose all ready to sniff, sniff and take directions. We are happy. Long live the queen. But just one problem… if these humans could take a little care while walking and not chew us under their feet… and stop looking down at us as “mere ants” (as if it matters!).

How much sense does it make writing all this and comparing me with all kinds of insects and stuff. But well, not all of it is a lie. I did escape getting “chewed” under many “human” foots, many a times. I call them humans because they own something that I have happily given up to become what I proudly call “raw”. I am a euphemism. Trust me, I doesn’t feel good calling oneself one. I am devoid of values. Haven’t given them up intentionally. Perhaps because an ant is too meek (or useless) animal (animal???) to take such a big step which needs a lot of reasons to get justified. An ant does things out of habit. It gathers food out of habit. It respects the queen out of habit. And it stays happy that way. Not much of thinking involved in the whole mechanism. It goes to office. It works. It earns. It saves. And this one sometimes writes. Who needs meanings? Or maybe I don’t understand them…

Habit is really the biggest motivation behind any and every action of “mankind” (NOTE: The author intentionally rejects the word “Humanity”). Those who do, they do it out of habit; those who don’t, they “don’t” out of habit. I write out of habit; I call myself an ant out of habit. Hitler didn’t war because he had a motivation bug in his ass who would tickle him all the time to go and fight. It was a habit. Habit makes you do weird things. Calling oneself an ant… for example. But I am not to be blamed. I am not free. There are habits ruling over me.

But it would have been all a different life to live had I not been an ant. When I say a non-ant, what I am basically referring to is a “human”. All other categories can be collectively referred to as ants. I would have thought of building an anthill. But I would have had reasons for it. Whatever bullshit, but reasons atleast. A reason for eating; for smiling; for crying; for walking; for shitting; for puking… for writing. A scum of values all around. Trying to adhere to those values out of a habit to do so… but with the blanket of reason.

But it wouldn’t have been that bad either.

Perhaps.

But I cant help it. If I don’t have faith, I don’t have it. That’s it. Full Stop.



Originally posted on Thursday, May 11, 2006 4:21 AM

25 minutes to go...

They're buildin' the gallows outside my cell.
I got 25 minutes to go.

And in 25 minutes I'll be in Hell.
I got 24 minutes to go.

Well, they give me some beans for my last meal.
23 minutes to go.

And you know... nobody asked me how I feel.
I got 22 minutes to go.

So, I wrote to the Gov'nor... the whole damned bunch.
Ahhh... 21 minutes to go.

And I call up the Mayor, and he's out to lunch.
I got 20 more minutes to go.

Well, the Sheriff says, "Boy, I wanna watch you die".
19 minutes to go.

I laugh in his face... and I spit in his eye.
I got 18 minutes to go.

Well...I call out to the Warden to hear my plea.
17 minute to go.
He says, "Call me back in a week or three.
You've got 16 minutes to go."

Well, my lawyer says he's sorry he missed my case.
Mmmm....15 minutes to go.

Yeah, well if you're so sorry, come up and take my place.
I got 14 minutes to go.

Well, now here comes the padre to save my soul
With 13 minutes to go.

And he's talkin' about burnin', but I'm so damned cold.
I got 12 more minutes to go.

Now they're testin' the trap. It chills my spine.
I got 11 minutes to go.

'Cuz the goddamned thing it works just fine.
I got 10 more minutes to go.

I'm waitin' for the pardon... gonna set me free
With 9 more minutes to go.

But this ain't the movies, so to hell with me.
I got 8 more minutes to go.

And now I'm climbin up the ladder with a scaffold peg
With 7 more minutes to go.

I've betta' watch my step or else I'll break my leg.
I got 6 more minutes to go.

Yeah... with my feet on the trap and my head in the noose...
5 more minutes to go.

Well, c'mon somethin' and cut me loose.
I got 4 more minutes to go.

I can see the mountains. I see the sky.
3 more minutes to go.

And it's too damned pretty for a man to die.
i got 2 more minutes to go

I can hear the buzzards... hear the crows.
1 more minute to go.

And now I'm swingin' and here I gooooooooo....



Originally posted on Sunday, May 07, 2006 5:52 AM

Wildfire...

“Life is not a journey to the grave with intentions of arriving safely in a pretty well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out and loudly proclaiming ... WOW! What a ride!” somebody really stupid said this. Really stupid he was. How can he even dream of such catastrophic things with this delicate mortal body of ours? How could he erode the importance of “homeliness”, safety, “sanctity”, and serenity… by equating life with a roller coaster ride? How could he make life… so damn rocking?

Here I go again. I ramble. I irritate. I assume that after all that I have said and done, you are still reading what I have to say (I am referring to you as “you”, again assuming that there is somebody reading all this).

We fight, we struggle so hard to chase our dreams. The chase very often becomes a mania; a brutal endeavor wherein nothing except the destination is acceptable to sight… it revolts if we show it anything else. We run like mad. Taking wild turns. Taking pains. Hoping that this journey would soon come to an end and we would rest in peace at the “Chapel”. But what happens when we reach… if ever we do. The magic is gone. We have got addicted to the pain. With pain goes the magic, the urge, the passion.

Going back into childhood, I remember the month before the summer vacation when the countdown would begin. 30 days to go… 29… 28… the day would come and the passion would be at its high. And what then… the first day at home would make you realize that all the plans that you have been making are not that “holidayish” as they had earlier seemed to be. The magic is gone. Those 30 days of hunger, or wait used to be more fun. The placing of the order is more delicious than the dish itself. That’s because when the dish is served, it is no longer a fantasy. Its reality. And reality is not fun, because its USUAL. Fantasy is the unusual. Fantasy is the drive. Becomes just a brick-n-mortar destination when the journey ends.

Things have changed in the last few days. I had been quite excited for the last few days in anticipation of these changes; spent many a sleepless nights, watched many a sleepless dreams. But this new realm doesn’t seem to be as “holidayish” as I thought it would be. It all seems to be thrusting me into the chasms of serenity. I guess its time to pull up my socks; time to make things happen; its time for thunder! I’ve got to say at the end of it all… WOW! What a ride!

I don’t want the heavens. They are too calm for me. It’s the damn purgatory that I miss…


Originally posted on Thursday, May 04, 2006 10:52 AM

Tra la la...

Tra la la… tra la… la la la… Strange things happen in life. Things as miniature and stupid leave such everlasting footprints on the mind that neither the “wind mighty wind” nor the “storm mighty storm” can wash them into oblivion. Tennyson couldn’t have imagined that a simple hymn (tra la…) would float him into the realms of imagination, the realms where the distinction between art and realty become a horizon; you can feel it always in front of you, but more you explore it and try to reason it out, the more it seems to be immaterial. One small event and you are an all new person, the life is an all new ball game! Butterfly effect should I call it??? Maybe…

Reminds me of the new Airtel advertisement “an act of defiance can spark a revolution”; one of the images of the phantasmagoria that plays in front of me when I think of my moments of inspiration. Then dreams become. Then plans become. Dreams huge enough to scare the wildest of my instincts on being thought over the second time. But then, they don’t go away. You dream once and you’re trapped. Forever. No matter how much you run away from it; no matter how much you try to forget it, it would always come back… first as a memory of what you are trying to forget, next as a dream you once dreamt and now are running away from it. It would titillate you, seduce you, but it wont go away. No matter how much you try, somewhere deep within, you would start considering chasing that dream, maybe just to try your luck. Trust me, you’re trapped.

Jerry the mouse is not happy. Jerry the mouse is sad. Jerry the mouse has a dream that one day he would move freely with no Tom the cat to fear. People come and go… Jerry the mouse seems to be the only one to be scared of Tom the cat. “What can he do, poor mouse?” people think. Jerry the mouse doesn’t think so. Jerry the mouse knows that a day will come when he would feast on Tom the cat and then he would be the king of the world. Then unlike others who never had a Tom the cat to be scared of, Jerry the mouse would be someone who got over the adversary and succeeded. No spoon feeding please.

Its been quite some time now that I, seemingly, have not moved towards my destination (so to call it). But what if I say that Jerry the mouse is yet to play his cards? What if I say that he is on the way? What if I say that he is not going milestones… coz he needs to go up, not straight!

Originally posted on Wednesday, April 26, 2006 1:56 AM

The strings of passion...

Bonjour

Welcome to the twilight.

Just wondering why I chose this name for my blog. Twilight…The diffused light from the sky during the early evening or early morning when the sun is below the horizon and its light is refracted by the earth's atmosphere. Hand in hand goes another meaning…A period or condition of decline following growth, glory, or success. What glory, what success… what am I talking about? It’s a long story… the story of me. Perhaps the reason behind my choosing to blog.

“Things I see, things I don’t”. As a child, I always loved Asterix. But more than that, I loved Cacophonix. Still remember, at the end of every Herculean event that Obelix performed, the whole Gaul community would feast and celebrate, but Cacophonix. He would be either belled like a bat from a high tree, or cannoned into the wilderness by the mighty Obelix. He would not be allowed to play his music. The glory ends there. That’s the twilight. Its not the Gauls who have won; its Asterix and Obelix. But the glory hasn’t ended yet. He (Cacophonix) never gives up. Its still not dark. Its twilight. Because, whatever cacophony he creates, Cacophonix is still passionate about his music.

These strings of passion are the strings that have pulled me towards being in the shoes to be welcoming you all here. Its these strings of passion that have made me blog.. There would be lots of people around who would be tied by the same strings as I am. We are the twilight of the ages.

I am imagination. I see what the eyes cannot see. I hear what the ears cannot hear. I feel what the heart cannot feel. I see the web by which many of us are tied to each other, or would be tied to each other. It’s a vast network. Reminds me of Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf. The same threads that connected Clarissa and Peter Walsh. They dint know each other. Hadn’t ever met. But there was something between the two. The strings of passion.

“From there to here, and here to there, funny things are everywhere”. The world’s a hilarious place. Just turn around and you see so much of comedy happening all around you. As a kid, I thought I would be able to touch the sky only if I would be allowed to climb up the water tank on the tall building across the road. As I grew old, I started wondering if I would be able to do so. Now I know, I wont be able to. Not many think so. Ahh, how involved the world looks in its petty activities. How I feel when my boss suddenly turns up to enquire about an unfinished battle, and gives me that look as if the earth would leave its orbit and crash into some other galaxy if I dint reach office at 9:30. So much of “Masala” around, what do I do if not write about it.

Why do I write? Hmm… good question. Writing gives me freedom. More than that it gives freedom to what I write about. Its like the framing, polishing and finishing of day to day activities which otherwise don’t even qualify to catch our attention. A great piece of art is one, on every time being seen, evokes a blend of excitement, ordinariness, and a blissful feeling of being stupid enough not to understand it the last time. A new discovery every time. Out of that piece of art which might depict nothing more that a candle lit next to a flush pot. That’s the hidden beauty in the ordinary world we are all surrounded by. There is so much to be said, written about, painted, sung, and brought into reality from the abyss of the uncreated. As Michelangelo puts it “I saw an angel in the marble and carved until I set him free”.

I guess there is a lot more to be said and done. But let me not go on for ever. Will get back soon.
Till then… let the music play.


Originally posted on Monday, April 17, 2006 8:50 AM

Reincarnation...

I dont know what happenedto my blog but the page isnt opening....

I guess the Blogger people are a little too pissed with me. All other blogs opening but only my isnt.

But not to worry. Here I come with again... I have posted everything that I had put on my blog (with the original date written with the post).

Welcome to the twilight... again !!!