The froth theory

Beneath the sheets

2009-01-09T10:35:00.000-08:00

Seven Thirty AM. The Alarm rings
and is promptly shut off.
The world outside is frozen with mist
and a winter mornings dew,
waking up to tumblers of filter coffee
sipped beneath the sheets.
Theres the sound of a tap running.
There must be someone in the bathroom.
Theres nothing much to do.
Its a holiday.
So I slip back
to create a magical world beneath the sheets.
Theres contentment as I hold your hand
And you tell me that this time we'll work it out.
Theres a tiny bit of greed: I'm only human.
A million warm sensations, tastes, touches,
whispers lips and tongues,
tingle their way into my brain.
Sleep takes me back into
this happy wold beneath the sheets,
and offers me a luxury - an orgasm of happiness.
Morning sets in. The traffic grows. Horns blare.
Newspapers arive. Another day begins
with the collapse of a beautiful world.

Its cold outside.

And here we go again

2008-12-01T07:33:00.000-08:00

26th November. A frantic Nivedita called me to tell me Mumbai was under attack. Are you safe? Don't go out! She went on and on and on. The annoying girl in office says 'pakistan ko to uda dena chahiye' as though it were the women and children of Pakistan brandishing guns at Colaba women. Siddharth Dhanvant Sanghvi (whom I'd accused of sense, after reading some of his writings) wrote half a page in the sunday times, about how he does not want to cheapen and devalue grief by writing about it. Ram gopal Varma, is going to make yet another movie, and this time its on this, and it stars the CM's son. Shobha De accuses politicians of Shamelessnes (Pray, Mrs. De. Do you ever read what you write?) The papers are full of news about how broken Bombay is, how 'pakistan's hand is all but nailed' about how much we have lost, about revolution, about coastal security, about soft approaches to terror, about everything in the world. Unfortunately, in todays times, even news isn't news anymore. It makes you nothing but 'a voyeur of other peoples grief' to quote Sanghvi. We'll make more terror movies, write terror books. We'll call to our rescue, every cliche possible, we'll walk with black bands on the roads, wear white shirts to offices and schools, shut our bloody gobs for a minute, and thats about it. You can't not move on. An hour after dozens of people were shot dead in VT, trains were back. The old masculine hag in office said 'Haan. Aana to padega' on 27th morning.

9 30 AM, on my way to meet the boss

I stood in my office corridoor on the second floor

A train sped by on the tracks nearby.

There were people hanging out of it.

The sky was blue. Delicious wisps of cloud hung over it.

The weather was pleasant.

Thane creek glimmered in the distance and so did hundreds of twenty storeyed suburban apartments

Bombay was sad.

A strain of a morning meerabhajan, that had made me cry for days filled my ears

and a line I read in a beautiful book recently, flashed across my mind

'I'm only human, we all can despair. But let it never be said that we gave up. We all must keep up our struggle for personal beauty and joy'

My vision of a lennonesque world, was rudely interrupted by a senior official on his way upstairs.
But let it not be said that I gave up.

P.S I think there's a fat chance of her reaing this, but thank you, Ms. Roy, for those words!

Filter coffee Musings IV

2008-07-08T06:38:00.000-07:00

Wrapped in a coccoon of happiness,
I have chosen to be blind
To all the questions that once plagued me,
When I was too tired to think.
Questions, that refuse to come back.
Contentment settles down like dust on a closed window,
Not allowing light to come in,
or the musty stale air inside to get out.
Locked in the comfort of numbness I lie,
Waiting for my spirit to rise again,
Waiting for inquisition to strike again,
Waiting for pain to agonise again.
But that won't happen, will it?
Either way, I lose.
Ah. Catch 22.

Passport to hell!

2008-06-21T22:33:00.000-07:00

If you ask the government who is Jayanth Madhav Barki, they'll first ask yo to write an application, give a list of twenty different documents to submit, and after making you go through a harrowing pillar to post run, and making you deal with light years of red tape tell you that I dont exist. Yes, I simply dont exist! I have no Passport/Pan Card/Voters Id/ Driving License/Valid college Id/Ration Card or any damn document you can think of. So I decided to prove my existence with a passport and a pan card.
The income tax department has not put up a single instruction on the net on how to get a PAN Card. So I called my uncle who is an IT official in Mysore to get the info. He asked me to go to Raheja Towers on MG Road, to get it done. Unfortunately the office had shifted from there to Old madras Road, and hence I had to go to the Income tax office on Queens Road to ask them if there was any alternate way of getting it done. (They never answer phone calls btw) There I came to know that they had an office in Jayanagar, where I live. Now when the Government does something that eases citizens problems, why cant they publicise it well? I can safely claim to be an intelligent and aware citizen (even though I drive without a licence!) and if I dont know this, then I can claim, there are at least thousands more who dont know these things! Anyway, On contacting the PAN Centre in Jayanagar (it is right next to Cosmopolitan club on the road connecting to Madhavan Park, btw, if you wanted to know) I was asked to give an ID proof and a Proof of Address. I gave my bank passbook in, and it was not accepted because it gives my name as Jayanth Madhav B and not JAyanth Madhav Barki, although it gave the right address. I could not believe it! I was asked to get a letter from a gazetted officer saying I am Jayanth Madhav Barki. Thankfully my uncle happened to be one, but nevertheless I was surprised when I thought of the plight of the people who do not know one! How the hell would they manage? And how annoying would it be for gazetted officers to keep signing peoples certificates rather than doing there own work. It really seemed like a rewind to the india of the licence quota permit raj. Anyhow, I managed to get the PANcard done. And now to the worst document of all time, my passport.
I bought a form and filled it in judiciously as per the instructions given at the back. I collected all the profs required. And I went to the Jayanagar main post office with the documents. I was made to wait for thirty minutes and then a lady turned up and looked at my form lazily (She still is more pleasant than my college clerks) And said: Apply after one year.

I was too shocked to even think! She said 'you haven't lived in your present address for more than one year, you cannot apply for a passport in K'taka'. I told her I live here, and explained that I am only a student and that a clause at the back of the passport form says that students must mention if they have stayed in hostels etc etc and the only thing she said was 'who checks all that. you shouldn't have mentioned it. Anyway, enquire in the passport office'. After a thousand desperate attempts I could get through to a lady in the office who said that I could apply with a leter from my college with a proof of address. My poor friend Shruti in Surat volunteered to go to the college to get it done. There after a treatment as described in the first paragraph she was told that it was not possible as I was a stdent no more. She told them that I did not need proof for being a student but for having been a student. Nevertheless, she was told to shut up and go back rudely. After this I decided to give in proof of having been in college with a photocopy of my ID card and apply. I went to Bangalore one where I got the Gazetted officer shit again, so I in a fit of anger bought a new form, filled it in with details excludin Surat and I gave it in.
The lady at the post office took her own time again, this time to tell me that I had to give my engineering 7th semester marksheet in, as ECNR Proof. I had already given my 10th Grade pass Certificate, but she refused to accept it as ECNR Proof, even though all applicants above matriculation are eligible for ECNR. Anyway, this was the fourth time I had been sent back from the post office and determinedly I came back a fifth. This time I was told that my passbook would not be accepted as a proofof address without a letter from the bank manager. Number five. I camt back with phone bills to prove my residence. I was sent bak again. It was three five. It seems the form verification closes at three. BTW, the board outside the PO reads five. Nevertheless I came back the next morning, and found a gentleman sitting at the counter, waiting for the lady. It seems he had been sent back eight times. He told me we also needed to buy a special envelope which I promptly did. Apparently they dont sell envelopes without the forms, so if you want the envelope, you HAVE to pay an unneessary ten bucks for the form. I was too frustrated to care. When my turn came, the lady refused t accept my tenth standard pass certificate. She insisted on the marks card. I have no clue WHY she insisted on that. She also cursed CBSE and ICSE for issuing markscards that did not look similar to SSLC ones (LOL!!) And after I had done all this she asked me to give two more photos in. The form clearly says a total of THREE are required, and when I gave two which were not the same ones as those on the passport form, no points for guessing, I was sent back. When I returned with the photographs, I was yelled at again for writing Engineer in my profession.
I explained he reasoning to her
1. I am not a student because right now I do not attend classes at any educational institution.
2. I am not an engineer because I still havent joined the company which has recruited me, but I do have my appointment order.
3. I am not unemployed, because, simply, I am employed.

When she could not find any counter arguement for this, she told me that the cops would take care of me accordingly.
Anyway, my friend N, told m some simple facts.
If everything about you is perfect the cop takes Rs 100 to certify it.
If there is some room for doubts, be prepared for the bribe to go up to Rs 300
In my case it seems I can expect the amount to go up to Rs 500.

Big deal. 500 bucks to get out of this country does not seem too much. Ha.

Moral of the story. If you are born an Indian you die one. Theres no escaping it. They simply do not want to give you a passport !!

PS;You know I can get into trouble for this right, if the cop happens to google me out! so read on!!

____________________________________________________________________
DISCLAIMER: All the details of harassment/lies etc., infact any details, do not have an ounce of truth in them and are completely disgusting lies. Any resemblance of any fact or information or happening to any citizen of India is completely unintentional and purely ficitious. :)
____________________________________________________________________

Filter Coffee Musings III

2008-05-24T11:06:00.000-07:00

Random sentences in my brain. Its all fuzzy in here.

White White Face dekhe Dil ye beating fast Sasura Chance maare re,
Very happy in my heart dil dance maare re.

Dont read in betwwen the lines too much. It has always got you into trouble.

nico cravings. Damn it.

North Indian Cooties. As though I never lived here.

Sigh.

I want to go back. But where?

If only you knew. If - only - you - knew.

Engineering's last cruel joke: 8.80 in my last semester

I miss Charu.

Delete the blog. Just delete the goddamn blog.

Should I?

Filter coffee Musings II

2007-12-25T09:32:00.000-08:00

It hurts. But where? And Why?

And more importantly, what?

Coffee anyone?

Filter coffee Musings I

2007-12-16T00:11:00.000-08:00

Yes, its unhealthy to have six enormous cups of strong filter coffee a day. But its the only way out. The only way to cool myself down. Keep myself warm. Another Bangalore winter. More garbage on the roads. More trashy and cheap songs. Another poster of the Rajkumar sons romancing hot babes in langa davanis all over compound walls. Another 360 second wait at a traffic signal. Another Idli vada at Adiga's. But all this is temporary. Unreal. Its there, but not there. I feel so disconnected. As though I've never lived here. The traffic has become worse. There are more highrises coming up. Hell, even the coffee shops are full. Its cold and dry. Typical Bangalore weather. People are busy. Some have exams, some have medical appointments. Its only me sitting on my sofa, like a creature from a different planet, planning out the day, forever. Did I ever love this place? Yes I did. And I know I still do, but do I?

Things have changed. Perhaps it is me. Perhaps it is the place. Or perhaps its the fact that after an extremely busy semester I have nothing to do, and I am thinking about life. Are things happening? I don't know. Where will I be next winter? I don't know. And where do I see all this going? I don't know. What do I want? I dont know. And the painful truth...the answer is right there, seven kilometres away on the ground. Light years away, in the head.

Things are different. The way they've never been. But hell who am I to judge? Like a person inside a box describing the outside. All I know is one thing. Its not the same. Its not Bangalore anymore. Welcome to Bengalooru.

Better late than never!

2007-11-24T01:54:00.000-08:00

Thanks Kunaal!

Hic!

Ratatouille..Well Whatever!

2007-09-15T22:33:00.000-07:00

While Priya here struggles with dogs, I have something worse to manage. Rats. On the auspicious occassion of Ganesh chaturthi, when every one looks affectionately at these disgusting creatures, Dear readers, let me go on a rat bashing spree such that any rat which reads this goes and jumps into the toxic waters of the Tapi in shame.

My tryst with rats began back when I was very very young (and while we are at it, in those days, less rotund as well) It was your typical Bengal winter's night and I was sleeping cuddled up next to my mom in this rug with these small finger like extensions on it. Sometime, late in the night one of these fingerlike things must have prodded me and I jumped - and in the shock my mom twisted her neck. My dad had a terrible time trying to control two hysterical people at two in the morning. That rug was promptly put away and named the Chuha rug. It was so ironic that plague broke out in Surat the very next week.

Fast forward to 1999 when a rat came into the house and chased me all over. Thankfully my uncle came over and with one swish of a rod, gave the rat what it deserved. (Any SPCA volunteer reading this may kindly note that I don't give a damn about any comment you are going to make)

This is the worst one of them all. Once a huge rat started coming to our house daily. No matter what we'd do it would just look at us like a dopehead. We really didn't care much thinking that rat...well, was just out of its wits. Until one day it bit me. Yes, Dear readers, in the middle of my beauty sleep, it just came and bit me. Right on my middle finger. With its horrible teeth. Rat saliva dripping and all. And how I ran after that. (If I run at that speed for ten minutes a day, I'm sure I'd lose all my weight)

Anyway, by this time I had a fear of rats placed firmy in my head. So you understand it was quite traumatic when a rat attacked my food parcel inthe hostel, and went scurrying all over my cupboard when I innocently opened the door. Thank god for the Mallus in my block to whom I outsourced the disaster management. Among shouts of Aiyo, Patti, Ividay, Mayri, and a couple of Hindi expletives in true Mallu style the rat never ever came back. Job well done, Mallu bois.
Oh. Mallu mons.
Sorry. Comrades!

Think of the scariest sight you've ever seen. And multiply it by ten raised to ten. That was how I felt recently in the New Delhi Railway Station.

1. The platform was so crowded it was no big deal for a person to fall right off.

2. There was a population density of ten rats per square foot on the tracks.

3. The rats were at least ten times the size of an ordinary one (As someone once rightly said, Delhi makes thim big and the fightercock types)

You think I am exaggerating? This is a conversation me and my cousin Shubha actually overheard

Four year Surdy boy: Pappa yeh kya sher hai?

Middle aged surdy man: Nahi beta yeh to chuha hai. Par beta kood mat jaana hanh? Chaba ke kha jaayega *Growl*
(Well...I do relish a surd joke once in a while. Mean though they are!)

The tip of the iceberg? A couple of weeks back, Surat was as sultry as one of its textile market labourers. The Tapi was farting stench and humidity into the air. Thus it was only natural for an air conitioned bengalooru huduga like me to turn the fan full on, leave the doors open and drift away to sleep with the beatles playing in my room. In the middle of the night I felt a pleasant tickle, and opened my eyes to a rat placed firmly on my belly, innocently saying hello! ( Imagine..A rat that had transgressed my modesty saying hello!) So I gathered whatever little bravery I had and ran to Sandeep's room, pushed him off his bed and slept off.
After patient examination, he told me that there was a real rat in my room, and I had not been hallucinating as all my blockmates who had heard my screams of terror were discussing.

Grishma was supposed to make things better for me. She was supposed to gift me a poster of a cat and one of George Michael. The cat poster was supposed to scare the rats away, and the George Michael poster would help me when I'd croon kissing a fool loudly after a good morning bath. Of course the cow that she is, she conveniently forgot to get me both. So I'm off to Pune to do some poster shopping.

*Sigh*

Chai Musings I

2007-09-10T04:31:00.000-07:00

The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro. Read it. Its touching, funny and deep all at once.

Shah Rukh Khans new abs are pretty ugly. I liked him MUCH better the old way. (No J Factor and all hanh!)

A poster at my IMS center says: What is popular need not always be right, and what is right need not always be popular. True. Look at the finalists of Indian Idol.

Why Does it always HAVE to rain when I don't have an umbrella?

How many chais can one have on a day? Is 14 unhealthy? *feigns ignorance*

I have a job in Bombay. The job's not your typical boring crap. It will pay me well. I'm going to be found every weekend in Cafe Mondegar (Hic) next year. Why am I not thrilled? Or remotely excited?

Why is it that you NEVER lose weight when you TRY?

Federer and Henin. Whoo hoo.

How dumb can people get?
Ans: This dumb:

The other day we were going to a friends place to shock her on her Birthday. We standing outside her apartment and this girl was supposed to join us.

(Phone Rings)
She: Helloooo...
Me: Where the **** are you guys?
She We're there in Ghod dod Road already ya...
Me: Great come over to Bikanerwala Sweets ok?
She: But you asked me to come to the Archie's Gallery!
Me: Its in the same building ya.
She: Oh.
Me: We're standing opposite it.
She: Opposite Bikanerwala or Archies?

Or this one:

We were coming out of a hectic RC class in IMS and this girl approached me.

She: Hi Jayanth. Studied anything in the afternoon?
Me: No ya. I was reading a book.
She: Oh really which one?
Me: Kazuo Ishiguro.
She: Sounds profound
Me: Yeah. It kinda won the booker and all.
She: Prizes don't make books good!
Me: I didn't mean it that way. Anyway, I liked all the booker winners I've read so far.
She: Hmmm. I prefer Jeffrey Archer and Chetan Bhagat.

Food for Thought V

2007-07-14T09:52:00.000-07:00

I was at the SPICMACAY Jammu Convention where in an intensive with the great Ustad Abdul Rashid Khan ( Click here for more) I came across this piece. It was a soul stirring moment when he taught us this song, a conversation between Radha and Krishna, a song of eternal love.

Darpan Haath liye yadunandan,
Sanchi Kaho Vrikhbaan dulari,
Mero mukh niko, ke tero radha pyari.
Mero mukh niko, ke tero radha pyari.

Humro rang jaise chanda ki ujariya
Tumro rang jaise rain andhiyari
Mero mukh niko, ke tero radha pyari.
Mero mukh niko, ke tero radha pyari.

Tumre sar par mukut viraje
Hum par tum Giridhari
Mero mukh niko, ke tero radha pyari.
Mero mukh niko, ke tero radha pyari.

Tumne to Govardhan dhara
Main dharu govardhan dhari
Mero mukh niko, ke tero radha pyari.
Mero mukh niko, ke tero radha pyari.

Hum kya kahe tum hi kyon na dekho,
Hum gori tum Shyam bihari
Mero mukh niko, ke tero radha pyari.
Mero mukh niko, ke tero radha pyari.

__________________________

This concludes the food for thought series!

Food for Thought IV

2007-07-13T05:43:00.000-07:00

Mean ones.

God said "Let there be light". And she moved.

What do you call a tennis match between Helen Keller and Stevie Wonder?
Endless Love!

How did Helen Keller's parents punish her?
They rearranged the furniture.

How did Helen Keller's parents punish her?
They stuck doorknobs on the walls.

Food for Thought III

2007-07-11T08:45:00.000-07:00

Amisha Patel thought Emran Hashmi was too stiff an actor. Bitched about him to Mahesh Bhatt and got him ticked off. (B'lore times, Monday)

Does Amisha even see her own movies?

Food for Thought II

2007-07-10T10:48:00.000-07:00

Mallika Sherawat on Rahul Bose:

"He is very intellectual. He uses big big words"

Blore times, long back.

Rakhi Sawant on her.... well, you know it:

"Jo bhagwaan nahi de sakta, woh Doctor de sakta hai"

On 'K'offee with Karan.

Any wonder why its called the Indian Entertainment Industry?

Food for Thought I

2007-07-09T11:07:00.001-07:00

Yesterday's TOI B'lore reads:

"After hitting bad patch, pacer Irfan pathan back to swinging ways"

"He had a glitch in his action. He is using a different set of muscles because of this glitch. He wasn't using his leading arm fully, but now he has started doing that"

"When you play a lot of cricket, things can go wrong with your action"

Am I the only pervy one here?

Psycho!

2007-06-29T09:46:00.000-07:00

There are thirteen mails in my inbox asking me to vote for the Taj Mahal as one of the wonders of the World. I will NOT. Who am I (or you) to decide what the wonders of the world should be? This is a classic example of the idiotice of the so called "Internet Democracy" where you and I sitting in front of our computers can pass judgements on anything from Jessica Lall's murder to what is plaguing the Indian Cricket team to which reality show contestant sings better!

Whatever happened to expert opinion!

The Call

2007-06-27T21:52:00.000-07:00

I read this article a long time back. Around sven years ago. Where, when, how and why...lets not go into the details. It seems a little cliched now, but then I felt it was wonderful. Nevertheless, here goes.

It was the end. We both knew nothing could be done now. It was over. Finished. But we wanted to meet and get it over. So we did meet and agreed that nothing could be salvaged of it. It was better to part. No notice. No malice, anger, complaints. Just move away.

Now its back to staring at the telephone. Will it ring? Does he think of me at all or is finished to him really finished? Over? Does it really have a finished sound? Isn’t there a little space for movement? He could call by mistake! After all he’s so used to dialing this number. He could call and say he was preoccupied, wasn’t thinking of what he was doing, so he got me. He could say…

He called. He did finally at last call. He called after we had agreed to part. He called even though we had thrashed it out mutually and agreed w had nothing to give each other. He called once again. He called and said there was a message at his desk that I had called. Is that all you can say to me? Nothing more – just that? That you are returning a call? But I didn’t call! Did you really get such a message? If you did then didn’t you want to call me? Did you call just because you had to answer my call?

But I didn’t call so how could you have got a message like that? It could have been a mistake. The operator is so used to giving you my message. So it is possible that she thought I had called when I hadn’t. But did she really? Can’t you say you called because you wanted to? You called to hear my voice once more. You called to hear my voice one more time? You called because you were so used to calling? You called because I still mattered a little bit? Can’t you say one small thing like that? Even if you don’t mean it, can’t you just say it now that you’ve called? Even if you did get such a message, can’t you pretend you didn’t?

What would it matter anyway? Have you nothing to say? Don’t you want to know how I’m coping without you? Don’t you want to know what I’m doing with the time I used to invest in you? Don’t you want to know how I am?

But all he said was, “There was a message at my desk that you had called”. It was just that and nothing more. I was silent. Then I said “No. I didn’t call”. But don’t you want to know how much I wanted to? How I stopped myself from touching the phone for it would be sacrilege to pick up the phone and dial a number that didn’t connect me to you? So I didn’t call. And I kept myself from calling by doing so many interesting things I could have told you about if you called. I kept myself busy as to not think about you while thinking about you.

I know we agreed that it was the end. I know we did it mutually and I know that I a not supposed to matter even a little bit anymore. But does it work out that way just because we said so? I know I don’t matter anymore to you. But don’t I matter at all? Am I negated just because you have taken me out of your life? Why don’t you say something? He said so what else is new? What else! What went before else? I don’t even know what could be new! When I’m so old what could be new! How are you, I asked. And he said “I’m fine, happy”. HAPPY? How can you be happy? How can the word even occur to you in the present situation? You are happy. What does that mean? Are you happy because you thought that I had called? Are you happy that it’s over? Are you happy because calling me now is doing me a favour and it makes you feel big? Are you happy to be able to tell me that our parting has not made you unhappy? Are you happy to prove to me that you still are strong and objective? Are you happy that you are able to feel happy? What does it mean, happy? It has a strange sound to it. You were happy when you were with me. You told me this. Now are you happy without me? I don’t understand. Tell me how exactly you can be happy. Maybe that will make me happy.

Or are you telling me all this to me so that I can see how magnificent you are that we made a decision and you were able to stick to it and be happy. Does what I think of you matter more to you than I do? Why do you have to prove anything to me? Why? I know you are magnificent. I make you so. I know you are strong. You have taken my strength. I know you can be happy now. I know everything about you. Look at me. Hear me for a change. Talk to me. Tell me that you called to say hello for old times’ sake. Old times – That’s yesterday. I haven’t assimilated it all yet. Give me time. For me, it was never the end. Just the beginning of the end. Never the end itself. Give me time, and a little gentleness. Call me. Call me sometimes even to say there was a message at your desk that I had called. Call me. I need your presence in my life to outgrow you.

Lata Khubchandani.

Sodium lights and an empty Bridge

2007-05-18T01:29:00.000-07:00

The wind hovers over ourbodies as we lie aimlessly over the bridge. There is a world below us. Awake. Alive. Alert. A train goes by in the distance. I want to walk away from it all, into something I don't know. Run away from existence.

You seem indifferent. Happy. Stoned. Impassionate in the sodium lights on the empty bridge. In four hours there will be the thundering hordes of humans who will take this bridge over. There will be no place left for dreamers like us. But we'll be sleeping then. We are creatures of the night, you and I. We loathe the harshness of the sun, the typicality associated with the day. We prefer the darkness and the sodium lights.

"I need to go home" I say. You look at your watch. "But its only three", you say disdainfully. I cross over to the other side and light a cigarette. Today's fourteenth. I watch the splinter glow over the darkness of the river and the lights of the train going by, in the distance. Trains go by and come in all the time. People get in, get off. Porters, creatures of the night, like us, load in and unload. The whole of humanity seems to have a mechanised raison d'etre. Born. Live. Die.
I contemplate jumping the forty feet between the water and me.

If you twist and turn away
If you tear yourself in two again If I could, you know, I would If I could, I would Let it go Surrender Dislocate
There is a strong wind from the sea. My nostrils flare up as moisture from the oceans floods them. I look back at you, the wind carrying the sound of the sea into my ears. I look at you looking up, hungrily at the moon, in a trance.

If I could throw this
Lifeless lifeline to the wind
I'd leave this heart of clay
See you walk,
walk away
Into the night
Through the rain
Into the half-light
Through the flame

I look up. Its a clear night. Stars and all. The whole universe has conspired to make this moment. You and me. the river. The bridge. The murky waters. Trains rolling by. Sodium lights and an empty bridge. The moon. The stars. The galaxies. This planet. Zillions more. The sheer astounding numbers. But this moment makes you feel like a tiny speck, part of an infinite masterplan. A tiny bubble in the wave. Programmed to exist for a second.
Form. Float. Explode.
Born. Live. Die.

I look up, look down, look around. It does not fit in. It does not make sense. It seems to beautiful to be true. The steady yellow light. Distorted reflections on the ripples. The mad wind.

"Fuck. Its the cop" you say throwing your cigarette away. A jeep parks itself next to us and the cop asks us to get lost. And that is what we do.

Reflections? Questions? Rant? Answers on an empty bridge in the sodium light? W'll be back some other day, before the sun rises.

So true!

2007-05-01T02:19:00.000-07:00

Oh lord, wont you buy me a mercedes benz ?
My friends all drive porsches, I must make amends.
Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends,
So lord, wont you buy me a mercedes benz ?

Oh lord, wont you buy me a color tv ?
Dialing for dollars is trying to find me.
I wait for delivery each day until three,
So oh lord, wont you buy me a color tv ?

Oh lord, wont you buy me a night on the town ?
Im counting on you, lord, please dont let me down.
Prove that you love me and buy the next round,
Oh lord, wont you buy me a night on the town ?

Janis Joplin

Hurt by your Choice

2007-03-22T21:31:00.000-07:00

To cut a long story short,
I was hurt by your choice.
I had dreamt of freedom and happiness,
Of portraits on walls,
You left me with empty rooms,
And molecules in the air.
Make of you what you will be,
I'll make of me what I will be.
But still,
I was hurt by your choice.

Flowers in the Window

2007-02-14T08:22:00.000-08:00

When I first held you I was cold
A melting snowman I was told
But there was no-one there to hold
Before I swore that I would be alone forever more
Wow, look at you now
Flowers in the window
It's such a lovely day
And I'm glad that you feel the same'
Cos to stand up in the crowd
You are one in a million
And I love you so let's watch the flowers grow
There is no reason to feel bad
But there are many seasons to feel glad, sad, mad
It's just a bunch of feelings that we have to hold
But I am here to help you with the load
Wow, look at you now
Flowers in the window
So now we're here and now is fine
So far away from there
And there is time, time, time
To plant new seeds and watch them grow
So there'll be flowers in the window when we go
Wow, look at you now
Flowers in the window
It's such a lovely day
And I'm glad that you feel the same
'Cos to stand up in the crowd
You are one in a million
And I love you so let's watch the flowers grow
Let's watch the flowers grow

Flowers in the window by Travis

I feel free. I can coil up in a foetal position, wear my blanket in the warm afternoon with the fan full on. I can finally eat the chocolates in my cupboard. I can finally read 'The Namesake' lying in my bag since God knows when (72 hours to be a little more precise)...

Just a few reasons to be single on Valentines Day.

Your Soul

2007-02-12T11:02:00.000-08:00

People living their lives for you on TV.
They say they're better than you and you agree.
He says, "Hold my calls for me I must go."
The Boss says, "Come here boy. There ain't nothin' for free."
Another doctor's bill, a lawyer's bill,
Another cute cheap thrill
You know you love him if you put him in your will but...

Who will save your souls when it comes to the flowers now
Who will save your souls after all the lies that you told, boy
Who will save your souls if you won't save your own?

We try to hustle them, try to bustle them, try to cuss them
The cops want someone to bust down on Orleans Avenue
Another day, another dollar, another war, another tower
Went up to where the homeless had their homes
So we pray to as many different gods as there are flowers
But we call religion our friend
We're so worried about saving our souls
Afraid that God will take his toll
That we forget to begin

Who will save your souls when it comes to the berries now
Who will save your souls after all the lies that you told, boy
Who will save your souls if you won't save your own?

Some are walking, some are talking, some are stalking their kill
Got social security, but that it doesn't pay your bills
There are addictions to feed and there are mouths to pay
So you bargain with the Devil, say you're o.k. for today,
You say that you love them, take their money and run
Say, it's been swell, sweetheart, but it was just one of those things
Those flings, those strings you've got to cut,
So get out on the streets, girls, and bust your butts.

Who will save your souls when it comes to it baby
Who will save your souls after all the lies that you told, boy
Who will save your souls if you won't save your own?

Who will save your soul by Jewel

End sem crisis

2006-12-01T05:39:00.000-08:00

I am not going to become a popstar.

Or a theater artist.

Neither a poet.

Nor a booker prize winner.

In all probability not even a cheap fiction writer.

Not the next dictator of India.

Probably not a politician either.

By the looks of it IIMs are nowhere near where I can be or should be.

I don't belong to the elite 9.5 group.

Or the miserable 4.5.

I'm stuck in the middle as always.

Kelly clarkson plays in my head.

I still hate death metal though.

Or hard rock in any manifestation.

Yes, I'm going to be another engineer with abysmal grades,

Or something like that.

Just your friendly neighbourhood bitch

2006-11-14T09:27:00.000-08:00

I lurk in a corner,
A little arcane, a little fervid.
I watch you through a corner of my eye.
I look as though Paanch Kg atte ke packet me das kg atta bhar diya hai,
I freak you out a little.

I roll my eyes when you crack a joke,
I get put off by your fake accent,
I laugh at your usage of hi fi words to impress the female you are with,
Who very dumbly is nodding her head animatedly.

I'm not an obscure jholi kurtawallah poet.
I'm not a quintessential pissed off pseud.
I'm not a desperate gay slut checking out some eye candy,
I'm just your friendly neighbourhood bitch,
sitting with my pet hag, commenting about your abominable dress sense,
Sipping on my cappuccino,
Gulping down my boredom.

King of pain

2006-10-13T08:41:00.000-07:00

There's A Little Black Spot On The Sun Today
It's the Same Old Thing As Yesterday
There's A Black Hat
Caught In A High Tree Top
There's A Flag Pole Rag And
The Wind Won't Stop

I Have Stood Here Before
Inside The Pouring Rain
With The World Turning Circles
Running 'round My Brain
I Guess I'm Always Hoping
That You'll End This Reign
But It's My Destiny To
Be The King Of Pain

There's A Fossil That's
Trapped In A High Cliff Wall (that's my soul up there)
There's A Dead Salmon Frozen In A Waterfall (that's my soul up there)
There's A Blue Whale Beached By A Springtide's Ebb (that's my soul up there)
There's A Butterfly Trapped In A Spider's Web

I Have Stood Here Before Inside The Pouring Rain
With The World Turning Circles Running 'round My Brain
I Guess I'm Always Hoping That You'll End This Reign
But It's My Destiny To Be The King Of Pain

There's A King On A Throne With His Eyes Torn Out
There's A Blind Man Looking For A Shadow Of Doubt
There's A Rich Man Sleeping On A Golden Bed
There's A Skeleton Choking On A Crust Of Bread

There's A Red Fox Torn By A Huntsman's Pack
There's A Black Winged Gull With A Broken Back
There's A Little Black Spot On The Sun Today
It's The Same Old Thing As Yesterday

I Have Stood Here Before Inside The Pouring Rain
With The World Turning Circles Running 'round My Brain
I Guess I Always Thought You Could End This Reign
But It's My Destiny To Be The King Of Pain

I'll Always Be King Of Pain

How I love the singer and this song!

Memory Mines

2006-10-08T00:04:00.000-07:00

The crowds filling in. Frenetic shouting. Bags picked up, bags left behind.
People running.
The din.
The clamour.
Nothing. None of it.

Dadar is darker and gloomier than ever, at half past eleven in the night. The rain has taken a break. Perhaps it knows whats happening down below, and has decided to lean back and watch.

Theres nothing. Less than a dozen souls on a dark platform. Next to it, a darker, wetter warehouse, with the lights of a urinal flashing, where you've gone to relieve yourself, while I relieve myself of tears, which if held back, would rupture my cornea and flow out. Like your piss I think of the sight, smile and wipe them away.

You come back, and stand silently next to me. We're having a silent conversation here. Our words are the ghosts of the past. What is unsaid are memory mines. Our silence is as tactful as an equilibrist.

We avoid eye contact while seein each other. I read the 'Armani exchange' written on your T shirt, while you inspect the date of manufacture of the bottle of packaged drinking water I'm holding. Our ineer eyes are busy in contact though. Our silence, concrete, unbreakable, sound is only interrupted by the cacophony of an occassional local howling away, two platforms away.

I could have lived in this moment forever, had the light not pulled in.
Had the distant headlight not made itself visible.
Had the tracks actively participated in our silent conversation.

EW 6545 Indian Railways, Valsad, chugs in, giving out an ear piercing horn, as it passes us by. Compartments roll away like time. And then they stop. We need not walk too much. The door is right in fron of us with S-3 written on it.

What else is there to say?
What else is there to do?
Stay back and step on the memory mines? Cry my eyes out? Go to a coffee shop nearby? Apologise? Expect an apology?

I choose the easier way out.
I walk in.
You stay out.

I can't help it. Our eyes have to meet. The customary goodbyes have to be said. And so it is done.

The train is stubborn. It won't budge. You are getting late for the last local to your suburb. I need to remind you about that.

But you! How audaciously you want to grab a last sight of me. You want to enjoy our silence till the last unsaid word. You want to savour every sorrow before swallowing it. And never let it out again.

11 40. I have run out of words.
Why don't you go away, leave me to my fate, which is hopelessly, irreversibly linked to yours.
You light a fag, and walk away. By the time you have walked ten steps, the train starts, slowly in the opposite direction.
You don't look back. You walk along, as I watch the smoke over your head disdainfully.

The journey carries on.

Current read: Rohinton Mistry: Family Matters

PS: Before you accuse me of plagiarism, I got the title from Suketu Mehta's Maximum city.

Hips Really Dont Lie!

2006-09-24T03:29:00.000-07:00

PS and I were good friends in school and still are. I only knew him as the Editor in Chief of Kumarans CBSE before I joined that scool in my eleventh grade. Thats when I got to know him well, especially since we both were the only two eleventh graders on that bus.
His punctuality was enviable. Everyday his smirk used to be firmly in place at the bus window when I used to run across the road, fat flying in all directions, to a visibly irked bus driver, as I would board the bus with a sigh of relief. Scientifically inclined, sensible at all times, and with an abundance of wit at his disposal, he was every teacher's dream come true. (Not entirely, because he used to raise questions which used to floor most of them, most of the times!) While I used to mug all week long to reach a decent fourteen on a twenty mark test, he used to open his book in the bus, on the morning of the test, and come grinning to me and tell me 'I got eighteen, you?' (Confession: I lied to him on two occassions.)

He always used to like heavy metal and has never wasted a moment in coming out with scathing criticism, whenever I've told him about the latest Britney Spears, Jenniffer Lopez or Madonna song. An avid reader of Greek mythology and Tolkien, he even went to the US of A to do a research project under a scientist who is sure to be a nobel laureate sometime soon. (Mind you, I've enlisted only his best acievements, and all of them have come only after I've known him personally!)
I still remember the day he blasted Alanis Morrisette to bits when I read him out the lyrics of 'Ironic' ( All right, I've never accused myself of too good a taste in music!.)

Naturally,it came as a (pleasant?) surprise when this possible-nobel-laureate-in-the-future scrapped me this, on Orkut:

Psst... I have a confession of sorts - I listened to a particular song dealing with hips, and as loath as I am to say it, I did like it. :)

Just goes to show that hips can do what lips cannot! (Sing! I meant, just in case you were thinking of something else, you lewd interpreter!)

Current read: The God of Small Things for the nth time!

The Male eunuch

2006-08-05T00:56:00.000-07:00

Years ago I had read a piece by Germaine Greer called 'The Female Eunuch.' While for centuries the men versus women debate has been going on, of late I feel it is men who have got a raw deal in the whole matter. While a woman is expected to be slim, fair, softspoken, good tempered, well mannered with long eyelashes, a 36-24-36 figure, has anyone ever asked this question 'what men want?'

Come to think of it, while a number of movies have been made exploring the female psyche, why has no one ever bothered about the men? While artists have gone around painting Madonna, Mona Lisa (Controversial though it may be, I still think its a girl!), and our very own Madhuri-fida Hussain, why has no one ever thought about a man's insecurities and emotions? While innumerable books are available about a woman's mind, why does a man have to be associated with your typical textbook daddy-types in every book? And why do women scream at men if they want them to behave like their mothers?

While men have been given the biological ability (or so nowadays, it seems) to listen and endure, I'm coming to the question that's been plaguing me for quite some time now, Why does a man have to be a man?

The thought first crept into my mind when I noticed some of my closest female friends, spend hours discussing 'cute guys' and all my male friends discuss girls with big assets. Has ANYONE ever bothered to look deeper? There may be no harm in letting your hormones take control of your senses for some time, but to make 'bird watching' the only objective of your life? C'mon people, GROW UP! (Or maybe I should change my opinions about people who are overly Heterosexual, which means most men!)
Why can't a man have a sexual taste other than Women, men or both? Why do we have only three choices? (The same rule applies for women as well, but since we are stuck in a post thats discussing the male psyche, objections are rendered unnecessary!)
Not Women, men or both? Then what, animals? Sex is supposed to be a union of souls, a way of realising the most primal instincts about your beloved, don't reduce it to a throb or an itch in your loins.

Why does every man in the world have to be associated with 'earning bread for the family?' Why can't a man have a life of his own, where he can do something for his own interest, without having to worry about a four or five mouths to feed. Why do our boys have to be pushed into 'software jobs' to earn fat paycheques, have a pretty wife and a couple of kids, a car and a house? Why doesn't anyone ever think of a man's deeper needs of spiritual satisfaction and happiness?

I'm not saying women are better off. Just that no one ever thinks of the men. Could be because women think about themselves and men think about them. Why do men have to sit in chai shops and stare, whistle and pass lewd comments when agirl passes by. Why can't they keep their hands to themselves in a crowded bus? And when some perverts do things like this, why are all men expected to do the same? And why do most of them do? Why does every guy on Brigade road in Bangalore, Colaba Causeway in Mumbai and Parle point in Surat have to check the girls out. We seem to have lost ourselves in our heterosexuality.

And why is a gay guy supposed to wear pink?!? Can't he have a taste other than pink? or better still, why cant a breeder wear a pink shirt without being called gay? Why are men and women alike, not supposed to experiment with their sexuality, and those who do, have to be called perverts? Why does a man have to go to the gym to build his biceps and not shave his underarm hair? Why does every man have to pretend to be a different species, ignore his X chromosome and go on being the male eunuch?

Rhetoric overdose? I simply did not find a better way to put this rant across!

Current Read: Hari Kunzru: The impressionist
Current Music: Goodbye Earl, Dixie Chicks (Erm, it was last night, Chalega?)
Current Movie: I have no time to watch Omkaara.... :(

Cakes and coffee

2006-07-17T12:36:00.000-07:00

Mommy dearest goes ballistic as she finds out about my intentions to pack the big fat Kafka three in one into my bag. That space was reserved for rava laddoos. Never mind the fact that perhaps the laddoos will be reduced to powder within an hour on the train. This time, it's a lot on my shoulders. A heavy backpack carrying all the books and food, a wildcraft travel bag for clothes which can be wrinkled, and my enormous suitcase carryong my 'good clothes :)' and my laptop. But its what's in my heart, and not whats in my hands that's weghing me down.

The flowering gulmohurs on Nanada theater road. They will be lost, to the metro rail very soon.
The cake fudge in corner house, and the chocolate mousse in sweet chariot.
Window shopping in forum.
Brigade road in the nights, during christmas.
Ice cream in the rain at Namma MTR.
First crush, first love and first heartbreak.
Priya Ganapathi on radio city on Sunday nights.
Gandhi Bazaar. In all its bovine glory.
Driving past the Bangalore golf course, into Windsor Manor.
Sitting with my best-est-est friends, talkin about funny songs, devouring the Pizza hut pan-4-all.
Rant- on the phone. Endlessly, to my pet hag about the absolute lack of like minded people.
Masala Puri. And all other bengaluru chat.
The clamour of temple bells in the Bull Temple.
Driving at Corporation circle, swearing at every ******* driver around.
PVR. Jumbo combo.
Watching people smile in Brigade road.
Watching trains enter and leave the Bangalore Cantonment station.
Sri Kumaran Children's Home. Reduced, (in order to make it sound more like a school) to Kumaran's.
Sultan and The Activity.
The sight of my neighbour's labrador's puppys tripping and falling over their own piss.
Reading Harry potter in the middle of the night, and getting scared when (Spoiler warning!) Voldemort returns.
Shopping for clothes with my pet hags and the superstar (Now who's who!)
Nightwalks on Lavelle road.
Looking up at Barton Centre.
Crying for seven straight hours, when I was thirteen, when I could find no answer to the question 'Who am I?'
The futile search for the answer.
Looking at the Bangalore Derby, from the Anand Rao Circle flyover.
Konankunte cross. Doddakallasandra, Uttarahalli and Tata Silk Farm.
Kalmane Koffee. Filter coffee with 'An ordinary person's guide to empire'
Coffee day. Tropical iceberg, laughing at PJ's.
The later inclination towards cappuccino.
And then Espresso.
La casa, lanterns, being calm on the outside, and broken inside.
Grandma's house. Her table lies on the terrace. The very table she used to have lunch on. It's broken. With no one to use it.
Parimala provision Stores, Guru Raghavendra Stores, Nirman Home needs. Even though Foodworld sounds cooler.
Rainy afternoons.
Early mornings.
Late nights.
Love.
Friends.
My life lived through cakes and coffee.
Roads and trees.
Smiles and tears.

The emotional baggage I'm carrying. And perhaps, will have to carry forever. And I can't even put it down. My love for the six years I have spent in this city. Nanna Bengalooru. Namma bengalooru. I love you.

Current Read : Shantaram (Amazing book!)
Current Music: Humming old Hindi Cabaret numbers day and night you know!
Current Movie: MI3 (The jumbo combo of popcorn and pepsi and ice tea was better. Not better than Tom Cruise though!)

Will, but no Grace

2006-07-03T00:26:00.000-07:00

Think of what you're losing
By constantly refusing to dance with me.
You'd be the idol of France with me!

And yet you stand there and shake
Your foolish head dramatic'lly.
While I wait here so ecstatic'lly
You just look and say emphatic'lly
Not this season! There's a reason!

I won't dance! Don't ask me;
I won't dance! Don't ask me;
I won't dance, Madame, with you.
My heart won't let my feet do the things they should do!
You know what? You're lovely,

And so what? I'm lovely!

After a hard and tiring day of work, the team at Activity sits exhaustedly in the empty seats in the auditorium that didn’t have an inch of space in the morning. It is nearly seven, and everyone is happy. I too am happy but there is a strange fear inside me as I know what’s coming up next. After several minutes of thanking everyone, Sultan, the president says now DJ is going to dance for us. I’m relieved. It’s only DJ after all. DJ is a prolific dancer. And he leaves no doubt in our minds about it. And then the dreaded moment as I watch DJ put his hands up in the air and call us all up on stage. The tired faces look around expecting someone else to go up, and when no one does, how relieved I am. But then some godforsaken female had to spoil things. She had to go up and gyrate seductively as everyone was tempted to join the two on stage. Then suddenly:
Ooh aah Let the music play!

And that’s it. There’s and exodus from the front row onto the stage. Hips move wildly. Hairs fly. It’s raining sweat. As boys and girls behave like wild animals to an ecstatic beat. And I, not wanting to be the only one sitting in the row, standing behind the entire dancing crowd, look woefully as everyone is laughing away at the cricket step the ‘atti’ girl and the ‘snobby’ boy have cooked up. I sigh and look for the other boring people who can’t dance and lament the fact that intellectual discussions have no takers in a world where

Hips don’t lie

I can’t believe it. How often I’ve danced to this song in my living room but here among all these people my feet are selectively paralyzed. That is, I can only tap my feet as Shakira makes everyone’s touché go wild. Even the guy who was not dancing all the time sipping his red bull is wild now. So is the fat guy, the only other person accompanying me in a world where (well, not necessarily!) the thinner you are the better you look dancing. I sigh and continue tapping my feet.
I try to remember what my ‘chaddi dost’ and my phirangi agony aunt Sonie told me in Tito’s, “Just keep cool, enjoy the music and just let your body move” But then there was tequila to help me out. Now it’s only appy. The music stops. Everyone lets out one of those sitcom Aah’s. But then Gasolina! And that’s it! It’s back to the funny steps and giggles and flirting and painfully agonizing happiness.

Dear God,

I realise it is you who created the art of dancing. And you have given the gift of grace to some, and as grace is always accompanied by will, these lucky @%^*&$#! Can enjoy themselves everywhere. Now there are some graceless people but you have given them the virtue of shamelessness so that they can laugh about their gaucherie. Yet why did you give me this incredible urge to dance, but not the grace or shamelessness to carry it off. (Like Saleem Sinai I cry out) It’s not fair.

Love,
Me.

And carrying on with what we started off with,

But oh! What you do to me!
I'm like an ocean wave that's bumped on the shore;
I feel so absolutely stumped on the floor!

When you dance you're charming and you're gentle!
'Spec'lly when you do the ";Continental";.

But this feeling isn't purely mental;
For heaven rest us, I'm not asbestos.
I won't dance! Why should I!
I won't dance! How could I?
I won't dance! Merci beau coup!
I know that music leads the way to romance:
So if I hold you in my arms I won't dance!

Current music: Very, apt. Fred Astaire’s I won’t dance!
Current Movie: None.
Current read: None.
(At least I have the shamelessness to accept this!)

Humiliation

2006-06-26T23:05:00.000-07:00

This poem has been a favourite for the last five years. Hope you love it as much as I do. Its by Kaifi Azmi, and translated by Mumtaz Jehan.

When I left her door I thought
She'd try to stop me
and we might be reconciled.

The wind billowed through our clothes;
I thought she'd ask me not to go,
and as she uncrossed her legs to get up
I thought she'd come to call me back.

But she didn't stop me
and she didn't ask me to stay;
she didn't call me
and she didn't ask me to come back.

I walked away slowly
and the distnce between us grew steadily,
till our separation became finite.

Current read: Still stuck with the ones I was reading, will be starting Shantaram soon!

Current music: Train: Give myself to you. Amazing stuff.
Current movie: 15 park avenue: I loved it. There will be a post about this one soon!

Gift of the Gulti

2006-06-06T03:51:00.000-07:00

While some chose to do research projects, some chose to intern here and there, and some to study for the next semester, one Jayanth Madhav Barki ended up with what he does best… Nothing! So what does one who has nothing to do, do? When VTU decides to make its exams coincide with NIT and IIT holidays, there’s no one else who has nothing to do! Well…you’re getting there. Yes, one switches the television on! Over the last three weeks the phrase ‘Idiot Box’ has acquired far more philosophical significance in my life. It’s a TV-eat-TV-eat-TV-eat-TV-Sleep routine I have been following since the holidays began. And yesterday I reached the limit.
I’m an intellectually superior being (grin) so I never touch the addictive stuff (No double entendre there! I’m talking about the Saas Bahu dramas…I simply adore them!) I normally stick to VH1 and Zee Café for the entertainment, but after Will and Grace has been allotted erratic timings and only Taxiride and the Pussycat dolls get all the airplay on VH1 I have been reduced to a wanderer in TV Land.

Yesterday afternoon I had to sit through three hours of WWE to be able to get some of the action from the French open. While Nadal hammered Lewitt away I chewed my Britannia Milk bikis away. Right when Hewitt was about to win the second set, a message flashed on the screen….that the French open could be seen on Zee sports and Ten sports would be covering the India-West Indies test match. Damn! The only game whose rules I know well (that’s a BIG exaggeration) is tennis. I mean me+sports= 100% disaster (natural disasters, earthquakes, tsunamis, included). And I actually understand words like serve, rally, volley, break serve etc. So I ran to the TV channel preset to be able to watch my favourite tennis players live in action at the Roland Garros (Damn! Too much TV). But life had only sorrows in store for me! There was no Zee sports available! I called my cable operator who gave me a cable operator’s equivalent of a middle finger.

So I had to only flip channels and venture into forbidden territories… The first one being Sindoor Tere Naam ka on Zee TV! Amazing show! Three Bahus and one conspiring Saas who’s killing unborn babies and making life hell for all the Bahus. Damn. Wish I had such an interesting saas. The Background music brings tears to my eyes (ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding) when one bahu makes a malediction about another (Three scenes of her turning ninety degrees) Another ninety degrees and the bahu being cursed gives a shocked expression (No, I didn’t forget the ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding) And the Saas grins away to glory (Ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding) and just when I’m at the edge of my seat, falling off with excitement (k)ekta Kapoor’s name flashes in the screen.

Dejectedly I flip the channel to see the Gulti (telegu) movie on Gemini TV.

Scene: The heroine is covered with crabs (fake ones) crawling all over her face and bare stomach. She’s screaming in agony while a white hair white shirt white dhoti white moustache yellow teeth villain laughs threateningly ( and its not a ding-ding, its just violins gone berserk) While the ‘heroine’s’ sister runs house to house asking for help. The ‘Bhadralok’ rather un-diplomatically close their doors as soon as they see her. Suddenly the berserk violins give way to ‘berserker’ Mridangams, Veenas, and violins as the heroine’s sister becomes ‘Durga’ and kills the villain with a spear she got from Gandhi’s statue. Now what Gandhi’s statue was doing holding a spear, god only knows. And wait…The heroine’s sister cannot be accused of murder…The villain threw it at her and fell down. The spear just happened to pierce his navel perfectly! And then the hero comes in the worst possible fitting black leather jacket and thrashes the villains goons! Whew!

So while Hingis rallied her way into the quarter finals, while Nadal continued hammering Hewitt, while Ljubicic and Ancic Volleyed away, Jayanth Madhav spent the afternoon with Crying Bahu’s, Inspired Gultis, mediamen and mediawomen (According to whom, Rahul Mahajan is the only thing which matters to India), The pussycat dolls, Oprah and Sania Mirza (She’s seen more often in the ads than in the courts…Who cares about tennis!). Sheeesh! Why do I even bother!

Meanwhile in my current music column, I decided to name my top 5 as on 6th June 2006 (they keep changing with the hour)
1. Janis Joplin: Son of a preacher man
2. Texas: Inner Smile
3. The Beatles: You’ve got to hide your love away
4. U2: Angel of Harlem
5. The Spice girls: When 2 become 1

Current Read: Mani Bhaumik: Code Name God and Salman Rushdie: Midnight’s Children

Current Movie: I still haven’t been able to see the Code. Damn!

Bangalore’s full. Go home.

2006-05-11T10:11:00.000-07:00

Title courtesy the orkut community with the same name

Yes, I’m back in the silicon city. It’s back to traffic, Masala dosa and filter coffee. It’s back to staring at the fat overflow from my waistline and hour long telephone chats. Back to Upahara Darshini and Upahara Sagar! But that’s just a part of the whole deal. I think I’ve brought half of Surat back with me…almost EVERY final year student leaving the college is a software engineer in Bangalore now!Llook at this….It’s a northie invasion!! I mean, the idea of good music in here has changed from Deep purple and Dire Straits to Himmesh Reshammiya. All right, things may not be that bad, but definitely, Bangalore is becoming more and more Hindi….So much that I believe I hear more Hindi than English and Kannada being spoken in the hotspots like MG, Forum or any coffee day, for that matter…Disturbing isn’t it? Especially after being so vocal about Bangalore’s superiority over any northern city (or southern city, for that matter!) in India! All this when a southie is cursed and mocked in the north because he doesn’t speak Hindi…..When will those fools learn?
Bangalore’s cosmopolitan status was something to be proud of all along, but it always had a distinct culture of its own. A welcoming, tolerant and light hearted city, Bangalore was always something every resident could be proud of. Then came the IT boom. Even though it put the city on the international map, it also choked the city, which was just not meant to handle such a huge volume of traffic or people. The influx of outsiders brought about an overall decrease in the cleanliness and sophistication of the city (I’m being quite brutal there, but every hardcore Bangalorean would agree with me). The red patches on the pavements became more visible as more Bihari labourers came in to become security guards and thieves here. There are more slums than ever. We are going the Mumbai and Kolkata way, where immigrants are always ill treated, especially the bihari ones. Who would ever have imagined the Land mafia coming to Bangalore? Bihar has made this possible!
But where do we go from here? Some corrective measures must be taken before its too late and Bangalore becomes another Mumbai. Enforcing Kannada on schoolchildren will hardly help. Most immigrant children study in CBSE and ICSE schools which offer options. Keeping Kannada in colleges has been of no help, because the immigrants reuse to compromise even a little and carry on in Hindi, not even English. I have a simple and rude solution.
1. If any one comes up to you and asks for diections in Hindi, answer in Kannada or English, like the people in Chennai do (In Tamil, that is).
2. Boycott any pub/ restaurant which plays Hindi music. The Northies will stop coming there, the minute they turn Himmesh Reashammiya or Anu Malik off!
3. Do not attend any concert by idiots like Sonu Nigam, Jal, Strings, or sunidhi chauhan. Anyway, there’s nothing much to miss there.
4. Students from Karnataka quota in colleges, especially engineering ones, use English or Kannada songs in group song/dance contests or fashion shows.
5. Last, but not the least, any northie calls you a Madrasi, give him one tight slap.

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NOTE: There are some things I'm kidding aboout in this post...Please! I'm not a nazi!
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Current music: The Pussycat dolls: Don’t cha (Whoa, whoa!)
Current Movie: Brokeback Mountain (Very sensitively handled)
Current book: Sonia Faleiro, The Girl (Déjà vu, The God of Small Things)

Lullaby

2006-04-13T07:22:00.000-07:00

Sleep my child, sleep tight tonight.
There's no one to sing you a lullaby.
Let the sleepless hours go by.
Wait for the wounds to heal, the tears to dry.
There is an end to the night.
sleep my child, sleep tight tonight.

Think of dreamflowers on a breeze,
Think of rain in the winds ecstasy,
There's no love to make the world go round,
Lie down on your bed there's no one around.
But then there is love to brighten this small world,
In the dark of the night.
Sleep my child, sleep tight tonight.

Survive the wars, survive the day.
Survive happiness and dismay.
Survive love, survive heartbreak,
Wait for the morning to heal the pain.
Sleep my child, sleep tight tonight.
Wait hopelessly for dawn to arrive,
Sing yourself a lullaby.

Current Read: V.S Naipaul, The mimic men (Catch 22 is over and my reading list has grown to mammoth dimensions!)
Current Music: Alanis Morrissette's cover of Sting's King of pain, The tears do come!
Current Movie: No time for one :(

No pressure over cappuccino

2006-04-07T08:48:00.000-07:00

Marine Drive was bathed in glory. Mumbai's skyline was lit up beyond imagination. Land and sea were one, and in open surrender to man's power, his ambition, his existence. Yet, somewhere in some corner of the queen's necklace...

"Cigarette?" Viren asked Vaishali, looking at her smooth hair cascading to her shoulders. There were blond streaks in those luscious brown hair. Her pretty face was heavily made up. Her fair skin in contrast to her dark maroon lipstick. He couldn't take his eyes off her pink shirt and tight black skirt that accentuated her cuts and curves.

She took it from his hands, her long polished nails precariously close to the burning end. She took a deep drag and let it out after a few seconds, her head at an obtuse angle, her hair moving below her shoulders. 'Sexy', Viren told himself in that cafe on Marine Drive. The waiter came to them. "Your order sir", he asked Viren, who was fumbling through the menu. "One Cappuccino for me", she said in a lazy drawl. He ordered a Kenyan coffee, looking at her for some sort of a response.

The cafe was lit up dimly near the seats and brightly near the aisle. A number of paintings were hung on the wall, a number of sculptures were placed everywhere. Viren looked at a Mughal style painting, of an emperor with his queen. He looked around. The setting was urban, the people Bohemian, but Vaishali was easily the most beautiful girl around.

"Good place", he mumbled. She looked at her cell phone carelessly. "Yeah, its good" She said without nodding or looking at him. "Excuse me", she said, walking out wih her phone glued to her ears.

He waited impatiently for ten minutes. She didn't come. The waiter placed their orders before him. She came back, sat down and lit a cigarette and took her cup in her long fingers.

"Vaish, I miss you", he said putting on a sad face. she looked up from her cup, straight at him, her brown eyes, strangely disconcerting. "Oh really!" She said emotionlessly.

"Look, things may have gone wrong, it happens in a long distance relationship..."

"I thought it was over before it became long distance!"

"Nevertheless, we can give ourselves one last chance, you know.."

"Sorry. that's not possible. It's your turn to yearn for me hopelessly".

"Don't you have any feeings for me?"

"I don't deny it".

"But then, when we both want each other so badly, why this madness?"

"Because its not worth being fooled by you twice"

"I've never tried to fool you!"

"All right, you haven't"

"Is there no way?"

"No sweetheart. You ache in my memory, and me in yours. That's the way I'd like it"

An awkward silence followed.

"Bill?"

"surely"

A song played in the background.

And you’re like a 90’s jesus
And you revel in your psychosis
How dare you
And you sample concepts like hors d’euvres
And you eat their questions for dessert
Is it just me or is it hot in here

And you’re like a 90’s kennedy
And you’re really a million years old
You can’t fool me
They’ll throw opinions like rocks in riots
And they’ll stumble around like hypocrites
Is it just me or is it dark in here?

Well you may never be or have a husband you may never have or hold a child
You will learn to lose everything we are temporary arrangements

And you’re like a 90’s noah
And they laughed at you as you packed all of your things
And they wonder why you’re frustrated
And they wonder why you’re so angry
And is it just me or are you fed up?

And may God bless you in your travels in your conquests and queries

They walked out, separately.

Marine drive was lit up brightly, and the dark, longing, ravenous sea reflected all of it.

Of Pubbing, escapades and explorations

2006-03-23T07:50:00.000-08:00

My trip to Bombay on the 14th and 15th of this month was of no consequence. I hadn''t gone there to do anything. Or to escape the monstrous holi they play in the hostels. It was done for the sake of it. To give a new dimension to living with three degrees of freedom : Hostel-college-any point within 2 kms of the gate.
An it was worth it. Oh yea it was. So when Jithin and I packed our bags for Bombay and left by the Flying Ranee we just intended to do nothing. Something we don't really do!

Churchgate was busy at eleven in the morning. People all over. Busy roads. Subways wher people get in walking briskly and get out walking briskly. People selling. people buying. Beautiful buildings. Beautiful people. The air hot and humid, the sun in all its glory. A typical bright Bombay morning. And we. Wanderers an a land thats not so familiar. We went to book street. It was quite painful to see this place gone. Not that the collection was too good, perhaps just the fact that it was there. Something I've never come across in ,my stay n Bangalore or Kolkata for that matter. Walking down on every other road we'd find, we'd explore the lovely buildings, innumerable shops, talk to people. It was just ...fun!

Later we walked down to the art gallery and saw a couple of paintings. The museum looks lovely. Only, does EVERYTHING in Bombay compulsorily have to be Chattrapat Shivaji?

The colaba causeway looked inviting. Only we took the wrong turn and ended up at the Gateway! The feeling of standing in front of the Gateway is much much more than anything you get in the movies or in photographs. You just have to be there. Even the TERRIBLE kulfi was worth it!
But then, we did go back to th colaba causeway. And how I wish I could live there.
(I'll come back to it later! Both literally and figuratively)

Now Jithin's obsession with bus rides took us past Horniman (Horny man!) chowk , the RBI and the Mint. The picturesque Army navy building to the GPO. Where I dozed off, what with the wonderful hanging fans, lovely domes and the smell of old paper!
We explored the VT area and crawford maket later.

After an eventful evening (we were caught by a TTE exploring VT without platform tickets it was back to Churchgate at Mocha to meet Anirudh, who had happened to have a horrible exam that day. A chherful evening followed, and I finally tried the Guatemalan coffee! Dinner at Chowpatty. The highly over rated Pav bhaji and some orgasmic milk shake at Bachelors near the Charni Road station.

After seeing Anirudh off at eleven, we sat at chowpatty for some more time and then... a night out at cafe mondegar in the colaba causeway again! Good music...na! Make it amazing music, wonderful people, lotsa beer! What else do you want!

After one it was all over the roads again. At five, we caught the first train and rushed to the Juhu beach. It is a sight at four, what with low tide and darkness....

Now, we were tired, so we took the next train back home nd wre in surat just in time for the holi sweets and too late for the apalling holi!

Where next? any suggestions!

Meanwhile:
Current read: Catch 22 (I know its too late...)
Current Movie: To kill a mockingbird (The tears still come)
Current music: Nightwish: Nemo. Addictive song.

Happiness

2006-03-04T12:32:00.000-08:00

How elusive you are!
At times, a distant flicker of a flame
in a dark vast field in the dark of the night.
And in the next moment, a trepidation,
Spread all over,
Like the sky.
Containing you in its infinity,
And you stretch even beyond its expanse.

Lika an ocean in a desert of abyss,
Where an exhausted man moves to drink,
Only to find anothe mirage.

Like the butterfly among a million flowers,
All crying for the fleeting presence of its wings,
on their virgin petals.
Craving for the touch of its proboscis
To taste their divine nectar.

Your mere touch, your mere feel
makes my soul shrivel up,
Curl into a compact ball and sleep gently,
Like an insomniac, dreaming all night long.

How elusive you are.

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OK...I know I havent been up here lately. Blame it on the midsems.
Anyway the good news is that I've actually managed to do well yay!
I'm back and oh yeah, big time back!

PS:
@SLNC: Sorry, will not be doing that tag...too stale!

Twenty-teen

2006-02-09T22:32:00.000-08:00

Twenty. The word rings in my ears in all its complexities and implications. A myriad number of images flash across my mind as I sit in the canteen sipping chai, my head longing for the cigarette inside my bag which I dare not light in the canteen. Look at me! Twenty?!? Irreversibly twenty, hopelessly twenty. Out of teenage into full fledged adulthood. Out of the frying pan into the fire. But I'm still a child. What else would you call someone wo still loves cartoon movies, dolls and wants to have a bath with Doy soap? Only replace the little boy with a ninety kilo five foot nine 'giant' and give him some nicotine and some vodka? He still chases his class girls to take their hairbands off...

On the threhold of 'adulthood', I look into all the aspects of my life and I find I'm as incomplete as the word can describe.
I'm no model, filmstar, journalist, writer or scientist. I'm just an ordinary engineering student, whose ass destiny wants to screw badly. Cupid strikes me with poisoned arrows every now and then. I still haven't read thousands of books, I still haven't heard hundreds of bands, I still haven't fund what I'm looking for...
I know where I belong, but the place doesn't exist! I have wonderful friends, amazing ( non interfering, to be precise) relatives, but even then I'm completely open to none. I still haven't managed to date Aditi Chatterjee. At times, its scary the way life takes you to a milestone that reads 'Twenty' and leaves you there. Two decades of existence and my name has made it to the papers only four times while ?Nadal hogs it all the time, Prince William gets chicks (and loads of guys) drooling, Michelle Branch gets an album at sixteen, Radcliffe and Emma Watson are not even in their late teens and Dakota Fanning? Well she's notr even a teen and has Hollywood producers running after her. Why me God?Why am I to be the nine lakh , ninety nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine and not the ONE. Why not the magic word one? How strange it is, Human nature! We crave for belonging and exclusivity both!

Summing up my life I'd describe it as a yo-yo bouncing between chaos and disorder. Like Roy said in The God of Small things torn between the terror of peace and the horror of war!

I'll be kicked on my arse royaly on 00:00 hrs on eleventh february. Literally. They give real hard birthday bumps here. Expletives will be hurled at me, albeit lovingly. When I'm through with this ordeal, I'll be taken to the night canteen and ripped off there apart fromt he zillions of treats I'll have to give in the day. All this for what? Twenty?
One superflop love affair the acrid taste of which still makes me flinch, another that refuses to take off (this is not counting the cycle).
A six point sewven last semester tells me I'm going to 'sex up' my professional life as well.
My ninety kilo mass is surely going to make me well known, and give me an identity, unfortunately thats not an identity I'd give my life for.
So by the Will and Grace test, how screwed up am I? I've got all the maturuty of a twenty and all the wildness of a thirteen.Which makes me twentyteen. But then look at things this way...
1. Another successful revolution around the sun.
2. A step closer to Nirvana.
3. Calls from loved ones, especially...
4. Lekha's going to call me uncle and get me rolling with laughter
5. Someone special would wish me!
6. A reason to indulge in clothes and food.
7. Mom may just increase this semester's budget if I ask her tomorrow!
8. Can convince her to gift me a worldspace set as well.

Maybe its not so bad you know, just a turn you have to take on a mountain road. Just a good time to reflect on things I've lost and those I've found. Eat some delicious cake. Its better to be nineteen till I die. /after all life is beautiful in chaos and disorder. Like you have a way out! Better be happy and make the best out of it while you can!

Happy twentyteen to me.

A generation needs to wake up

2006-02-01T08:03:00.000-08:00

I was delighted after seeing ‘Rang de Basanti’. For one simple reason- patriotism for the first time had not been reduced to Pakistan bashing. For the reason that the existence of a dreamless and idle generation has finally been accepted on screen. We are a generation caught between the past and the future, between chaos and order, but haven’t been able to decide which is which. I recall a conversation on one Sunday afternoon in the canteen with Yugank and Kunal, where the debate was “whether India is headed for chaos or order”. The discussion was quite passionate, but soon drifted off to discussing the brilliance of the movie ‘Amelie’. I have been a part of innumerable debates of a similar nature.

I recall a conversation with Pratyusha and Ashwin in Goa (Not bad at all considering the influence of the vodka was way more than the patriotic fervour that had come over me). I was annoyed by the way they were abusing this country and predicting its end in a decade or two. Why are we so cynical? So ashamed of ourselves? And in some cases, so defensive and reactive that the insecurity within is nothing but evident. Why are we a generation that “enshrines mediocrity”? Why are we a generation that has one dream “to go abroad”? Why are we so content, so dispassionate? Why don’t we realize that the Indian Revolution is far from over? We all can applaud Kalam’s book and his writings but why can none of us live up to what we say?

I used to dislike Gandhi’s principles when I was in school. But now I am an ardent admirer of this man. It takes substance to awaken generation content with the tyranny of ineffectual rulers and introduce the power of thought and dreams in minds. When will our Gandhi be born again? Who is to lead the way once again after fifty five years of letting our country rot silently?

We are being taught intolerance. We are going back to the stone ages by renaming our cities, making false shows about the greatness of Hindi over English, of Indian culture over any other, and supporting globalization and liberalizing our economy all at once. We are so insecure about ourselves that when we see a kissing scene in a Hindi movie we call it bold and protest its release by waving saffron flags and at the same time are indifferent to kissing scenes in English movies!

Questions questions and more questions. No answers though. For one simple reason: we have forgotten the one thing that drives us “thought”. We have no curiosity. No will to learn, no desires to surpass limits. We have no curiosity. No will to learn, no desires to surpass limits. We are actually shameless enough to gloat about the fact that there are a large number of Indian scientists working in the UK and the USA. Why did they have to leave India? Because in India we have something against any intellect. A child deciding Science over Engineering or Medicine after the twelfth grade is considered ‘psycho’. By his parents. Our education system is outdated and in plain words- utterly useless. Being in an NIT (I accept NITs are second rung compared to the IITs but even then NITs are expected to have some brilliant students) I am frustrated seeing people waste hours over AOE, movies and eve teasing. And later lamenting that India is going nowhere. Take this college for example. It is an ideal example of the government’s corruption, apathy and lack of vision. It has been five years since this institute has become a deemed university, but the course contents are yet to change, the hostels need much better maintenance and the need for better faculty is more pronounced than ever. Yet nothing is being done. There is no scientific temperament among people here. In fact it was there once upon a time, but thanks to this big let down of a NIT, it was buried deep under. Yes, we are ideal software engineers. We deserve nothing better. There is nothing worse. And if even one bit of what is said in five point someone is true, then I guess even the IITs are as bad as NITs are. No one opts for alternative courses, and if they do, they face severe criticism from neighbours, relatives etc. Such is the state of free thinking in this country. Any wonder why this generation is frustrated, cynical and unwilling to do anything more for this country? Who will change things? How will things change? How many more Bofors, Tehelkas, Hawalas, Fodder scams will it take for us to wake up? How many more Laloos, Shibu Sorens and Sukh Rams will loot us and laugh at us in the face. How many more Buta Singhs, Deve Gowdas and Dharam singhs will make us eat mud? When will the Indian Revolution actually happen? Chaos is what I long for, for only after a major upheaval will order come to us.
Until then 'Rang de basanti' will be remembered for its music, for the kissing scene between Amir Khan and the ‘Phirang’ female, for the camera work, for the dialogues and for Soha ali Khan’s good looks, but not for the simple message it sent out …Do something!

Love at first sight

2006-01-20T07:46:00.000-08:00

It was love at first sight. It really was. He came and told me "Ready sir". I said "Make sure she's lubricated and all her nuts and bolts are tight...I dont want noise when I ride her". He took me to the room where she was kept. I looked at her longingly. "Take off all those covers", I said. He tore them apart violently. I handed him two thousand two hundred rupees. a good bargain for this beauty. And then, there was no one left between us. I put her between my legs and climbed on top of her...My brand new bicycle.

Every NITan knows what a luxury a bicycle is.

The evening went in showing off my brand new Hero Exodus, the object of my affection for the last two weeks. Everyone wanted to ride her...And I allowed them. The next morning was bliss when I took her to the chemical engineering department, two kilometres from the hostel. I had missed all the first lectures of the last semester losing time walking all the way, but today it was just a matter of five minutes and there she stood shining with pride in the parking lot of the C.E.D. Even the HOD's Activa looked so dull in front of her. He must've fumed in jealousy!
On the way Ihad met Ellie. She too loved the cycle. She and her friends gazed at her in awe...How could something be this beautiful?
And then...When all the girls of my class went Fida over her, I felt as though they were admiring me...Yes, I was in love with my Exodus.
Of course the Quirk had to come up with something to Bakrafy me so he went around saying that it was actually "Ek Sau Dus" (Hindi for one hundred and ten) which apparently is my weight...Well! There were many envious of this metallic red babe. They'd say mean things like "Its a twig sticking behind your ass!" or "RED! How Gujju" or "Whoa! This cycle must be too good man...It can carry you!". But me and Exodus stood through it all, in fact rode through it all.
The other day Mansi had also admired it. Bhavna and Anubhuti said it was cool. Ayushi decided to ride it. Charu tried, but couldn't. Shruti said it looked cool. Supriya came running all the way from the girls hostel to the staff club just to see my cycle. Kreisel and Yeshaswini wanted to ride her too. And Anchal just kept stealthily following it around near the department. She was being stalked, my Exodus. Those were the happiest days of my life...

Yesterday The quirk and I decided to hog the latest unlimited pizza offer in this local pizza place. So my cycle went into the hands of someone going towards the hostel, that was the last time I saw her, after two weeks of passionate love.
That night there were EIGHT brand new cycles stolen from the hostel. The security guard was fast asleep and the thieves had come and taken 'em away. And the Ek Sau dus must have been their first target, considering her extreme beauty.
And then the hysterical morning followed. I went to the stand to find her missing. I cursed the guy who I thought had decided to ride it a little longer. But when Rajdeep came to inform me about his missing cycle, my eyes widened with shock.
Hoping it was a mess worker who ha taken it, I lodged a complaint with the hostel office. Initially they shood me off to the security officer who had no clue how an Exodus looked. I went back to the hostel office to submit my bill when I heard that the chief hostel warden was there, I walked into his dazzling room where he was discussing the fumigation of some hostel. He looked at me and I said "Sir, Cycle theft". He said expressionlessly "We will take necessary action. We will punish the guard and give you an old cycle to use". I could have burst into tears...What do they know the affection that had built up between me and my Exodus (actually it was more of the conversation I was able to have with the girls...)
But I saw a way across. I went around telling them all the tale of my stolen cycle while they sympathetically comforted me...
My love. She left her fond touch behind even after our parting after a short, but high voltage affair of two weeks...

Authors note: I am not a flirt...Mind it!

Marina on a Summer Sunday Night

2006-01-02T21:54:00.000-08:00

Marina on a summer sunday night.
The infinite conceptualised.
Cries of mirth, happiness and ecsasy,
Washed away by the waves of time.
The grey green path to the horizon,
Presided over by the veiled heaven,
Ebbs and sways precariously,
But ends up at their mighty feet.
At the arrogant wave's humble fall,
The oblivious people rejoice,
Uncaring what tomorrow may bring,
Their eyes twinkling at the cloudy sky.

The reply is a flash of light,
Streaking across the unattainable,
And then they scatter like a swarm of bees,
Whose nectar filled hive has been destroyed.

The confirmation of the karmic theory arrives.

We all leave our footprints in the sand,
To be washed away by the waves of time...

Sorrow

2005-12-19T03:51:00.000-08:00

A word hanging mid air without a sentence,
To give it form, meaning or purpose,
But acerbic enough to bring back memories.
To bring back the sensation of
A wet tear running down dry cheeks.
Life’s saddest moment? But there have been worse!
What else is now?
As deep in sorrow as then.
As deep in uncertainty as then.
Only a mask worn over the past called
“It’s only a bad phase!”
Only, the principal and the cumulated interest of the past,
Weighing down on the present drown all hope for the future.
Stuck. Immovable.
Stalemate.
You see, sometimes ignorance and indecision are bliss.
What else is now?
Even though the snow thaws, the river is getting deeper.

OBITUARY: Bangalore

2005-12-12T09:29:00.000-08:00

An Open Letter to Mr. Dharam Singh, Chief Minister of Karnataka.

Dear Sir,
Very honestly and with due respect I’d like to ask you to wake up. Its time you realized that the way you are heading the state of Karnataka, you’re doing it more harm than good. Rather you’re doing it a LOT of harm and NO good. You seem to have assumed with your “super CM” Mr. Deve Gowda, that the equation anti urban = pro rural holds good. You have modified this to your convenience and simply reduced it to something which reads any harm donet o Bangalore means good for Karnataka. You, and your coalition partners, have focused on ONE thing throughout your one and a half years of governance- Do whatever you can to harm Bangalore. No wonder, your achievements amount to a sum total of zero (In fact negative, worse than Mr. Lalu Yadav’s.)
There has been no significant change in the situation of rural Karnataka. The drought was solved due to no effort of yours. Your government did nothing to track down Veerappan. It’s your good luck that these problems were solved.
Look at the CET issue. Things went from bad to worse. The poor were out rightly denied access to medical education unless they held brilliant ranks in CET. And a majority of the medical colleges are owned by your so called “pro poor”, “pro rural” Congressmen and JD(S) MLAs and MPs. Hypocrisy? Double standards? Nothing new …we’re used to our politicians, corruption, scandals.
A few months before you became the chief minister, every Bangalorean could hold his head high. The law and order situation was quite tolerable. Roads were good. Projects were coming up and even though we were a neglected lot, we were not a troubled one. Every development that has happened in this city has been IN SPITE of the government not because of the government. Today you make sure that nothing good can possibly happen to Bangalore. We will not blame you alone. Mr Deve Gowda seems to have something dead against the city he lives in! A year back, we would laugh about Hyderabad and Chennai “trying” to overtake Bangalore as THE dream destination. Today it is an emerging possibility. Metro rail: Derailed. International airport: Nowhere. Satellite townships: No vision. Deve Gowda’s own ex constituency Kanakapura is cut off from Bangalore due to the virtually un-motorable Kanakapura road. Highways are hell here. The rains exposed the downfall of the city. Forwards circulated on the cellular services, “In India when we drive on the roads, in Bangalore we drive on what is left of the road!” Who is to take the blame Mr. CM? YOU!
The perfect sign of your cheap hypocrisy came when you decided to rename Bangalore “Bengalooru”. This will be done to commemorate the fiftieth Rajyothsava. Why is Mangalore still Mangalore and not Mangalooru? Why is Belgaum not Belagaavi? Simply because you want to bring attention to the fact that you are bringing Bangalore back into the stone ages. And you are damn well succeeding at that.
In very honest words Mr. CM I HATE YOU. For all that YOU and Mr. Deve Gowda have done to ruin my hometown. Who needs bombs and terrorists to blow up cities? Just make you the CM of the state and Gowda the “super” CM.
This is an obituary. This is a lament. To Bangalore. The progressive, cultured, clean green garden city of India. To the Silicon Valley which aimed at beating Singapore once upon a time. The city you had to rename to take away all signs of its past glory.
Rest in peace, dear Bangalore. You will always be my city of dreams. Not the farce they’ve pulled up called “Bengalooru”.

I am morally responsible- In fact, a little more than you

2005-11-10T10:49:00.000-08:00

An ordinance was passed in Mumbai a couple of months back, that banned dance bars. It promises to end the exploitation women in the dance bars are subjected to, and the abuse women at home have to endure. In the name of morality. In the name of ending exploitation and prostitution. Commendable right? Wrong. What happened to those seventy thousand bar girls after the ban? A fate worse than death, a mockery of life. Some became full time prostitutes, some went to other cities to become bar girls and prostitutes there, some went back home to be ostracised and some luckier ones committed suicide. And what happened to the pot bellied moral policeman of the morning? He went to the "dance-less" bar in the night, got his share of whisky from some waitress he made a dirty pass at and went back home and beat his wife. In the name of morality. And now are we on our path to heaven? Have we become pure- insusceptible to lust and temptation?
It all started this way. Mr.S commented on my blog a few days ago. I went to his blog as a return-of-courtesy (I apologise for not finding a better word Mr.Jargon guru). I noticed a post which was quite cynical about Deepavali, because a lot of kids are subjected to torture and we enjoy what they can't.To quote him "Those who rolled in gunpowder, to give someone else a strange kind of light. A light that does not represent hope. Instead, the anguish and oppression of the human soul.Loud explosions for the memory of a nameless young one whose childhood was stolen for the sake of celebration. Lights in the sky for the ones the stars never shone on". So come lets not enjoy Deepavali. I could't but help comment saying what seems cruelty to you is FOOD for these kids. I went back there sometime later to find the comment gone. He said "juscant stand having stupid people with no sense of moral responsibility around.he didnt seem important enuff for me to try an explain to him".Which is why I decided to use my bit of the blogosphere to answer him.

"If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject". Ayn Rand.

So. I just returned after a horrible dinner in the mess. Something children in Sivakasi can only dream of. Even the food I have in the mess is heavenly for them and probably they'd feast on it if I ever give some of it to them. Now I'm in front of my laptop lying comfortably on my bed with a nice blanket to cover me. What do I know what it is to go hungry. What do I know what it is to be the sole meal provider for my family. My father doesn't come home drunk and abuse my mum, take away all her cash and blow up his own. I can take my time off, blog, study get a decent seven point eight and get placed in some software company. I can be a "morally responsible person" and use my sense of morality to boycott the ONLY source of income these children and their hungry families have.
Say. Just assume. Get into the world of a sivakasi child labourer. Your typial media "patheticised" sad faced dreamy eyed child labourer who has nowhere to go. Hey presto! A NGO hops in raises a large hue and cry, gets the factory he/she works in shut down and leaves. Morally responsible enough Mr.S? What happens to that boy or girl? Are they given proper food and education? Are they and the families they support looked after? Are they REHABILITATED?.Imagine.Just close your eyes be the child and imagine.Education.Or food?Or seeing your family die hungry.Why think of them during Deepavali Mr.S? Why not when you are having your dinner? When someone gives you deepavali sweets do you think of the child who's made the whole country celebrate? Or are you bothered about your "moral responsibility" of not offending the relative who passed on those divine cashewnuts? . Now. Lets start off with a merry go round where nobody gets the brass ring. Boy out of factory and into school. Parents don't earn enough. Family goes hungry. Boy drops out of school, and lo and behold! We're back at square one.
Ending child labour is not as easy and rosy as Mr.S and Mr.Jayanth sitting in front of their laptops can brag away in the blogosphere. It is REHABILITATION of the ENTIRE family. And it is there that we fail. It is there that the big economists and big lawyers and big media people fail. Now if these industries bloom, with proper public attention, it can be ensured that these factories have HUMANE working conditions. These children DON'T need your "text book" education. They need to be made literate and trained for some vocation. Whats the point in making their families starve to know when Chandragupta Maurya took over some godforsaken kingdom some hundred years before some epitome of morality was born? Better schools and agricultural development that raises incomes could reduce the exploitation of children by parents. But even if this induces parents toput all their boys in school, many will put little girls to work as long as these are viewed as debit entries in a financial ledger.
According to the International Confederation of Trade Unions, about 90 per cent of India's production of fireworks is at Sivakasi, in both licensed and unlicensed factories. Most of the output is used on one day - Diwali, the festival of lights. In the industry, they say, "We produce for 300 days a year, we sell for 30 days, and the whole thing goes up in flames in three hours." This guarantees employment throughout the year Mr.S, something your morals haven't been able to provide an alternative for.There are millions of unmployed people in India. Such is the scenario. So many of them could be diverted to these factories where children work. And then? What about the children? What about the families? Did you ever think? Or are you too morally responsible for that?
Ending child labour in the match industry could create a local labour shortage, which might tend to drive up the piece rates.But match factories are easily relocated at little cost, and would only migrate to poorer districts which would gratefully grab jobs at the rates currently paid by Sivakasi (which, incidentally, boasts today that it has no unemployment or beggars thanks to the match industry).Then? Does the exploitation you so vehemently talk of stop? Are women and children still not abused? And does it stop only at Diwali? Tell me Mr.S. Now I assume you own a bike or a car. Ever got it serviced? Noticed a child doing odd jobs there? Or are you too morally responsible for that? I assume you have leather shoes. I assume your house has a carpet. C'mon! Throw them out now. Morally responsible are'nt you!In 1992, the American Embassy in New Delhi noted that estimates of children in the carpet industry range from 300,000 to 400,000. There are 77 million child workers in India accoding to government reports. The actual could be higher (trustable sources)
Oh! And do you know the kind of conditions children ar subjected to in remand homes? Ill treated, abused, harassed and very often sodomised. Immoral enough for you?
It is our moral responsibility to ensure enforcement of proper ethics in the cracker/match industry which pays Rs.20 per day, to make sure the working condotions are better, that the children are given proper protective gear, and are given an opportunity to earn while they LEARN, rather than boycott and end the firecracker/match/carpet/leather industry.
(1) The struggle for rights is firmly located in the overwhelming struggle to survive and to change, transform, even revolutionise society.
(2) The rights of children and child labour are not isolated but part of the thrust against all injustice. Which means that adults and children alike we have to ensure humane conditions for all labourers.
That is where all your pseudo morality gets nullified.
"The purpose of morality is to teach you, not to suffer and die, but to enjoy yourself and live".Ayn Rand.

A blindingly bright Deepavali

2005-11-07T09:23:00.000-08:00

My tea's gone cold, I'm wondering why I got out of bed at all
the morning rain clouds up my window and I can't see at all
And even if I could it'd all be grey, but your picture on my wall
it reminds me that it's not so bad
it's not so bad.

Before I start off...Deepavalida shubhasheyagalu (Happy Deepavali!) to everyone!

Deepavali ( Yes. Deepavali) Was awesome. In the true sense. It started this way. After my midsems I had this burnout kind of a thing. So I decided that I needed a breath of fresh air. So I decided to take the long trip home...

28th october: I get up in the morning. I'm leaving for Bangalore tonight, so I'm all elated. Check my ticket status. RAC 42. I'm pissed. Go to college. 2nd internal marks are out. I get the lowest in the class(I'm the once upon a time class topper you know). The enthusiasm seeps out quite quickly. Electronics viva to gulp it all down. Get confused with diodes sodomising me. Get back pack all my clothes and set off to the railway station REALLY late. Train departure time's 9 PM. I'm there at the station gate at 8 55. Don't know which platform either. Walk on to platform 1 and see that the train's late by 45 minutes. Get on board the train later when the train gets more than an hour late. Need to board Udyan exp at eight. This train's scheduled to reach Mumbai at 4. Call it a day. Hope the train's not late further and sleep off.

29th October: My eyes open at 4. Its Borivali. Train's caught up. I get enough time to brush my teeth and alight at Dadar and move to VT (Yes. VT). Anirudh's there. Waiting for me. We go out and have breakfast. (The early morning breakfast scenario in Mumbai is pretty bad...six O'Clock and no restaurants open!).
Come back to find my ticket's confirmed. Side upper. My favourite. Good company. Get to study a little bit of Induction motor on train. Lotsa chikkis and food. Train on time.

30th october: Warm welcome at home. The usual enquiries. Lots of calls, invitations. Whole day at home. Meet two friends I'd lost contact with!

31st october: Day at home. Lotsa food and fuss. Heaven! Lekha comes home. Ruin her love life by suggesting the guy she ha a crush on crush is gay. Get my head all guilty, and go to celebrate diwali at my uncle's place in Indiranagar, with a group of a dozen people above fifty and half a dozen below three. We burst 'sursurbattis' (sparklers). Awesome fun....really!

1st November: Happy Rajyotsava dear Karnataka. With Mr. Deve Gowda around, you don't have too much to celebrate around.
Meet Shamitha after a long time. Missed her SO much! Along with the rest of the Kumarans CBSE 12th group. Aditi Chatterjee was a pleasant surprise there. Never thought I'd be seeing her again...Satya and Ashwin were there too. No one has changed. Thats what love about home. Nothing changes.

2nd November: (O.K...I know its boring!) Go over to Shamitha's place and meet a couple of her friends. Then to Lekha's and there the old trio- Jayanth, Shamitha and Lekha get back to gossip and cribbing about our directionless lives. Come back home to find Nivedita and her boyfriend waiting to see my neighbours burst their superb rockets. It rains heavily so the fireworks show is displaced by dinner. Life!

3rd November: Hey I don't have tickets to go home. Scream at mum for screwing things up! Go in the evening book mom's new Scooty Pep Plus. She still thinks its better than an Activa. Mums really...

4th november: Day starts at five AM. Get up and rush to the ticket counter at five thirty. First in line to book a tatkal ticket to get to Surat on saturday night. Come back and drop dead asleep. Go out. Meet Pavan and Janaki. Eat Gobi Manchuri (something I forgot to deify in my food post).

5th November: Time to get back to damned Surat. Get all packing done in the morning. Evening go get mum's new mixer set for the kitchen. I try to convince her to get me a Worldspace set...in vain. Eight PM. Set out for the station after the usual rona dhona shona... Train leaves at 9 25 PM. Get to sleep with a headache.

6th November: On a train with a zillion gujjus. Major studying for the series of tests I've got to appear for the next week. Stay awake the whole night for Surat which comes at two AM.

7th November: Arrive at 3 AM and reach the NIT and end up in an altercation with the Rickshaw driver. Come back to the room to find a crowd and a lot of mess. Roomie's pissed because I dint get enough food. Wake up way beyond what my alarm clock should have woken me up at.

Oooh, life goes on, and it’s only gonna make me strong
Its a fact, once you get on board say goodbye cuz you can’t go back
Oooh, it’s a fight, and I really wanna get it right
Where I’m at, is my life before me, got this feeling that I can’t go back!

Simply South India Re...

2005-10-20T07:01:00.000-07:00

As I walk into the mess my mind travels faster than light to the aroma in my house in Bangalore. The food made with love, served with care, eaten with joy, thoroghly relished brings the fondest memories of Bangalore in my mind. I still remember the sundays when mom used to be home all day long. Breakfast used to be the dosas served to the plate right out of the tawa, eaten in the kitchen, sitting on the floor. With chutney. Green and spicy chutney. Other times it used to be Avarekaal Upittu with pickle and curds. Mind blowing. Lunch used to be Bisibelebaath with raita and happala, with crisp vadas or ambodes(dal vadas). If not BBB it used to be rice and sambhar, red due to the dozens of spices mom would have put in it. And how can I forget the delectable saaru(rasam)? Completely fluid, tangy and spicy. With rice and a little bit of ghee on it, that would melt and fill the plate and my heart? Then the soothing curd rice after the whole meal, followed by an afternoon siesta, woken up with a tumbler of filter coffee. That was home. It still is. The only thing being that I am not there anymore.
The best south Indian food is always at a marriage ceremony. Every community has their own ways of serving and different dishes and the variety you get to see is simply mind blowing. Being a staunch Madhava I hold the belief that Madhava food is the best (not that I mind Iyer food especially Aviyal one bit). The banana leaf is elaborately decorated with a cute rangoli on the top and salt at the top left. Then the pickle and the two types of salad (kosamri) and three vegetable palyas....aaaah. At the bottom of the top half they serve the gojju, which is a concoction made with tamarind coconuts and pineapples or bitter gourd. Then comes the chitranna or puliyogare at the bottom left of the leaf. Then an abundant helping of rice with a teaspoon of ghee on top of it. You can smell the ghee with the steam emanating from the rice. Just transports you to another planet. And the best bit a little bit of payasam on the right part of the bottom part of the leaf. With a little bit of dal. They serve sambhar, rasam, ambodes, obattus more payasam, sweets and a million other delicacies that just blow your mind. You are left overloaded and satisfied to the core.
Food is one of the best things about south India. It reflects our commonness and our differences in a very lucid way. South Indian food is the best thimg that ever happened to this planet. I hate to accept it but I am biased. I believe Bangalore is the ultimate reflection of south India. Progressive and cultured. Modern and maintained. Simply south India Re. We are like that only. Bangalore is famous for its food also. You do associate Bangalore with thai and mexican food, all kinds of international cuisines etc etc but he true bangalore lies in the darshinis. Now don't frown and say "how cheap!", but dude...There is NOTHING like a darshini anywhere in India. The priceless idli-vada-sambhar thrown at you for ten rupees, the masala dosa with a pinch of butter on the top and red chutney underneath, the rawa idli with chutney and potato sagoo, the gobi manchuri with a little bit of ketchup, the masala puri with onions floating, the pineapple juice that gets you smiling...thats darshini for you. Cheap, crowded, delicious food. True blue Bangalore. MTR's another place where you get true blue south Indian but its gone down big time.Some of my favourite darshinis are:
SLV corner in gandhi bazaar
Upahar Kendra KR Road
SLV JP Nagar
Adigas Jayanagar
Vidyaarthi Bhavan Gandhi Bazaar
(.....why is it that south Bangalore has the bet Darshinis?)
I guess if I start off with Bangalore and its food I'll never be able to walk into this mess again, to have the fly-soup they call 'dal' and the piece of parchment they call 'roti'. Till then....BANGALORE.....I'M COMING HOME...

Perfection

2005-10-10T09:41:00.000-07:00

My blog's all sleepy. Partly because of me. I haven't been able to do much blogging of late thanks to my goddamn scedule here. And none of the regular "commenters" are doing anything either. Well I don't know exactly how many people are reading this but here's another piece I wrote the other day in the canteen. Hope you guys like it.

The Artisan placed the crystal on the window sill and closed his eyes. Every corner of the room lit up in divine splendour. Ripples of different colours contoured the ceiling and to a person standing in front of the crystal, it seemed as though some supernatural being were condensed and locked inside the crystal. The craftsman sat down and buried his head in his hands. He felt hot tears gushing out. Perfection lay in front of him reflecting the approval of heaven above. Two years he had spent mastering the tiniest cuts and lines. And each one of them beamed at him now, each assuming a different colour, and through the centre rose a vertical beam that looked as though a laser had been set off somewhere inside the crystal, as it was scattered by the minute dust particles that glowed in its reflection.
He closed his eyes and sat down. There was nothing more in the world for him. He had slept for the first time in two months, after nights of devoted gazing at the crystal he had held as God. It had seemed so helpless and ordinary two years ago. And he had given all the cuts, contours, shapes and edges to make it seem so unearthly. With that thought he slept.

An hour later, his three year old daughter walked in. In all the gauche and unsophisticated, yet lovable manner of a three year old. Sh had been scared initially to step into this mysteriously dark and bright room. Once she stepped in she found a plethora of colours greeting her with its arms wide open.
She was fascinated on seeing the delicate waves the object on the window was sending her one after the another in quick succession. Quiet beams like the waves on a gentle sea. Intense beams like a tsunami. That gave the room a celestial aura. The girl picked up the object. It seemed like Pandora's box to her. She ran her hands accross its edges and cuts feeling the dark and light bands of light touch her gently. It reminded her of a pyramid. She examined it and smiled. Now it reminded her of a house. Now a doll. Now a ball. Elated, she just threw the piece up with joy. She saw saw wild beams of fury peform the most ecsatatic, most violent dance, light has ever performed, as it draped the room in an explosion of lines and colours. She felt scared and turned away as the crystal fel on the ground with a loud cash and scattered into a housand pieces, all reflecting light wildly, in the gauche and unsophistiated, yet beautiful manner of broken glass.

The craftsman woke up to the sound of his deitie's rupture. He screamed in agony, the second he realised that his creation had ceased to exist. He brought the animal in him out and and screamed "Little girl! What have you done...You imbecile fool!", as the girl ran away crying tears of fear as the craftsman lay crying tears of loss. He wept for hours lying on the zillion pieces of glass, when a voice from above captured his body, mind and soul. It only said " Now you know how it feels".
"It is God", wailed the craftsman. "This is how he creates perfection and this is how the world ruins him. This is how we destroy perfection...I know how it feels dear God, I know how it feels", as he wiped his tears only to wail further.

Nicotine Charm

2005-10-05T10:10:00.000-07:00

Its been a very very long time since I posted something. Midsems and the upoming Autofest keep me extremely busy, leaving me no time to breathe, let alone blog. Anyway, over the last couple of weeks I've realised that maybe there is one person who I'd really like to be with in my college. My ode to that person, who happens to be a chain smoker, supposedly trying to quit!

As I begin to hate the world more and more,
I gradually am drawn to you,

You, unlike convention dictates are,
The symbol of what I despise and Oh so admire

But where is the repulsion?

I drown deeper and hopelessly deeper,

As your smile continus to shine on

my survival instincts and betrays all reason,

which told me that the world is bad.

Yes. They are bad.

Yes. They drain me.

Yes, I hate them and yes, they don't deserve me,

But there's you!

They don't deserve you either!

They don't realise you either!

They don't admire you either!

And there lies your nicotine charm,

veiled by the smoke from your cigarette,

It's lighted end burning like the passion in our hearts,

Which beat synchronously

Just like our souls fly together.

We are not of one blood, one reason or one thought.

But somehow, you have managed to penetrate the hermit,

With your nicotine smile, and your veiled smoky charm.

Aeroplanes

2005-09-12T04:13:00.000-07:00

Joshua stood facing the sea. It was a dream coming true. He was walking with Arun on that beautiful evening. By the sea…Watching the sunset. It seemed like there was no one else on that beach. It was crowded back there near the stalls at Juhu beach. Aeroplanes kept taking off everywhere behind them. Aeroplanes that separated loved ones from each other. Perhaps the one flying directly overhead carried someone leaving their lover maybe forever…Maybe the next one would carry some son leaving his parents behind…And the same plane could also carry a lover back to his love. A wife back to her husband, who’d hug her and tell her how much he’d missed her…..
But all that doesn’t happen. Life and love, relationships are not all that simple. Dissatisfaction, envy, possession, misunderstandings all creep in and wreck the fragile threads every human relationship hangs with. That was precisely what had happened between Arun and Joshua. A relationship that had ended with bitterness on both sides, left both badly bruised, unable to recover.
Anyway, let’s get back to the moment on the beach, for the past can only hurt, and is only unnecessary. As they walked, they undid every bit of the past step by step. “Till where do you want to walk”? Arun had asked him. “Till the end of the beach”, he had replied. He had laughed and told him that the beach was too long. They decided to walk until they got tired.
“I never thought we’d be meeting again”, said Joshua, looking at the horizon dreamily. He felt blessed to be there, at that minute, with the only man he had ever loved. An aeroplane took off.
“You’re my best friend, so you get to know it first”, Arun said, looking at the dirty sand and the couples walking about near the crowded food stalls, “Kritika and I are getting married next month”.
“Her parents came to now about us, they read a message on her cell phone and came to know whatever was happening, and they were delighted apparently”
Struck dumb for a minute Joshua recovered his nerve in the nick of time. “That’s good news”, he said putting on a look and voice of fake excitement. “I’m really so happy for you both”.
“Yeah….It happened so soon, we really couldn’t help it. We fell in love so quickly, and she’s just so perfect for me, she just seems to know everything I want”
What about me? What did I not do for you? Did I not love you? Did I not know you well? Did you not make love to me for three years? What about all that?
“Although mom thinks her hair is a little too long, and her cheeks a bit hollow, but on the whole she approves of her”
Oh yeah! I forgot! Your mom wouldn’t approve! Yeah…She’s been expecting a daughter in law who’ll cook and clean and give her a dozen grandchildren! Well, she really wouldn’t like seeing her handsome well to do educated son bring a boyfriend home.
“I’m so happy, you know.”
Happy? How could you be happy? Oh yeah…. You took all my happiness away.
“So how’s life?”
“Yeah, pretty fine”, lied Joshua, as another aeroplane took off.
“We plan to have three children, a pair of identical twins, and a sister for the twins”
Tell me he’s lying. Tell me he’s going to turn back and hold my hand and tell me that there is no one but me he can love, tell me that he wants to die with me thinking of me, tell me that he wants to be with me forever.
“Well…do we go back now?”
“Fine”

As they took the about turn Joshua saw another aeroplane rising above the horizon. He cried to himself silently. Seven years of devotion. Seven years I have spent every second dreaming about him and this is what I get? Am I supposed to die alone with no one beside me? He said to himself as he saw a distant wave come in and break into a million pieces. The white foam from the wave touched the tip of his shoe. A gust of breeze flew past swiftly, making their clothes fly around. Joshua pulled back his hair and saw the sun setting slowly on the other side of the beach where the skyline of Mumbai called out to him softly; reminding him that now is just a moment, which will never come back.

They reached the food stalls, where the vendors almost ordered them to come in, giving dirty looks to each other as a client walked in to one store. There were many people sitting happily in these stalls. Families, couples, friends, groups of college going teenagers, all laughing and enjoying the moment which would never come back. Another aeroplane took off behind them and flew straight into the sky.
What Joshua spoke to Arun, he did not remember. He felt dazed, as though nothing mattered in the world anymore. As though the moment had taken him over, and was telling him something, whispering in his ear sweetly, like Arun had when they had been making love.
“Where to now”? Asked Arun. Joshua said “Home”, in a tired voice. Arun put his hand inside his pocket to take out his wallet, but in a flash, Joshua had paid the bill, and smiled and told Arun, “You can treat me later, the next time we meet”. They smiled and hugged. Joshua congratulated him again and walked off. He saw Arun get into his car, wave at him and drive off.

Josha looked back, blinking trying t control his tears, and avoid the people staring at him. It was dark. The sun had set. The sea was loud behind them. It was eight. The tide was rising; the lights had set Mumbai ablaze behind him. He walked on to the beach, to the frothy waves, and set his foot in. The water was dirty, loaded with garbage. There were polythene covers floating around him. A dead frog’s shrunken body floated past him. He stepped ahead. He closed his eyes and a picture came into his mind. Arun was holding her and telling her that he loved her more than anyone else in the world. He took his next step forward and kept walking. The water was waist deep; he looked back at the beach and his beloved city and cried. He told himself, I’m coming home.
The whole world went into a trance. The sea fell silent and the moon and stars smiled, called out to him gently, singing in his ear as he had done when they were together, seven years ago.
An aeroplane took off and broke his stupor. He saw himself, nearly chest deep in the rising tide, and walked back into he lights of weeping Mumbai.
There are better things in the world, and maybe loneliness is just a pinnacle. He told himself, watching that aeroplane rise higher.

Wired

2005-09-10T12:56:00.000-07:00

My world lies in shambles as I lie on the ground,
Angry, humiliated, lifeless, wound and wired.
My happiness seems to be just an escape from reality,
the reality I try to deny but the denial,
Is given away, by the tears in my eyes.
My aspirations are nowhere, dreams are broken,
and I am still out of touch with times,
Screaming at lifeless walls, “What happened?”
My flight towards my destiny was carried outon one clipped wing,
and by the time I could open up the other,I had fallen.
I shout at you for being responsible for this,
I lie helpless furious trembling on the floor,
I mutter curses at the creator of this world,
Who emptied my world of all hope.
There are bits of paper reminiscent
of a peaceful past that fly around me.
I try to solve a jigsaw puzzle,and fail yet again,
As all my attempts have had before.
I’m wound and wired,
broken and caged,
I’m laughing, pretending to be happy,
Rolling over on the floor.

The First Cut is the deepest

2005-09-05T08:31:00.000-07:00

A million magical secrets.
An inexplicable feeling of empty saturation.
Contentment with violent resentment.
An unanswered question whose answer you don’t want to know.
A sense of belonging and security with a tinge of fear.
A journey to the flight of freedom, Bound by the chain of unsaid words.
Words that could have….could have.
Anticipation, desperation conquer and oust the Buddhaic peace.
The still sky taken over by a sheet of dark cloud.
That neither brings rain, nor dream
And then, after avoiding it for so long,You realize you can’t go on....
But you have to.
Then follow days of turmoil,afternoons of guilt,
evenings of shame,and nights of humiliation.
The endless wait for time to heal.
It needs to burn.
Bleed.
Sting.
It needs to grasp you with its cold hands.
Its sharp tentacles through your heart,leaving you writhing in agony.
Only then time takes its course,
Heals the pain, but leaves the question.
Was it just an infatuation?

Some Outlandish Musings! (SOM)

2005-09-03T11:21:00.000-07:00

“Do not get up to erase all shrines, people will be frightened.
Enshrine mediocrity and the shrines will be erased”
For all practical purposes, I am fast asleep. It is SOM (Strength of Materials) class and I have had yet another night out, playing Caesar on my new laptop. People in my city are always unsatisfied, they curse me, call me governor ‘no festivals’, until a Roman legion comes in and kills ‘em all. And there’s justice for all? I battle an unknown unseen enemy every second in my life. Whenever I try to stare sleepy eyed at the SOM lecturer, or start reading about Sir Vidia’s mental stories about ‘homeless’ people. I wonder…Are we all not in some way or the other homeless, impoverished, destitute? No sense of belonging, no ideology to adopt, feeding on leftovers of some other scavenger’s ideology, deifying it, glorifying it. Set on a path to enshrine mediocrity and hence, raze all shrines. That’s my battle. I’m trying to save my shrine.
I hear peals of laughter from a girl sitting behind, at some flirtatious comment by another one of those basking in the glory of adopted attitude. I tell myself “How ridiculously fake!” People around me pay complete attention. Some to the problem which the teacher is meticulously solving, some to the assignments they are completing, giving fake nods of attention to the teacher every now and then. I look around me. I see faces of all sorts from all over the country. And I notice one fact. They are all the same. Maybe not on the obvious exterior. But inside, their souls have been through the came fire and go through the same trivial nonsense. Everyone’s on the same path. The one to contentment. The easiest one around. The path of mediocrity, shiny clean green with a fountain every half a mile. Where some trudge along, some happily skip around and some run headfast. The path I’m being pulled into. And the other path leads to my shrine. Small. Insignificant. On top of a scary mountain. Where the ground is rocky and there’s no path, I’ll have to create one. But fear takes me over, and pushes me to the other path. From where I’m desperately trying to escape. But what if I’m stranded on the rainforest path forever? Will I die trying?
My neighbour wakes me up and reminds me that my Grades are going down. I tell myself let it all go to hell. I don’t care. But the evil in me jumps onto the path of mediocrity. And I look towards the board. How long will I last this time?
My fellow wayfarers seem contented and happy. They have wide, bright smiles and twinkling eyes. I wonder if they ever wish to break free and explore? There are some who wish to go ahead like they always did. There are those who have been pushed into it and have come to terms with it. There are some, like me, who’d prefer death to compromise, prefer battle to death over a weak white flag, who’d protect their shrines rather than build a new one.
I close my eyes and pray. Pray for my path. Pray for the strength to keep the human in me alive. Pray for my shrine. Pray to save myself from becoming another zombie machine. God skips and rolls over, laughing in delight. Like a five year old who’s caught a dragonfly, it’s wings in his hands. What could this boy do?
A. Pluck out it’s wings.
B. Let it go after it flutters around too much.
C. Kill it.
I flutter around hopelessly, thinking of my shrine. The teacher goes on and on about strength of materials. But how strong am I to judge a metal in my hands to be strong enough or not to build a skyscraper when the material of my soul may well not be strong enough. I close my eyes yet again. This time it’s sleep. My heart takes me over the cold, dark skies of the city of Bangalore, the heart of my shrine, where my soul lies content and defenseless. I free fall from space to the glitter of the sodium lamps over my spiritual home. I keep free falling.

So much for SOM class.

He and She

2005-09-02T15:02:00.000-07:00

Walking through the packed lanes,
she could feel her heart beating thrice as fast,
Adrenaline, not blood flowed in her veins…
A decade of wait and the moment had come at last.
A decade that felt like ten minutes ago,
Does time really heal? Do we always forget?Do all wounds run dry?
What tomorrow brings, could we ever know?
She walked up to meet him, in spite of herself,
and what she thought she had forgiven.
The past flashed yet again before her eyes,
and the pain accepted her in its cold embrace.
He stood there. Demi God. Just like before.
She stood there. An emotional wreck, with eyes sore.
He looked somewhere else while her soul fell,
Down a bottomless pit,
Quietly.
She woke up from her painful stupor and ran,
Her speed increasing gradually,
Into yet another path leading nowhere.

A hair Rising Tale

2005-08-28T00:13:00.000-07:00

It wasn’t until the pressure was simply too much that I decided to finally go in for that haircut. After days of hysterical nagging by my mother, I decided that hair, after all, is like a man’s wings, the shorter the better.
It all started in January, when before going to Surat for my second semester of engineering; I met Anirudh on that morning. I knew that I had to get a hair cut before leaving town, because it somehow did not seem right to get a haircut in Surat, especially after seeing the beehive on the head hairdo’s that men, young and middle aged, sport proudly on their heads. With copper brown streaks. Wearing an orange shirt. T shirt. T for tight. Along with mis spelt “rythem of peace” written boldly on it. And blue jeans. Which have fur dangling out at the seams? Now Anirudh is this all hair and nails kind of a person. Not that I blame him of course, being a student of fashion, one has to set his priorities.
Anyway, coming back to my down to earth engineering student world, that day when fixing the appointment with him, I made the cardinal blunder of asking him his plans for the day. I really forgot about the possibility of him returning the question. He promptly did. When I told him that I’d be going for a haircut, the first thing he asked was where. My cheeks flushed as I told him, my nearby chop-it-off “decent” men’s parlour. Humour could mask the major embarrassment within. Like sugar coated burnt cookies. Or poison in an expensive glass.
At the “decent” hair cut saloon, the barber took one look at my four month long hair, then one at the long line of people sitting behind, while I looked in despair at the electric shaver in his hand.

“A little more and he’d have got your scalp”, squealed a positively delighted Anirudh, looking at my head. My soul cringed. I came home and examined myself in the mirror. Makes you look a dozen kilos more, the pragmatic voice inside my head said. The pragmatic voice went on to say that people who are overweight, should never go in for haircuts that make them look like a mushroom, because
A. Mushrooms are ugly.
B. Fat mushrooms are even uglier.

The second semester of engineering studies (about real building, about shaping the country, about taking India to new heights of technology) breezed past. That is, I did not go in for a haircut in the second semester. I grew it long (to tell you the truth, just on the longer side). So after losing ten kilos and gaining long hair, I returned home and the first thing that was noticed there was the offensive length of my hair. To make matters worse, people actually started saying things like “Oh! Your hair makes you look so much thinner”.
Adding to the frustration were the comments of family members. Like “Its only ‘goondas’ who have long hair” and “Go for a haircut immediately, when it’s not an ‘unholy for hair cut day’” etc etc.
So after all the pressure, I finally had to give in. But not before I made sure I had the last laugh. I solemnly made a vow that I would not step into the neighbouring chop-it-off parlour, and any haircut would have to be done at this swanky new place that I’ve always wanted to go, but never did. I presented the proposal with a smirk, expecting it to be turned down vociferously. To my utmost surprise, it was accepted in a second. The only explanation I could think of was that my folks were really desperate to get my hair cut.
The next morning, I was walking with Pavan, when we passed by this haircut shop. I was most tempted to go in. But the second I was about to step in, something came over my feet. My heart stopped beating and plunged in to an abyss of demented sorrow. I walked off from that place, bewildered. As expected, when I came home the reaction was not that of happiness. The next morning I came across the same problem. This kept happening, much to the displeasure of both Pavan, who would get tired of hearing my haircut plans for the day during our customary morning walk and to that of my mother, who would forever keep reminding me that it was high time for a haircut.
One day, I finally walked into the place. As soon as I walked in a dozen barbers, who’d rather prefer to be called hair specialists, walked up to me and began offering a range of various adornments for my hair. I was what the word ‘flabbergasted’ perfectly describes. In my bewilderment, I blurted out, “I just need a haircut!” The crowd assembled near me, disappeared rather quickly and one agonized ‘hair specialist’ was left to take care of the thing on top of my head.
He took me to a table (I guess that’s what you call the thing with a mirror attached to it, in front of which you sit at the barber’s) and asked me if I wanted a uniform cut or stepped cut. Not knowing head or tail of what he was asking I replied uniform cut.
He put this wonderfully silky thing (I am at loss of hair saloon jargons again…) across my torso and strapped it around my neck. And took out a classy pair of scissors and began cutting the hair at the back of my head. I was quite surprised after knowing how exactly it feels getting hair cut with a pair of scissors after months of hair cuts with an electric shaver.
As he was cutting my hair, this barber kept asking me questions in, what would be the perfect example for “wannabe” Indian English. Something which is the most disgusting language spoken in this country. It’s a language that exposes the fabric of our society, how fake we are and how insecure we are about ourselves. It may be considered offensive, for “self proclaimed”, secure Indians like me, to be spoken to, in this language. For being spoken to in this language would mean that the speaker actually thought that you would be pleased at being addressed in English. That you would be happy that this person didn’t count you among the millions of starving illiterates in the “wannabe” superpower and considered you elitist and spoke to you in a truly global “language of tomorrow”. I replied in Kannada, the local Bangalore language. He looked like a man with a bladder about to explode, after coming out of the loo.
To some extent, I was relieved too. Of an insecurity that had been at the back of my mind for ages. Maybe I’m not good enough for the world. The “I’m good at nothing syndrome”. Something which I claim not to have, but the very fact that I have to go out and say I’m quite happy with myself, proves the fact that there is a subconscious feeling of insecurity lying somewhere deep within. After all, everything that is worn on the sleeve is what we are least confident of.
Maybe I never walked into that saloon because I was afraid I was not meant to be there. Maybe because I felt my hair was of no significance and a good hairdo would be way out of place. Maybe because I have problems accepting that I am after all overweight at the back of my mind. Maybe, because I fail to see the beauty in me, somewhere in the complicated labyrinth of my mind. Maybe because somewhere down the line all of are unsure of our beauty. Maybe that’s why we market fairness products. Maybe that’s why we line up in front of slimming parlours. Maybe that’s why we get into eating disorders and waste an opportunity to build, to script a life worth living.
That little gesture from my side, possibly led to a fine haircut. I was left looking like a “proper” person on the streets. One who is socially acceptable? One who doesn’t have to look weird, one that doesn’t have to go out of what the creator has given him to realize his inner self. One who doesn’t need drugs, alcohol or cigarettes to make him feel happy or “cool”? Even though everyone found the haircut ordinary with nothing so noticeably different, I still considered it to be a perfectly fine haircut that made me look nice and well groomed. Down to earth, and beautiful.
As the time for the next haircut drew closer, this time the feeling was not that of anxiety, but a feeling of complete normalcy, complete calm….a Buddha peace. Life is beautiful.