M Y R I A D M I N D

On a familiar note

2011-11-21T00:48:00.001+05:30

Tonight shall pass
Like yesterday and yesterday and yesterday,
Or should I say yester nights?

Eyes wide shut and mind wide open
beckoning disinterested sleep to calm me down
and lull me away to distant lands
where dreams reign supreme.
Voluntarily if possible.

Images flash by, like reels of film
I hear hushed, incoherent murmurs
Blissfully asleep beside me,
dreaming of a an ancient land
Of twisted by-lanes, and narrow streets
Chowks and Paras, Mohulla's or neighbourhoods
Different words float by too.
Different worlds too!

Some flashes of NY, some of Calcutta, some of school
A long drive in the distant, foreign lands
a wild dash to the house across,
Here in the teens, now a child, Lo! a woman.
The ever-mesmerising call of home beckons.

Sleepless myself, I feel a hand reaching out
which finds content by my mere presence.
The hands stop benignly, and nestle in,

A cycling expedition, perhaps, i think.
With brothers and sisters, to the dam
calm on a side, bursting, churning at the other.

The mild headache, turns throbbing, pulsating pain
I close my eyes again, and find myself in black,
Stuttering lines from Brecht, squeaking almost from the throat
i remind myself, it should come from the gut,
I try a baritone, picturising Belafonte.
It doesn't happen, so a friend improvises, becomes my echo
Repeating after me, to the audience in the far corner
Who couldn't hear me.

"A middle aged man was taking a walk one evening in the avenue of poplars... Nothing special had happened that day. ...As he went back to thinking about the Apfelbock case...-it struck him he could easily kill the dentist tomorrow, with a knife, say...But he could equally well not kill him.
He wanted to sit doen at the piano and play Haydn; but Apfelbock had waited seven days (after killing his parents and kept the corpses in a chest), during which time he had first moved first to the living room, and then to the balcony because of the weird smell). Haydn couldn't disguise that.
...
Suppose I did die, he thought. I'd like to have a child. Perhaps I already have one. If I die nobody will give a damn. If I stay alive nobody will give a damn either. I can do what I like nobody will give a damn.
Troubled, the man got up and put on an army greatcoat over his shirt. Thus clad, he went out to the street. It was not all that dark; clouds passed, visible, damp, compact. Stiffly the black chimney pot pierced the sky.
...He hummed: "How gently falls the bridal tear, When the bridegroom slugs her in the ear". Then he walked faster, ...singing in his shirtsleeves; for he threw off his coat; on a planet like this nobody needed a coat.
Loudly intoning, he strode through the streets, and no longer understood anything."
The Revelation-a short story by Bertolt Brecht.

The images and the installations whizzed past me
All the places we had performed at randomly.
The pain had subsided, it was back to a steady throb
I could hear sweet, rhythmic breathing from the side.

Opening my eyes, i recalled an interview
Shekhar Kapur on Phoolan Devi
When asked how he had visualised the serial gang-rape in the village
He'd said he sat alone in a room and kept switching the lights on and off!

Closing my eyes again, i now visualised the colour black
forcing myself to ignore any thought or memory, any image
The colour of peace and tranquility is Black for me. Jet Black.
Turning sideways to rest my arm over, i needed sleep i thought.

To play the same role, wear the same make up, do the same things
Lest I lose continuity.

The Serpentine street / Rear Window

2011-11-20T05:59:00.001+05:30

The serpentine street overlooks
Tall, yet, old and frail houses
Which hover over it from all sides
The houses have histories, the street, all the memories.

I watch quietly from the my rear window
wondering what secrets the street knows

The awakening of the lazy street
Doesn't coincide with mine
Knowing well I'm watching it
Half asleep, it pulls covers over its eyes.

Shying away from impending dawn
As if snoozing its alarm
It readies itself for another day
Of memories all around.

As light breaks in, the cycle bells ring
Newspaper boys do their rounds
On the open balcony's they fling
One fails too throw one in
Ambitiously throwing two together
Up the third floor.

Watching it land on the parapet
Cursing himself for a bad attempt
He rests the bicycle against a wall
Picks his weapon of choice

Racing up the stairs he goes
And runs up to the third
Arching precariously through the window
Bracing for the duel ahead
He takes his humble weapon out
A long bamboo stick
Remnants of a cobweb cleaner
And pokes his lance out.

The newspaper's a worthy opponent
Refusing to budge a bit,
Helped by a stray stone on the parapet
The boy get his hit
Knowing laws of gravity
Perhaps not Newton's law
He rushes down the stairs faster
To reach the battered paper.

Picking it up and he dusts it hard
Removing traces of the dust settled on it
He takes his aim and throws it right up third
He waits to hear the landing thud
Looking up all the while,
Bubka would be proud of him i think
When he looks me in the eye.

The horror in his face apparent
He guiltily looks down,
I'm trying to make eye contact
But his eyes are fixed down.
Finally, he trudges towards his pride
Bicycle rested against the wall
He looks up at me once again
Carpe diem or Carpe florem
I gesture towards him frantically.

The quizzical look on his face, finally catches my smile.
He smiles back at me, knowing his secret's safe
Rushes to his bicycle, so many more deliveries to make.
I share a secret with the street I feel, and help myself to a grin
From a distance i hear a tinkling sound

The pulley rickshaws are in.

As dawn turns to morning, the street too wakes up
Used the morning's hustle-bustle, it stretches its arms and legs
Instead of turning over.
The first batch of morning walkers start their trail
Sweatshirts, track pants, jogging shoes, the feet start picking pace
Here the occasional greeting, as each others they pass bye

Some just nod in acknowledgement, strangers they may be
But the daily routine of theirs, has built a certain camaraderie.

Next the working women come, the maids from far beyond
Ticket-less in trains they come, in hordes they pass bye
Those who come from a walkable distance' call it nearby!
As call bells awaken sleepy heads, the daily chores begin.

The street and I keep watching, perhaps some others too.
It's not so odd after all, Rear Window was written in '52!

2011-11-20T05:05:00.001+05:30

Too many times...

Too many times have I done this
Too many times reneged.

Woken up in a pool of sweat
Always, unerringly at three
The coldness of it overwhelms.

The harshness of it unfelt.
I light a cigarette, and ponder
Wonder why three, and look yonder
Through the window overlooking my bed.

The fading night beckons me
I respond to its strings like a puppet
Getting out of bed, wondering
Whether to go for a drive
Or smoke another cigarette.

As I switch my system on
the whirring sound of its fan
Reminds me i need to upgrade the ram
i logon to the internet
And aimlessly surf around.

A rush of blood, and ideas pour in
and aimless surfing goes to the bin
Pen and paper long gone,
I turn my digital diary on.
Randomly, my thoughts i ~~jot~~ type
And hope for substance not just hype.

The Anna factor

2011-08-24T01:57:00.005+05:30

The Aruna's and Arundhati's at least have a POV, which adhere to the principles of our constitution leading to 'governance' and democracy. Anna's end goal is an ideal, which is spreading like a forest fire, but his approach reeks of anarchy... Maybe i'm harsh but 'my way or the highway' aren't Gandhian or democratic principles. Just goes to show, good men get buoyed by public support. JP turned the tables in a state of affairs where, Devkanth Baruah was famously quoted: 'Indira is India' with a muzzled media. If Anna can do a JP, i.e. do it within and by using the system, his effort is commendable. But this media created 'messiah' cannot undo a system in existence, it can though as i said earlier, start a forest fire which it cannot contain at will, let alone stop...

Unfortunately, as things stand, the UPA has loads to answer for... But so does every govt/party in power since '69. The Congress has been in power more than anyone else, and as with power, corruption has degenerated the feudal-family business into a money spinning yarn with stakeholders beyond control thanks to coalition govt's...

Unfortunately, (and i may be wrong in my understanding of the state of affairs, Anna wants the Jan Lokpal/Committee to have absolute power, which IMO undermines the intelligence of the aam janta, who have elected their representatives to the parliament.)

Undoubtedly we have been let down, but does 'Team Anna' deserve the right over and above these elected reps?

My question is, is this questions being asked everywhere by all? Or is it time for 'the' revolution' Anna & Co. want?; and give 'selected' and not 'elected' people unbridled/absolute power, and wait till they too become absolutely corrupt?

It reminds me of a movie i saw on the telly a few days back, a rather simple plot, with author backed roles. Here's the wikipedia entry of the movie, and here's what i'm constantly reminded of:

Simon Wilder: You asked the question, sir, now let me answer it. The beauty of the Constitution is that it can always be changed. The beauty of the Constitution is that it makes no set law other than faith in the wisdom of ordinary people to govern themselves.
Proffesor Pitkannan: Faith in the wisdom of the people is exactly what makes the Constitution incomplete and crude.
Simon Wilder: Crude? No, sir. Our "founding parents" were pompous, white, middle-aged farmers, but they were also great men. Because they knew one thing that all great men should know: that they didn't know everything. Sure, they'd make mistakes, but they made sure to leave a way to correct them. The president is not an "elected king," no matter how many bombs he can drop. Because the "crude" Constitution doesn't trust him. He's just a bum, okay Mr. Pitkannan? He's just a bum.

Our founding fathers may not have been 'white' but they were pompous middle aged farmers and gentry, including the 'Father of the Constitution'. Almost all our founding fathers were educated abroad and belonged to well to do families. But they did the equivalent of what we do today (i.e Google it), they looked up existing democracies and constitutions and kept the door ajar. Always allowing for a loophole, an amendment, a foot in the door.

The way I look at it, Team Anna and supporters just want to steamroll the door/ barge in and gate crash!

Sunsets

2010-08-10T12:42:00.003+05:30

Short of excuses... some sunsets for the time.

2010-08-10T12:33:00.001+05:30

Murphy and Me.

Short of excuses...
I have exhausted the list.
Murphy comes around unfailingly
and presents me with another one.

Round and round in circles I go
Back to where I began
Remembering the broken horses in the carousel
And the spluttering merry-go-rounds

The things to do grows longer
the time to cross them out goes down
I stare blankly at the list first,
then list a few more down.

Smiling a wry smile at myself
I suddenly look around
A grin replaces the wry smile
I knew no one was around!

The loneliness doesn't bother me
Solitude make me calm
I need no one for solace
Reminding myself like a balm

The palms get sweaty
the body remains dry
Parched like a throat
After a game bitterly lost.

Reminiscing of younger days
When I would never go down
Knowing I'd given it my best shot
Finding honest valour in the loss.

Carousels and merry-go-rounds make way
For cycles, bikes and cars
I still find myself muttering to myself
Trying to egg me on..

Sometimes the fat ladies sing and bring Murphy down
Rising like a phoenix, he refuses to go down
I try imbibing his spirit
Pushing and jostling with him
He just gives me a frown.
Knowing its a lost cause, I take it lying down.

Wondering when he'll gimme a break
Taking his blows unflinchingly
I know he'll keep me down,
Still looking for an opening, an Achilles heel if you may,
He gives his wry smile back, he knows I wont obey.

Try as hard you will, he says
I'll manage to keep you astray!

Being Prosaic

2010-03-03T12:43:00.001+05:30

Wonder what it feels like
to be alive and feel so too,
to have not the feeling of happiness alone,
Along with it's memory too,

Made to stick the Chetan Bhagat way!

2009-12-23T15:23:00.008+05:30

I owe this post to 2 people, and they couldnt be 2 more contrasting people in every possible way. Shiva and DJ in order of my owing them. Indeed i find it difficult to imagine reading a book like "Made to Stick" unless i was told by Shiva in no ncertain terms how his perspectve had changed after reading the book. Since I was naturally impressed by the life changing skills of the book (U have to have worked with Shiva to realise why), i was egged on to read "Made to Stick". You can find the authors blog here. And it took DJ's unwavering attention (and boy it takes something to have his undivided attention, given his multi talents) to Chetan Bhagat's 2 States: The Story of my marriage to make me wonder why and then go about reading it ( this despite me trashing and dis-ing Chetan Bhagat's writing/books per se).

I'll try an exercise here: Analyze CB's popularity using the principles of Made to Stick...

The Heath brothers frame their book on the premise of their earth shattering realisation about what makes ideas/stories/concepts stick viz what they call the SUCCEs acronym which is common to all things that stick. Decoded they mean that ideas having these potent ingredients normally stand a better chance to stick.

Simple: finding the core of an idea

Unexpected: use Surprise to grab attention

Concrete: use concrete examples making it memorable and graspable

Credible: make it beliveable

Emotion: target the audiences emotions: if u get there u've made it!

Stories: use simple narrative to make people believe in an idea

Now, CB's books are DEFENITELY simple, he's nowhere in the league of called literature in my humble opinion, but then neither can u call Himesh music. So i fall flat on my argument.

CB uses the Unexpected factor to great advantage: It is quite a challenge to imagine someone having the conviction to have graduated from IIT and IIM and quit ones 'career' to pursue writing. But wait a sec, surely CB is not unique in this. Agreed, its not quite the norm to quit plush jobs with hefty paypackets for a career in writing, but then what the hell why the brouhaha about CB doing it? More people do it now than ever before and dont glamourise it in every book, every interview and possibly every tweet! and he just switched careers what the big deal? millions do it every day!

Bu then CB makes a story out of it and that is what matters, that is how he sells. 5 point something delves on what the title suggests, guys who make it the hallowed corridors or townships if u may of IIT and then lose the plot or realise they werent really cut out for this. Again i dont see the big deal, everyone cannot top classes and there will be failures low rankers, how does that make them any less smarter? After all i cant see how grades and intelligence correlate? Smart people dont care for grades they know they'll make it anyways! Nuff said.

One night the most outrageous of CB's books apparently came out of a freak conversation in a train where someone made CB promise that she wouldnt share an interesting story unless he got it published? An absolute no brainer for me! God calls call centers? WTF?

CB's books are unexpected, why would you expect him to write? credible he uses refrences galore to make it credible: IIT, IIM, call center, Delhi, Chennai, Nungambakam, Vasant Vihar, Citibank, HLL SP, what else you want? Rajni Sir writing the foreward? and he does appeal to emotions whiningly so...

Never mind 3 mistakes, i thankfully didnt make the mistake to endure it.

And then there is 2 states about which CB himself brags: 'Its the #1 selling book in India. It sells more than the 9 remaining books in a top 10 list'

Dude your books are priced at what 95 bucks? less than a cup of coffee. It takes the IQ of dust to read and understand them, and then thanks to the media hoopla it makes people feel they're IN, and that they read English novels. Reading CB's novels need you to be pea brained and not have much else to do. More people buy it figure out whats the buzz about than anything else, and the good part of the books positioning it is people can afford to. Period.

Imagine yourself stranded on a delayed train/flight, and have 100 bucks to spare, would u spend it on a cup of coffee or on a book on which the country seems to be hooked on to? I have to give it to him: even I would buy the book than the coffee despite the caffeine addict I am.

2 states has CB telling us what Punjabi's perceive Tamilians as, and vice versa. Nuff said. You just have to watch comments in web comics like this, this, and this to know how screwed up people in our country are.

So for the next CB book can we at least not have a epiphanic ending a la Paulo Coelho and just get oon with the job. CB might be very pro India... for all i care people our generation dont really want to feel that way, its just the way we are conditioned. So stop claiming moral victories over regional and communal biases just because the book is a pan india success. Its more to do with its marketing and the viral effect that had than anything else.

@ CB: Just try pricing the book @ 495 the next time and we'll see who has the last laugh!

Elementary, my dear Watson!

2009-12-23T14:45:00.003+05:30

I felt compelled to write this post sometime around 4.30 in the morning y'day, fearing reprimand(I had arrived home shortly after midnight) i decided to hold back till next morning. So here goes...

It started with the security check at the swank, upmarket new airport at Shamshabad, I was shocked that i was allowed to carry 2 cigarette lighters, around 4 razors, 6 packs of shaving blades (3 single blade and 3 triple) and god knows what else my old bag had, but was asked to remove a pack of ghee or give the bag in cargo/luggage. Miffed, i allowed the ghee to be cast into the garbage bin and trudged along to the smoking bay in the airport. After all they let the lighters be!

I couldnt get it, why on earth was the ghee asked to be removed? The police woman at security just repeated its not allowed when i asked WHY? the nth time. Mom liked the ghee when she was here she had casually mentioned if i could get some on my way home. I had gladly obliged, only to be done in at the security. As i started reading to kill time, i boarded the flight and kept reading, though my irritation with the ghee episode hadn't quite subsided.

I was reading a fairly interesting book, if nothing for its huge repository of anecdotes. Since I liked trivia i kept at it, despite its attempts to teach more serious stuff as books like these do.

By the time we landed at IGI airport Delhi, i was done with the book. As i shut the book and looked down at the Delhi lights glittering the landscape, i was surprised to acknowledge that apart from two bits of trivia: 1. Holmes was misquoted... Doyle had never had his protagonist utter "Elementary, my dear Watson" in the 4 novels and 56 short stories he featured in and 2. The story of 425 pound Jared who welcomed us to all Subway stores; all other anecdotes were either new to me or i had forgotten them!

Anyways, landing done i walked out of the airport to be greeted by my elder brother waiting at a 12 degree celsius night in Delhi. I was still muttering about the security missing the point in fine print (moping abt the ghee ie), when he casually mentioned something abt ghee being inflammable.

And there it was! Elementary, my dear Watson! It had nothing to do with dairy products or spillage as i had thought, it was simple ghee was inflammable and a half kilo packet incredibly so!

Feeling rather sheepish and daft about my deduction skills, i quietly allowed myself to be chaperoned to the waiting car.

And then it brought me back to Make it Stick... It was the story and the revelation that made me feel stupid. Maybe these pop-psychology books could have a deeper impact than i had thought. But then again, maybe not!

On a Familiar Note

2009-10-20T00:18:00.004+05:30

We the people...

2009-08-11T17:12:00.000+05:30

http://www.indianexpress.com/news/lankan-army-releases-image-of-prabhakarans-corpse/462412/

12:01 PM me: http://bancomicsans.com/statistics.html
12:07 PM bedabrata.das: pffft bloody americans !
12:08 PM have you noticed they arent good at any sport other than the ones invented by themselves?
12:22 PM me: :)
12:25 PM bedabrata.das: and i also get the feeling Prabhakaran was killed a week ago
but they held the news back just because of the elections
me: in India ?
bedabrata.das: yeh
me: dont think so but possible
12:26 PM bedabrata.das: its actually a good thing DMK won.
me: the Sri lankan govt would do anything to claim THAT
bedabrata.das: they wouldnt have taken the news too well had they lost
me: why later
after all it finally vindicates 26 years of fighting
bedabrata.das: well once they've achieved it few days wouldn't hurt
12:27 PM i wonder how
me: at least this onslaught
bedabrata.das: today their president says the war is against the LTTE and not Tamils
me: yeah sure
the history behind the LTTE somehow doesnt agree
12:28 PM bedabrata.das: i think Muralitharan is the only Tamilian having it a little easy in Sri Lanka at the moment
me: the sinhalese are to tamils there what the Paki's were to Bangladesh, are to us
bedabrata.das: yeah
me: they cant but opress them
12:29 PM but then that certainly doesnt justify the means used
bedabrata.das: yeah
the ideology is never the problem
me: its like a punjab only it'll be internalised sooner
bedabrata.das: the method is
me: cos the fights been on for 25 odd years
12:30 PM bedabrata.das: except for maybe Jihad
me: most ppl just want it to end
bedabrata.das: all bias apart
yeah
come to think of it the LTTE has exploited the Tamils far more than the Sinhalese in the last 2 decades at least
12:31 PM me: true
but again its like jihad, the ideology is so drilled in that the pain inflicted is looked at as sacrifice or heroism
bedabrata.das: yeah
12:32 PM but Lankan Tamils are very different to the ones in our country
they're far more fierce and gutsy too actually
i had one in my class
Rajiv his name was
12:33 PM and he considered himself a first among equals
back in Chennai
me: yeah i guess u can say that of those muslims who fled to pakisatn
or remined
remained
bedabrata.das: nah with Muslims
you see
its their country in Pakistan
so obviously they'll act smart
12:34 PM here they do anything like that they have a Bombay or a Godhra
me: yeah but that the hindu's start :)
12:35 PM in any case if the way hindus in pak are treated is a benchmark
we are more than a democratic country
bedabrata.das: of course
i think 'tolerant' and not 'secular' should be the word!
12:36 PM Diya-Doel's dad once told us this story about a Hindu woman who lives in Bangladesh
12:37 PM she is a relative of a friend of his
me: fundamentalism in any form is no way forward
bedabrata.das: its difficult to draw the line with fundamentalism
12:38 PM i think its an inappropriate word to connote such a meaning
me: unfortunately for us indoctrination is always easier to fall prey to
12:39 PM than being liberal humanists or "tolerant" as u said
bedabrata.das: yeah
12:40 PM so as I was saying
this woman's son has Muslim friends
they get beef from the market and ask the woman to cook it...
12:41 PM saying that she is a really good cook and her beef preparations taste very good
and she does it out of fear
12:42 PM me: thats the way it is
bedabrata.das: and thats the way it shall be
:P
12:45 PM me: yeah as long as we (read I) sit in AC cubicles and discuss world politics and its dynamics minutes before i go to a swank cafeteria and have lunch :-|
12:46 PM bedabrata.das: and before i realize i've spent a perfectly good hour being a Bong taking into account how much I have to study
so ok!
i shall run along
me: :) ATB
12:47 PM bedabrata.das: and try to memorise the Companies Act
because thats what they give you marks for
your memory
me: keep at it, thats the way to go
bedabrata.das: and its ability to store exceedingly mundane material
12:48 PM me: no wonder then the % of ppl who clear it :)
:P
bedabrata.das: yeah
12:49 PM only reason i'm going to pass is because i cant bring myself to do this again
haha
me: keep taxing your grey cells
bedabrata.das: okk
12:50 PM me: its the ONLY time so say bom bhole and just do the frind
grind
bedabrata.das: yeh
good day!
me: yeah tc

A discussion i had with my cousin who grew up in Chennai and has pretty strong opinions on things.
Amongst other things he was preparing for his CA finals when we had this chat and i was just finding my feet in my new job ...
Talk about Bongs liking a good "adda"....

Ponder.

Much ado about nothing: The Literary Review

2009-08-10T17:33:00.005+05:30

Talk about being lazy!
8 days after the muse' smiled on me, i finally start writing about what i had intended to write on.
"The edition of The Literary Review (dated 02-08-2009)". The first article i liked was titled "Age and the Fiction Writer", though i hadn't read the book Aditya had published, it was quite evident (or so i thought) that the same had been debunked by critics and he dismissed and excused for being "young", when he singles out the treatment meted out to aspiring authors..."Discouragement is cheap and easy, but what is always wanted — now more than ever for Indian writing in English — is enthusiasm. So it needs to be said, that age is a number, and literature for the young."
Quite evidently i agree with Aditya and disagree with critics who claim that youth cannot create good fiction. Shashi Tharoor's The Great Indian Novel (1989), his first published fictional work, English, August : An Indian story by Upamanyu Chatterjee, The God of Small Things. by Arundhati Roy, Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri are just some of the examples of how the debut book is often the best written by an author; and these are just the "famous"ones in the genre popularised as "Indian Writing in English". Salman Rushdie wrote his first book Grimus in 1975 at the age of 28, hardly anyone i know has heard of it, however Midnight's Children (1981) at age 34 is a comparitively popular (at least well known) book. And hey, 34 by authors' standards is YOUNG!
Aditya argues his case well, and as a youngster i can understand his anguish, some of my best writings came when i wasn't schooled in the cannons of literature. Things I can never reproduce, after all my years of formal education and academic writing, an idea Bill Waterson explains well here:

My all time favorite: Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye was written at age 32 if i'm not mistaken.
No wonder then Aditya's piece woke me up on the Sunday morning, albeit i had slept @ 4AM or later.
This was followed by Navtej Sarna's piece on Maugham's The Razor's Edge, a book i had read in my first year of graduation as a part of my Maugham readings... Again, since i could relate to the book and hence the article it was an enjoyable read.
What followed next was Comic Book Capers by Pradeep Sebastian, an enthralling piece on the legend of Amar Chitra Katha and the curious relationship that Karline McLain, an american professor of religion shares with the ACK stable especially the mythology series. Though the ACK stable produced a myriad range of comics, the most memorable ones were the Mythological series as well as the one on Freedom Fighters and National Heroes. The article was a delight to read and made me retrospect and acknowledge the debt i owed to ACK, for forming my mind and beliefs on many things.

The book reviews were as usual well written and very "Hindu", notably those of Midnight's Diaspora and Hanging by a tail. Ashok Sahwny's The Sands of Time and The Mahatma and the Monkeys got nice reviews too. Likewise, Fizz goes flat, a review of Nantoo Banerjee's chronicles of the return of Coke, reasserted a belief i always had: Thumbs Up rocks!

If anyone's wondering why i havent mentioned the cover story of the magazine, just wait till the next post...

Much ado about nothing!

2009-08-04T11:07:00.007+05:30

It took a rather nice copy of The Literary Review to rejuvenate the urge to write.
Not that a day passes when i don't think of posting something, but by the time i finally get about writing it, the interest wanes...

But these are just excuses for my laziness and unwillingness to be bound by any compulsions (albeit self imposed)or discipline in life. In fact, much to the chagrin of all and sundry around me, discipline and timeliness are two concepts that i still haven't warmed up to.
No excuses again, i'm just plain lazy and while away more time than anybody else, just walking up and down the house, wondering what i was looking for!
How else can you explain someone waking up by 7-7:30AM and struggling to leave by 8:30-8:45AM for over 3 months now. Where all i have to do is brush, drink a cup o' tea, bath and get dressed, all of which doesn't take more than 25 mins. So the all important question is what do i do in the remaining 35-45 minutes.
Well, err... i just keep thinking what i'm supposed to do next! Quite Simple that isnt it?

Well digressed a long way from the Literary Review...

The Best captains we never had !

2009-05-26T10:53:00.004+05:30

In Nirmals Shekhar's article here
Shekhar talks about the "Sheikh of Tweak" the best captain that Australia never had.

In this year's edition of IPL, we saw the bottom 2 of the table from last year's IPL, face each other in the final, a gala event which had the showdown of the captains of the respective teams.

The End

2009-05-25T12:07:00.003+05:30

This is the end
Beautiful friend
This is the end
My only friend, the end

Of our elaborate plans, the end
Of everything that stands, the end
No safety or surprise, the end
I'll never look into your eyes...again

Can you picture what will be
So limitless and free
Desperately in need...of some...stranger's hand
In a...desperate land

Lost in a Roman...wilderness of pain
And all the children are insane
All the children are insane
Waiting for the summer rain, yeah

There's danger on the edge of town
Ride the King's highway, baby
Weird scenes inside the gold mine
Ride the highway west, baby

Ride the snake, ride the snake
To the lake, the ancient lake, baby
The snake is long, seven miles
Ride the snake...he's old, and his skin is cold

The west is the best
The west is the best
Get here, and we'll do the rest

The blue bus is callin' us
The blue bus is callin' us
Driver, where you taken' us

The killer awoke before dawn, he put his boots on
He took a face from the ancient gallery
And he walked on down the hall
He went into the room where his sister lived, and...then he
Paid a visit to his brother, and then he
He walked on down the hall, and
And he came to a door...and he looked inside
Father, yes son, I want to kill you
Mother...I want to...f**k you

C'mon baby, take a chance with us
C'mon baby, take a chance with us
C'mon baby, take a chance with us
And meet me at the back of the blue bus
Doin' a blue rock
On a blue bus
Doin' a blue rock
C'mon, yeah

Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill

This is the end
Beautiful friend
This is the end
My only friend, the end

It hurts to set you free
But you'll never follow me
The end of laughter and soft lies
The end of nights we tried to die

This is the end

Splash!

2009-05-22T16:16:00.001+05:30

We the people...

2009-05-20T11:06:00.005+05:30

Silence it seems !

2009-04-29T18:03:00.001+05:30

Nicely written !

Have started reading Cricinfo blogs oftener

Must be high drama really.

Finally my first IPL post

2009-04-29T17:31:00.004+05:30

Disclaimer: All nicknames taken from fakeiplplayer whose nomenclature i loved.

Better late than never seems to be the phrase which suits the first thread of thought that comes to mind.
Okay here goes, this IPL was always being played on a sticky wicket what with the IPL Vs Elections 2009, Modi Vs RCB, Modi Vs Chidambaram. Modi and Modi. Never mind ...

Anyways, once the din had faded, we found ourselves in Safrica which was the best solution available. And it proves, so far to be a great venue per se for the competition. Now to the games, the first game saw Mumbai tame Chennai somehow, and the Bevdaas beat the Champions. As expected with a team which would fail to beat China's U-16 cricket team, KKR, to whom my natural loyalty is pledged proved all and sundry right. What with 4 captain theories, and "Dada is the team" statements and unpleasant press conferences (which always seems to happen to Sourav:)); the team lands in Safrica plays practice games where the Lordie's XI defeats Skippers XI. And lo! the next day Lordie is sacked from captaincy yet again and McCullum appointed captain. Which makes abs sense for the franchise looking forward, but could have been managed differently like the Bevdaas or my now home team DC handled it. But thats how it always happens for Lordie. In any case, the focus (mine ie) shifted from the KKR matches to the DD and DC matches.

In fact my semi line up would be DD, DC, MI, CSK. They seem to have the players and the belief to make it there. Not that the Shiekh of Tweak has fallen short of tricks. The WSOP finalist shows with every passing game that he does have Aces up his sleeve, neatly hidden.

The Chargers make up for the disappointment of KKR, as also did to some extent the infamous or famous Fake IPL Player blog which made some sense out of the charade that KKR puts up.

In any case this is just the general diary, The formal FIR should follow soon. As i speak though the Knights have folded for 139, viz as good as giving a walkover. What with Peter ka beta getting Skipper first ball! This is as good a roller coaster that we would have had had it been in played in India. There's just one question i want to ask Bhookha Naan, why pay millions to Mortaza if you intend to play Laxmi Ratan Shukla for all games.

Never mind, no point seeking sense from the insane and inane, asinine and the fatuous.

Catch you with more soon...

The auto driver

2009-03-23T13:56:00.005+05:30

It was probably the Navami night last year (2008 ie). The 9th day of Navratri, and the penultimate for the Durga Puja celebrations. We(Buns, ganguly and moi ) had gone to the puja, we generally go to; The Hyderabad Bangali Samitee. Anyways, it was a pleasant evening/night and my cousin was singing, so that made it all the more fun to be there!

In due course the evening panned and the events that happened were more or less as predicted, only we ended up staying back a li'l longer than we generally do, thanks to Bagchida. Ganguly however retired a li'l after midnight feigning work the next day. Bagchida is a "walking talking bongophile" one of the most entertaining people at least here in hyderabad; An array of anecdotes and loads of imagination along with a strong command over almost everything bangla, sums him up. And that to his credit makes him great company. So we "adda marofied" till around three, and left just about the time the place started looking deserted.

Since it had been raining in the evening and due to various other permutations and combinations, i hadn't come in my bike as usual. (We had set off as 3, and taking the bike was out of the question)
At this point both Bagchida and me were ruing the fact that we would miss the opportunity to drive back home at that time in night/morning. And also fearing the auto drivers' demands, which could touch the sky given the time. Besides Taranaka is not quite a favoured destination for autos in hyd (though i fail to see why). Well after talking to a few auto drivers whose reactions ranged from: simply looked away in reprimand, glared back, thundered 300 bucks, and finally please sit.
So we sat.
We lit cigarettes out of compulsion and went back to chatting, when i first heard the auto driver croon MLTR's "Paint my Love", intrigued we gradually lulled into silence, and as if in understanding of our appreciation the auto driver raised his pitch, and began belting Bryan Adams and Dire Straits (if my memory doesnt fail me). As we asked him about his love for english songs (auto drivers seldom listen to english music leave aside singing it) and he explained that he had a passion for all kinds of music and the silence of the night helped him remeber the english lyrics.

The guy talked about politics: local, national and global, he talked about world peace and as we entered the tranquility of Osmania University asked us to sing a song which he was sure we would know, we agreed to oblige and he asked us to sing "Krishna" by Colonial Cousins. We obliged as promised and came to a halt by the time we had drifted to some other song. The guy took the standard fare: half return as it is called here viz 1and a half times the reading on the metre. As we asked him why he drove an auto when he appeared educated and informed and could easily get a job. He gave us an answer that will perhaps stay forever.
He said "I graduated from Osmania University in 1978 (suggesting that he could have easily had a job as graduates were hard to find then), but i'm a Leo by birth and cannot work under anybody. I own the auto and drive at my free will when i feel like. That way everything i need is more or less fulfilled. He also read newspapers in 3 languages everyday !"

I was amazed at the plain spoken gentleman who spoke the words. It was not rehearsed; it sounded as impromptu as anything else and he left us all thinking about ourselves.
Guess he gave dignity of labour a whole new dimension for me.

Those sleepless nights...

2009-02-17T17:28:00.001+05:30

The sense of nothingness
of pain and agony
of sleepless nights and uncried wails
of nights of terrible darkness and solitude
of drunken revelrie
and of course the countless nights
when i fidget and flip flop
when the bedsheet goes wet with sweat
and when sedatives dont work
Of those nights when my mind
is filled with stray words with no strings
no appendages and links
only ellipses...
bleak, barren and weary
when my senses have been stripped,
and my hands can't feel to grip
My toes too numb
and the nervous sleeplessness making me feel like putting a bullet through my head.

Sadly i dont own a gun !

My favorite poem

2009-02-17T17:11:00.002+05:30

Perhaps this could have stayed unstated.
Had our words turned to other things
In the grey park, the rain abated,
Life would have quickened other strings.
I list your gifts in this creation:
Pen, paper, ink and inspiration,
Peace to the heart with touch or word,
Ease to the soul with note and chord.

How did that walk, those winter hours,
Occasion this? No lightning came;
Nor did I sense, when touched by flame,
Our story lit with borrowed powers -
Rather, by what our spirits burned,
Embered in words, to us returned.

Read this in the the epigraph to An Equal Music by Vikram Seth, fell in love with it instantly, maybe also because i was going through the motions of picking up broken pieces of my life and instantly identified with the poem. Today almost 6 to 7 years thence, it still evokes feelings and memories unparalleled. I still wish to have the ability to put in the words the sentiments above.
I guess my feelings are best expressed by VS's last line in "Dubious" from Mappings:"What is my status: Stray? Or Great?"

In my moments of raw desolation and bleakness, i still wonder whether my life would have been different and happier if i had taken a few decisions differently ?
The play is obviously in the fact that i will never ever know. I guess its just the temporal nature of all things in my life for the last few months that add to it and aggravate it.

Ah those Sunday mornings !!!

2009-02-02T16:57:00.007+05:30

Having little to do, i've turned into a bit of a couch potato.
Sunday mornings had a ritualistic order when i was a kid, waking up to the tunes of Rangoli, breakfast while watching telly, Ramayan and Mahabharat, and a milieu of small screen wonders like Indradhanush, Jungle Book, Potli Baba ki, Stone Boy, Gayab Aaya, Vikram-Betal, Street Hawk,... the list is endless.
Anyways cut to circa 2009, when sattelite TV is being upstaged by DTH, it was pleasantly touching
to see 2 episodes (back to back) of the Mahabharat being broadcasted on Fox History and Entertainment on weekends. (I just happened to watch a commercial for the same and a very well made one at that and have been trying to catch up whenever i can wake up by 9 on weekends.) Interestingly, the episode(s) 23 n 24 shown on the 25th Jan was a real treat (as are almost all of the episodes).

It is as defining a moment in the epic as any, the young princes (Pandavas and Kauravas) were now young and had completed their training and education under Dronacharya and Kripacharya, and come out in a public demonstration of their skills. The 2 most interesting moments were: 1. When Bheem and Duryodhan come to blows with their maces, and the "rangbhoomi" becomes a "ranbhoomi" and their fight is stopped; and 2. When Arjun had completely mesmerised the audience with his skills in archery, and Drona proclaims him to be the best archer in the world.
Lo behold! in comes Karna (the eldest of Kunti's sons, born out of a boon given by Durvasa, fathered By Surya, the sun-god), however, despite recognising him as he challenges Arjun (Through the Kavaj (armour) and Kundal(earrings), Kunti is unable to reclaim her son born before her marriage to Pandu.

However the challenge is dismissed by Drona as he points out that only a kshatriya prince could challenge another, while Adhirath (Karna's foster father and Dhritarashtra's charioteer) emerges from the crowd. At this juncture, Duryodhana see's an opportunity of defeating Arjun and seizes it by crowninh him the King of Angdesh, a region he had claim to. This not only marks the beginning of a famous friendship between them, but also for the first time brings the 3 most celebrated warriors of the epic on the same stage: Bhishma or Devavrata, son of Shantanu and Ganga and an incarnate of Prabhasa or Dyaus (Sky father) the grandest of all in the epic, celebrated and named Bhishma for the terrible vows he had taken. Karna, the son of Surya / the Sun God himself and Kunti, celibrated for his valour and loyalty, and Arjuna, the son of Kunti and Indra (again from the boon Kunti had been blessed with as a maiden), arguably the greatest archer of his age and the most handsome of the Pandavas.

Together, the trio form the core of the mythology, not to mention Krishna, Duryodhan and Yudhistir who play their parts in the grand epic that is considered as the base of Hindu dharma.

Interestingly, the destiny of all three are inevitably linked to each other. While Bhishma pitamaha, the great father is undisputedly the greatest force, as he could choose the time of his death, and Karna unjustly robbed of his right to the throne and forever doomed by his parentage as well as the curse of Parashuram his teacher, who destines his death, are interconnected by their teacher Parashuram, as well as their allegience to the throne of Hastinapur. Arjun, is Bhishma's favorite and had an unparalleled rivalry with Karna, to the claim of being the greatest archer in the world. While both, Bhishma and Karna fall to Arjuna's arrows, albeit with the help of the cunning Krishna. Both, could have arguably, won the battle at Kurukshetra by themselves.

But then Krishna had other ideas and the story takes its own twists...

Coming back to the episode, as the arguments between Duryodhan and the Pandava's reach a crescendo, and he challenges all five pandavas, the competition is called to close as sunset signals the end of the event and "kshatriya dharma" does not allow for fights post sundow!
Pheww a tantalising episode comes to an end, now for next weekend for more.

To be contd...

Slumdog Hoopla

2009-01-30T13:14:00.005+05:30

Well, with nothing much to do in the evenings (I'm now a certified member of the federation of Unemployed Youth of India), i decided to catch a show of the Slumdog that's been raking in millions and awards worldwide. The media's been ranting about it, as are the channels anything for TRP's, and we are fed to a daily dose of the hype and hoopla, the success and controversies that surrounded it. I did'nt read the Big B's blog but got the jist of what he said (courtesy news channels), but did read through a rather scathing attack made by Arindam Chaudhuri (you couldnt overlok it, he had almost half a page in all the national dailies on the 26th i guess).

Anyways cut to the movie, i cannot deny that i had a fair idea of what to expect from the movie, but then from the guy who gave us Trainspotting and to a lesser degree The Beach, my reference to Danny Boyle was not completely vague as Anil Kapoor claimed in numerous interviews (apparently he went Danny boyle who ?). The movie begins well and i think i agree with Bugs here, that the best part of the movie is the childhood scenes with stellar performances from all the kids.
But as the plot moved on in its tri-parallel plot, the show, the interrogation, and Jamal's life, it slowly becomes hackneyed and drudged. Again, for all the hoopla Dev Patel and Frieda Pinto, have little to do, the path is laid by the child performers. In fact, to be very honest, i dont even agree to Dev's casting as the older Jamal. We really dont have office boys with strong british accents, hell, even the best of Tele exec's can hardly communicate in english. But then u have to apply the supension of disbelief theory to see a young kid jump into a mass of human shit and get up and start speaking in chaste english!

However, i liked the elder Salim's performance in the latter half, in fact the character was perhaps the truest of all the characters. All in all, i figured that what shocked the West were scenes which have become a part of life for us. The novelty of it is perhaps lost on us indians. Though the audience does respond to the black humour that Boyle depicts; just about.
Though, quite a few of my friends have strongly recommended Vikas Swarup's Q&A, over the movie.
I dont think i'll go out of my way.
After all I've been brought up on the Bollywood fare of the rags to riches story and love and good prevail in the end, throughout my life.

In any case would we have gone to watch the movie if made by an Indian director and titled "Basti ka karorpati", "Jhopriwala karorpati", "Bastiwala bana karorpati"...? No unanimously.

An Oscar for this movie? Certainly not if i'm in the jury.
Well... maybe just for Rahman's sake. :)

The Indian Express derailed... Contd...

2009-01-30T13:05:00.006+05:30

Unfortunately for us Lee n Dlouhy lost (rather tamely at that) to the Bryan brothers.
So there goes the big dream...

But Hesh rolls on and stands a good chance of getting both the doubles titles. (Wishful thinking ?)

The Indian Express derailed...

2009-01-26T20:56:00.005+05:30

Watching the Australian Open, i saw Paes and Dlouhy, make it to the quarters. Bhupathi/Knowles had of course made it in earlier, and with no clue of how the draws are placed, wondered if a semi-final or even optimistically a title clash, would be possible. And, what a sense of vindictiveness it would provide for any Indian Tennis fan/enthusiast.

In my generation, they represented the only chance for India to make amends for its lack of quality tennis players and more so grand Slam winners or potentials for that matter. But as it turned out, it(their partnership) went on an ego battle spree that became war over the years. If only they could have managed without a battle for supremacy, We would have many more Slam titles to their names.

Their records speak for themselves, out of the 29 ATP titles Paes has won, 23 are partnering Mahesh, and 3 Slams (2 French and 1 Wimbeldon). This is mostly in a period between '97-98 to 2001 when they won the French open but crashed out of the other 3. In the almost 8 years in between they have played together with some success (mostly Davis Cup matches). Ironically, it is the Davis Cup matches where they have been in the worst of relationships.

Paes, the poster boy of Indian Tennis, with more clout on the federation than even Sachin ever had over BCCI (Controversial ?) could have exercised it with ease at some point and that was never good news for indian tennis. It finally came to a showdown, as well chronicled at Craig Hickman's blog and turned out to be an ugly affair. A junior wimbeldon champ, Paes has always been a tremendous doubles player even in the mixed category, and Hesh, well is no less celebrated a doubles player.

As i rest my case today, i wish for a title clash in the near future, if not this time. And would want to see how the events would unfold. Undoubtedly they have played against each other earlier , and with undoubted rivalry and professionalism. But now with age no longer on their side.,will one such Slam final, as the title is won and the players converge at the nets, their eyes meet and look away, knowing what they have lost.

BAS !

2009-01-20T15:01:00.002+05:30

I figured

2008-09-27T20:06:00.006+05:30

Flipping through webpages of intrigue,
pages with words of love, hate, romeo and juliet
I wondered propels or prompts me to write?

is it sheer boredom?
a willingness to see how efficient i still am at expressing myself ?
proving a point to someone?
reacting to someone's writing / blog / incident whether personal or otherwise ?

I keep coming up with newer ones newer reasons, newer justifications.
yes justifications is closer to the truth than reasons.

I do not have reasons to write, it seems.
Sad, but honest to self.

And yet justifications are abundant.

Flitting through the innumerous social networking sites
the only thing i ended up doing was to realise how my peers / friends are faring in life.
Reading blogs gives a more personal insight into a few more people's live's...

So here is a list of things i felt through this week's net surfing:

I figured this week, that my first crush has married and i'm still shy to speak to her
I figured that most of friends from school have ended up as techies and are either married/ getting married or to busy working to bother
I figured that i am so bored with myself that weekends are better slept off than stay awake.
Figured that i have nothing figured out in life and am not even getting there...

Figured that IM meant more than instant messenger, and that so many of our own youth are are so hurt and so disillusioned that educated and savvy that they are, they use their skills to trigger more than 6 bombs in the last fortnight at the heart of our country's capital.

figured that optimism isnt a positive thing its a disease

Figured that no matter what i say or proclaim
The I in me always gets centrestage
I figured that i had had enough of writing help files for an alien software (at least for the time being) and finally accepted that i have to move on proffessionally.
I figured that my inability to figure out what i want from / in life is creating havoc in so many people's lives.
I figured that i have to vent my angst out, every now and then, lest it numbs me so, that it doesnt matter anymore.
I need it to matter, my private angst to fuel something, even if its in the form of senseless mumblings like this.

A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London

2008-08-06T23:21:00.006+05:30

Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness

And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn

The majesty and burning of the child's death.
I shall not murder
The mankind of her going with a grave truth
Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
With any further
Elegy of innocence and youth.

Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter,
Robed in the long friends,
The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
Secret by the unmourning water
Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.

When we had first studied this poem, we had all instantly fallen in love with the essence of the work, the intricacies of the layering that Dylan Thomas displayed, today, i understand the emotion, perhaps for the first time.
As DT perfectly sums it up "After the first death there is no other"

We need to celebrate life and celebrate it well, lest we are prey to the intricate larger design of life.
Unfortunately, what we have today is what is called a pregnant poise, silence that eats up what remains of our soul(s).

May we have the strength to live through this ordeal, this senseless existence where we grow our callow selves with the hope that we may engineer our life through the bane of existence, adroitly.

Alas, we realise the folly of our belief, of even the slightest moments when we have felt in control.

The day i wrote this, almost a couple of months back, i was numb yet raw, stung yet hopeful.
Today its been replaced by a stoic acceptance of the wheels and the three ladies.

May the yarn still be spinning

Finally the Circus is over !

2008-06-03T15:49:00.006+05:30

I have done it again! Proverbially, put my big foot in my big mouth .
The Semi finals were the perfect anti-climax to an otherwise fascinating 44 days of exciting cricket.
After the DD where thrashed out of the competition by the RR, one expected the K XI P to trounce the CSK, but that was not to be. (Me and my big mouth)

However Captain Cool (MSD as called by the SG the little master), finally succumbed to Captain Cooler Text, not after he had tried all the "rascal" stunts that he had up his sleeve, Mind It.

Finally my faith was reinstated !

RR reigned supreme albeit the last ball, credit to the CSK lads who fought their hearts out, but for a few dropped catches, a few tactical errors in their batting lineup and their bowling order.

to be contd...

5 posts in a day

2008-05-31T00:41:00.005+05:30

For those who commented that i have come to the end of "My Literary Career", and unless i start "practising" writing, the pen shall fail me...

A rude reminder, that productivity and quality have but the faintest correlation, when it comes to the queer.

Not for nothing that a Swapnil Asnodkar, having played donkeys years for Goa, has to make his mark under the Evergreen Shane Warne. Sad that he shall perhaps never earn the India cap...

(Alas, i digress again..., No more of that for now...)

Likewise, i may end up with 5 posts within a day, but if that is any benchmark to go by, then i shall quote this poem by the enigmatic Robert Frost, which i first read when i was in class VIII perhaps, heres's to all who read my blog:

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'.
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me~
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."

"Mending Wall", Robert Frost, 1915

The Road oft travelled

2008-05-31T00:15:00.002+05:30

Seldom do people realise that, it is so much more tougher making ur mark on the road oft travelled.
Mine, as always is not only oft travelled but also often the dogmatic, much to the shock of my friends wo have come to expect a Harry Houdini off me oftener than not.

Some of my steadiest ideals / icons have been people who have made it big (in their own way) having followed the traveled road.

Sometime, in my early years of fascination with literature and literary figures, i came across these lines (by Samuel Beckett) while embarking on the never ending journey to James Joyce...

"His Writing is not about something, it is that something itself"

Contrary to the above i had always agreed with D.H. Lawrence when he said: " Never trust the artist, trust the tale. As for the artist, he's usually a dribbling liar"

Years later, when i examine the statements , i find little to choose...
For my well wishers who complain that i limit myself too much to the Dickens, Hardy's, Swifts', and the Joyce's and so on (basically those who comprised the erstwhile cannon).

Is it not fair if i complain that the Llosa's and the Marquez', the Seth's and the Pamuks' of the world by whom they swear are but the same, only representing a different generation.

Ponder....

Delhi Disappoints

2008-05-30T23:42:00.002+05:30

For those who follow Indian Cricket...
The DLF IPL is almost at its wee hours or almost there ie...

For all who follow Indian Cricket, it is a moment of deep introspection, and of course unheralded joy.
Ever since one haryanvi jat called kapil dev nikhanj captured the imagination of the nation by holding aloft the 1983 Prudential World cup at the mecca of Cricket the MCC (based out of the Lords cricket ground).

The centre stage of Indian cricket has certainly shifted from the metros namely Mumbai, Kolkata, Delhi and Chennai (not necessarily in that order), to the hinterlands, chiefly the cow belts .

Today, Team India is lead by a Jharkhandi, and is supported by a punjabi from chandigarh(yuvraj), the loci of the team is decided by the harbhajan's (jalandhar) sreesanths' (kerala) , piyush chawla praveen kumars, and of course the pathan brothers, not to mention the partihiv's and the kaifs, the munafs and the asnodkars(goa).

What the IPL has done effectively (now with the rajasthan royals cake walking to the finals), is that it has accepted the pattern and patronised it,

No longer are bastions safe, the Mumbai's , Delhi's, Kolkata's and Chennai (assuming that the Kings XI Punjab, based out of Mohali trounce Chennai and make it an all small town finals for the biggest tournament (arguably) ever in INDIA)

to be continued...

Sigh ! i let myself down yet again

2008-05-30T19:19:00.005+05:30

Amongst other things i have been preoccupied in telling myself that indulging in any literary endeavour when one earns his bread by writing the following day in day out, is but a fallacy, the vainest of ironies.(so much so that ones thought process is constrained by the logical, sequential, chronological, and brief.) Much to my chagrin and grief.

Please find below an example of creating a new blog:

Do the following:

Click the Create Post link.
A new Compose window is displayed.
Enter the required title in the Title box.
Click the Tab button.
Start keying in the series of vague thoughts that are straying / drifting along the milky way of your mind.

And Viola !
The new post is posted.

Such is the irony that is wasted even on ironical. (God, Kudos to myself for coming up with a statement like the one above.)

It just shows that even the great Holden Caulfield (Jr) or a Bertie Wooster had a clearer mind than the i one i possess right now.

Nevertheless, i shall motor on and not give in to such self criticisms, after all isnt a self doubting self critical mind better than a Writers block.
Dont know whether thats said before. Feeling high for coming up with something as original. (Pun Intended)

So, where was i ?
Ok, now i remember, i was about to come up with my first post after a self imposed hiatus that stretched way beyond the limits of my own imagination.

And here i am gibberish as ever...

Clarity of thought, is all that is required, and boy isnt that something that comes naturally to me.

Far from being apologetic, i question my audience (self vanity at its best) whether this will qualify as a valid post.

To Hell with Reader Response Theory.

This IS my latest post.

Take it or leave it. (Read Leave it)

So; Till my ramblings begin again, peace to my readership. (Convinced i am that some people will actually take the pains to come to this line)

May you always be Forever Young.

Sparking the Renaissance

2008-05-30T19:03:00.002+05:30

1 year 2 months and 2 days post my last blog, i finally give into the realisation that i have been downright lazy and just not given vent to the creative juices within.

As a result, a vile bile it has turned to!
and made me not just react(to any attempts of pointing to the same by my well wishers) with vitriol of the highest quality, but have shamelessly blamed the rigamarole of life for my own inactivity and lack of interest.

It is not that i have nothing to write anymore (i convince myself), its just that i find it too lowly to give in to the pressures of maintaining one (i tell others).

The time is rife for an uprising! , (or The Rising as Aamir or Ketan Mehta or YashRaj would have liked it)
[ Sorry for missing out Farrukh Dhondy, i still believe (from whatever little i've read of him) that he couldnt possibly have anything to do with the term The Rising, after all the guy does have a sense of humour and wry, dry one at that :P]

This is to herald a new awakening, a fresh blowing of the bugle announcing a dramatic reprise, a la phoenix.

So that, for another 1 year 2 months and 2 days, the Rip Van Winkle within lulls the phoenix to sleep.

Till then.

Ciao.

Doubts

2007-11-21T00:23:00.001+05:30

Still dont know what it takes

But realised i have to be a little more thick skinned than i already am to actually begin thinking and keep thinking to keep myself alive

Have to find ways to be alive and keep people around me alive

Am i audible ?

even to myself ?

Just to show off a bit

2006-08-08T01:15:00.000+05:30

Just a few photographs that i took from the hostel terrace
(Basically, at least i wont feel like i'm not posting for a long time now)

Finale

2006-05-27T05:54:00.000+05:30

Two Windows
A Door, a shelf and a table

A distant, spartan cot
And books strewn
All over

Is all that remains
When...
...it is
...All Over.

VAIN...

2006-04-12T16:57:00.000+05:30

Vain attempts to evoke a dead soul
Familiar cries of anguish
And the feeling of a large gaping hole
The dismemberment ,
Parts of one unified whole
Like the million pieces of glass
A moment after its fall
No time to pick up
Nor a second to look back
In a moment one changes
And dons another role
A new face , fresh expressions
New words .new talk, new ways and needs
Newer expectations too
An upheld hand amongst the muted numbers
And the moment of silence
Follows...
And seemed like it would never end
Eternity.

Am trying something here. hope it achieves the end i want it to...

umm...

2006-04-12T16:53:00.000+05:30

Am quite embarressed actually for having such a LOOOOOOOOONNG post after not posting inspite of tremendous goading by all bloggers alike. sorry guys next time onwards smaller but more regular posts....

Bah! Kolkata !

2006-04-11T01:32:00.001+05:30

Alongside of course, i lived a strange life in school for around three to four years of life. I was in so to say No man's land. For the bengali population in school i was an alien who astonishingly spoke better hindi and english; what a shame for a true blood bengali. And whats more i didnt even have an accent when i spoke in either of the languages only i stuttered when it came to bangla. No proper culture at home they thought i suppose. Swimming was the one passion, well that was bengali enough i suppose at leas, southt calcuttan to swim at the great dhakuria lakes. Had a strange time actually swimming and studying in a school trying to experiment with itself and us of course.
Sometime in the middle of all that i had to begin to choose an identity for myself at least to the effect that i side with either of the two major communities at school maru's as the marwari's are perhaps not so lovingly called and the bangali, that i was supposed to be and accept as my true identity. Somehow the idea of making a choice did not quite appeal to me for whatever reasons. Invariably then i could not be very close to the more ethnic and traditional groups in either of the communities. Not that i 'minded' but it was still stupid to be expected to make a choice like that.
Right from school then i had a great deal of travelling to do since i lived in the south and studied in the west of the city. The daily bus rides were fun as i befriended almost every bus driver who could drive on our bus route and would normally sit with him in the 'cabin' of the bus. Good banter with them at least it was different than what i would otherwise get.
Apart from school and swimming where i would normally get along well with the trainers as well as all the swimming junta, the two main regions where one would chiefly have to unteract was at home in the company of the guys and gals in the neighbourhood, and again at home in the sense of the great extended family that we seemed to have.Around '96-'98 i began getting along with a group of considerably elder friends who would play cricket on the streets on weekends when the traffic was low and that was the first time i actually got to meet typically calcuttan people. So there i was slowly becoming a 'rockabaaj' a term normally used to refer to young unemployed youth who would sit on a comfartable 'rock'(normally an old fashioned smail staircase to usher people into the house and talk about anything to everything under the sun, form gossip to hardcore arguments in national politics.
My freedom to move about the city too grew with time and it was the puja's that really made me feel that one need not be an ethnic 'bengali' to be a calcuttan.
But Puja's always overwhelmed me with it sheer liberal nature and all embracing-ness that the bengali could do with for the rest of the year too, the sheer economics of seven days Puja in kolkata makes up for more than half of its annual economic transaction( or so i think !)

High school and college were however devoted to fests, quizzes, plays, romance and of course loads and loads of dope. In fact now that i think about it most of my high school i did nothing but quiz and watch plays and talk endlessly over the phone. Calcutta Telephones with all its idiosyncracies still rocked back in school and boy i spent half my time over the phone. The remaining time especially college, was of course dutifully spent on long adda's over tea, coffee, G, and of course music, films and literature.

Academics were on principle not taken seriously. It wasn't hip enough to be serious about acads in my dictionary.
No wonder then that i still get time to write long, crappy posts like this one, refuse to accept that this is bad writing and publish it all the same, hoping i might get one more post if i actually get to writing what i originally wanted to...

Ah ! KOLKATA !!

2006-04-02T12:55:00.000+05:30

One of the most endearing images that kolkata can 'gibh iu'. somehow the love for city is also for the always charged and always lethargic tempo it has. Most of my life having spent in the city i realise that though for the first year or so i could not speak bengali to save my life ( i picked it up from political grafitti and mini bus headings) to slowly forgetting (almost) hindi my second language after english (or was it the other way round) Around then i discovered Ray, his movies books and discovered the warmth the city had. i turned a bengali but my senior relatives kept insisting that i must be missing delhi and what not. true i spoke to my bro in hindi but now it was getting more and more interspersed with bengali. true i listened to hindi songs mostly apart from compulsory mix of rabindrasangeet, nazrul, adhunik, baul the works . woke upto a plethora of singers from hemanta to shyamal mitra, suchitra mitra to purna das baul. around then came Suman Chatterjee and he along with some others filled me with joy about the nuances of the beauty that the city had to offer. to be honest had it not been for satyajit and suman and i know i risk being mauled for putting them together opened me upto bengal. i started with tagore moved onto sunil ganguly, a bit of sameresh and then to keep up the hip quotient also dabbled with joy goswami and jibananda. come on u could not claim to be bong and not read jibananda!!!
To be continued.....

Hi !

2006-03-28T01:00:00.000+05:30

Found this amongst some old stuff:

A torrid time in the train
an hour and half off schedule.
Things made worse by the rain,
even if you dont go by the rule.

A night to remember,
the diamond sky, filled with stars
with people around that came from Mars
looking a li'l sinister.

A man asleep at my feet
makes me shift my leg uncomfortably
A snore fom three lofts away
where sleep three on a seat.

And yet, neither of the two
seem perturbed by the thundering.
poor me, sitting alone, thinking aloud.
And wondering.

this was just around 5 years back, coming back home on a train, having been annoyingly fallen in love with seth's golden gate for the n th time after having first read it when my brother was in the state iwas in then, just after the all important +2.
wondering now whether folly committed is reversible or not ?

Home

2005-12-08T13:10:00.000+05:30

About dusk,
Sun's just round the bend.
Ready to go back home, or lose its way and dive into the sea.
Beyond it fly herds of birds,
Rows of feather, queuing together,
Tracing back steps to the wilderness
The branches of whose tree's,
Are adorned by their nests.

Back in the nests after day ends
To come back home and fall asleep
Content, aloft in their nests

Tracing back my flight
Land in reality
Amidst my own concrete jungle
I am the monarch of all i survey
With hands flung up in air, in despair.

No home, no nest to go back to
No flock to give me company
Here, amidst menacing rows of brick and mortar
Where should i return?
What place shall I call,
My home?

Bargain

2005-12-07T23:33:00.000+05:30

Today,
I struck a bargain
To sell off my soul yet again
One by One all that i had believed in
All that had helped me
Time and again.
Each of them I watched being bid for
and sold
And counted, in silence, abated.

At a distance, I stood
and watched them sell
pieces of me that still held good.
The final bargain now struck
I turned
A mere paces from me
There you stood.

The quizzical face, shall not work today.
How could I tell you, what you had done?
A wealth of hope, that i had stored
Today i found, were all gone.

And gone with it my own resolve
So here i am yet again.

My soul's been sold.

Lennon Song

2005-12-06T15:40:00.000+05:30

As soon as u're born
They make u feel small
By giving u no time instead of it all
Till the pain is so big u feel nothing at all
A working class hero is something to be

They hurt at u at home and they hit u at school
They hate u if u'e clever and they despise a fool
Till u're so fucking crazy u cant follow their rules
A working class hero is something to be

when they've torchered and scared u for 20 odd years
Then they expect u to pick a career
When u cant really function u're so full of fear
A working class hero is omething to be

Keep u doped with relegion and sex & TV
And u think u're so clever and classless and free
but u'e still fucking peasants as far as i can see

A working class hero is something to be

there's room at the top they're telling you still
But u must learn how to smile as u kill
If u want to be like the folks on the hill
A working class hero is something to be
If u want to be a hero then just follow me

Preludes

2005-12-06T15:30:00.000+05:30

The winter evening settles down
With smells of stakes in passageways.
Six o' clock
The burnt-out ends of smoky days
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney pots
And at the corner of the street.
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps...

ever since i've read this i've never really felt like i can write
i wish and pray that someday i have a tenth of this kind of expression
somehow something a prof of mine said comes back too
if u like a poet try not to study him, dissect him and take him apart u might not ever like him
unfortunately i did and holy cow its not all that bad.

two more nights and i'l be home
back to where i belong where all my hopes reside
but there's something special about this time that has me more excited than usual
its about introducing one part of my life to another

the only thing i can think of is home
home not as in the physical quantity of four walls and family
home : where the heart lives, where my dreams are set, where i want to live
and
where i want to die.

Once More

2005-11-26T09:02:00.000+05:30

Just another image to add on my obsession
half the time i think its due to my love for dawn i dont end up sleeping all night
just to experience it again
its a different feeling every time.

Dawn

2005-11-25T18:42:00.000+05:30

Somehow dawn and dusk are the most enriching periods of my day
i just love the sight of the sun slowly dying out or rising up from the point that is horizon for us but thats not the point, for its never the point.
Our horizons after all, like

DAWN

Give me a new line
A new beginning where i start afresh
Away from the gloomy sky
Towards a new dawn__
Twillight
signals the change
the heart is merely dismayed
NO.
It hasn't given up
Night stretches itself today
but twillight must enter
through the white clouds
Pale against the purple sky,
Mellow not angry,
beautiful yet scary.

The journey is a herculean one
Do not despair
Dawn awaits.

2005-11-25T18:31:00.000+05:30

For Vincent

whose starry nights still holds the charm it had when i had first seen it some 8-9 years back
for vincent who lost it for the right reasons

Again...

2005-11-25T05:23:00.000+05:30

two neverending days
of incessant rain
and finally the sight of the full blue sky
radiant blue and clear white clouds
with no rains to bear
assorted hue

the insane within craves for an opening
sanity no longer controls
my heart and soul
when do i get to reach
the open sky

and try the wings i had of you ?

VAIN...

2005-11-24T20:22:00.000+05:30

Vain attempts to evoke a dead soulFamiliar cries of anguishAnd the feeling of a large gaping holeThe dismemberment ,Parts of one unified wholeLike the million pieces of glassA moment after its fallNo time to pick upNor a second to look backIn a moment one changesAnd dons another roleA new face , fresh expressionsNew words .new talk, new ways and needsNewer expectations tooAn upheld hand amongst the muted numbersAnd the moment of silenceFollows...And seemed like it would never endEternity.

Awake for the third consecutive night

2005-11-24T19:48:00.000+05:30

Night,
And the restlessness of sleepless souls
The spookiness of lack of sleep
Two more pills might help the cause.

Silence,
that pervades all
Deafening,Painful,Wretched,Miserable.
The ticking of one's heartbeat
Loud and clear like a gong.

Darkness,
Pitchblack,visible,middling bad
That eats up, gnawing the vigilant soul.

vain attempts

2005-11-24T19:00:00.000+05:30

finally i give in
after holding on for so long and not being part of the rat-race
finally i give in
so here goes