Break Up

The moment had passed...
Silence ushered in,
Cigarettes lit, ashtray's passed
Words remained unspoken.

Seconds lapsed to minutes
minutes ticked to an hour 
and then many...

The occasional sound of water glugging
ended by the resounding silence

She rose and walked purposefully towards the loo
Switched the light on and quietly latched the door
Almost in a single motion.

The sound of a matchstick striking the box 
Indicated another cigarette lit.

Outside, smoke rings peter out.
Heavy, round, ovular rings of smoke
disappear as they rises upwards

The window on the far side was open
Timid yet steady breeze passed in 
every few moments. 

The silence was unnerving
Rattling, almost a death knell
The proverbial lull before the storm...

The flush broke the silence.
Then water gushing out of the basin tap
and a repetitive sound of water 
cupped in the palm, splashing the face.

Outside, a huge heave
a sigh of relief, followed by silent breathing 
The door opened finally
Rays of light from the rest-room flooded the far side

Specks of dust brought in by the gentle gush, now visible.
And then the gentle push to door brought the room back to stark darkness

The darkness was the only soothing thing
No not the only, silence helped too.
Consumed in thought, the cigarette burnt to the butt

Forcing a muted ouch and a flick of the butt.

This is how it would be, thought he
Dark and silent
No words scathing the other
No words, barbed and wiry
No more verbal assaults

Their sharp wits and tongues
Sarcasm had brought them together
Ironically, she reflected.
She groped her hand bag, and found the packet
The last cigarette of the last pack waited.
She knew it was her last, she'd borrowed one from him before she rose
Silently of course.

Fidgety, she'd left the matchbox in the loo
She looked up to meet the eyes she'd been averting
since they'd met here. They looked back.
It was a generous look, not the searing look that made her feel stripped
Neither the glint after a cocky, caustic one liner
She wasn't used to this look.
of apathy, of lifelessness, of acceptance
yet he didn't look down.

He took the lighter out of his shirt pocket
and gently without his usual flourish
offered it to her. She saw the raised arm,
But she was looking in those eyes
Searching for something
she didn't know...

He could always make his eyes talk
Since she'd first seen him, checking her out
His eyes made it clear, it wasn't a look of awe 
He wasn't enamored or smitten.
But he was genuinely interested
she could tell, as her gaze had shifted then
Avoiding those intrusive pair of eyes.

She expected disdain, anger, retaliation in his eyes
but found none, as she picked the lighter 
Careful not to brush her fingers against his hand
She lit up and for a moment blinded him
For in that darkness, her face was clearer now
The signs of weeping hadn't been visible earlier

He didn't feel remorse, or sorrow, or empathy
But strangely felt protective
Not of her perhaps, but of what they shared
Or what they used to share!

He hadn't planned to fall for her
Neither had she, 
It was the game that egged both on
Till most games as these end.
In love, in realization of a passion unexplained.

They hadn't made love
They didn't want to
They just wanted the assurance of each other.
And so it had been, 
Despite his moving away to another city for greener pastures


Till today,
Till he opened the door and saw the house half empty
She had taken away all but one of her cartons
The one which she'd hoarded his letters, movie tickets,
Bills of food and drink, books he'd sent, music he'd shared.

He'd waited for her to arrive
For it was she who had asked him to come.
And so it had been since.
They'd been silent.

The weight of her taking a new lover was not all
The secrecy that shrouded it did
They had spoken every day
Had she lay in bed with someone in one of their conversations?
His mind wandered in myriad directions
Thoughts flooding and replacing till another had even taken shape.

Her phone rang
She answered after the third ring
and quietly murmured, I'll be down in 5.

This time he didn't look into her eyes
Instinctively, despite the darkness
He stared towards the general direction of the door.

She cleared her throat and said "I must leave".
Must you? He thought; "Yes you must" he answered
And without a thought ambled towards the switch board
and switched the lights on.
The lights almost blinded her
But she walked towards the door,
even as she grew accustomed to the light...

She stood at the door and looked back
Waiting for his parting shot, for he always had the last laugh
His face showed no emotion, his eyes placid and true
almost glasslike...
But he didn't fire any salvo's 
He was done.
"Goodbye", he said and turned away.

She stood unmoved, waiting for something
But nothing happened, he didn't even look back at her
She'd hoped it would end amicably, even begged him so
He wanted to keep his word.

The phone rang again, and she instinctively rejected it
She'd hoped for something, yet she didn't know what
She lingered, unmoved for a few more moments 
Then turned her heels, and closed the door behind her. 
After all, the moment had passed...

Remember, Remember...

Remember the walks from College to your home, remember making you wait outside AMRI, while I headed towards Panchantala, remember 5 years of sharing lectures, notes and conversations, remember blocking your phone on your birthday from 12-6, and dropping by for lunch the next day, remember, you, Aadil and me in your room, remember wading through water to drop you home, remember the play rehearsals and your exasperation's, remember days at Tarnaka, and at Arunlekha's house.
Remember the snaps I took at your wedding, remember the Sin City's and V for Vendetta's we watched together. Remember Chandnidi's house at Nacharam... Remember picking on Partho Mukherjee and gaping at Bertie, remember giggling the class off, while AP and Christina were lecturing, Remember spending more time photocopying your notes than actually reading them... 

Remember every damn thing, you chastising me when I would go off the boil, laughing at me imitating Belafonte singing Scarborough Fair/Canticle, Remember that crazy night with Elakshi, Namrata, Arunlekha, Runa & Vineet, Remember the fact that you always took my calls irrespective of the time, 

Remember the Christmas at Chris' home with Suman, Tri, Jishnu, 'Banjo' amongst others; Remember you down with cramps and getting the proxyvons, Remember you introducing me to Hari, remember sitting in the staircase near the library, and the road along the ground with Vidisha, Tri, Sagnik, Simon, Krittika, Jishnu, Banjo...

Remember you punching my solar plexus for 8 years...

Miss them for 2 & half years now.

Like everything else...

Miss you and Love you girl, for you truly will be Forever Young...

Picture Perfect

The Final Paper
The Final frontier,
The last hurdle
Minutes before a famous victory
I'll recollect the exultation many a time, I think
and remember the expression on everybody's visage

The final bow
The one for keeps...
as papers go flying in the air.

Excitement gives way to euphoria
As bodies break into cold sweat;
and the voices go shrill

Faces turn blurry now
Yet the voices remain fresh...
Shrilly and piercing, a cry of joy celebrates the end
Of another step in life.

A hurdle bound to pale out to insignificance
in times to come

But the sketches are etched forever,
The faces may meet two scores later
with shades of joy and recognition of another kind.

Bodies may decay, faces spread out
The memory that comes back though
is the lasting image,
of goodbyes, adieu's and au revoir's.

Remarkable they seem later, theatrical, Beckketisque,
Pinter-like even, joyful nonetheless!
A momentary glimpse of 'all of us' together,
The moment that stuck, almost as if frozen in a time warp
or even a photograph!

Yet that's the moment which keeps coming back,
When days gone by are recalled.

We didn't have mobile phones with cameras
to remind us of those moments,
yet every megapixel remains
in some deep corner of the mind.

Wishing we'd got the Point and Shoot 35 mm's
the KB 10's, the Vivitars and the Minoltas
a Cannon or a Yashica if you were privileged
with film rolls that needed studios to get prints of,
negatives that were preserved, all 27 or 36 of them if you were lucky!
Just in case a friend asked for a copy...
None of us owned Polaroids then
They were too fancy for us!

I found a few strips today in an old shoe box, the negatives looking eerily familiar
And as i think of today's myriad photographers, toting a Digital SLR
and framing a perfect composition.

I wonder if they evoke the nostalgia of the perfect frame that wasn't captured?

Shine on you crazy diamond!

 Dedicated to you Bondhu!

May you be forever young...

 

On a familiar note

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

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 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 covers 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 to throw one in
Ambitiously throwing two together
One on the second,
The other up third floor.

Watching it land on the parapet
He curses himself for a bad attempt 
Resting his bicycle against a wall
He picks the 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 and dangling 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
He rushes down the stairs quickly
Reaching out to 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

Then he looks me in the eye.

The horror in his face apparent
Guiltily he looks down, 
I'm trying to make eye contact
But his eyes remain 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 wakes up too
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 camaraderie.

Next the working women come, the maids from far beyond
Ticket-less in trains they come, in hordes they pass by
Others come from a walkable distance' n call it nearby!
As door 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!

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

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

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

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

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!

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 DEFINITELY 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 pay-packets 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 don't 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 weren't 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 wouldn't 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!

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

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.




  

We the people...

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.