the B_G talkies

a year of hunger

2012-01-08T08:04:00.000+05:30

surrounded by thoughts. crystal balls of yellow light, illuminate the present and the future, second by second. it unfolds, unveils, as i watch, and i wait, for the coming the welcoming the recoming of the one. the one. never the no one. the other. never the same. never me. and it goes on.

the day dawns. the night ends. the words play. the music stops. the games end. lights.
curtains. the windows they see me. for there are none. curtains. there are there was one a long time ago but it was cast upon me. like a veil. which was later removed. when we grow old. never young never the child always the man. we grow up. and never grow up. we like to think. but we don't- we are- but are not - ever. ever again. will these repeat. will it, maybe, but will it, not. repeat. if it does, then what it means, a recurring a remembrance, of words. of thoughts. stories that dreams become memories, that dreams may bring, ideas, that memories may merge, wash clean the mind refreshed with rain, of time, of never time, of untime, of the notime, of the eternal, of the forever, recurring, never not even once. not even twice, but to infinity, to nauseam to ad infinitum, to latin phrases of unknown idiocies, of infinity. the god. the unreachable the unthinkable the not cognizable the not showable.

and shame and anger and hate and emotions. love and joy and smiles and caresses. they surround me. drown me. as does a chair. the table. the bulbs and the bills and the plans and the meetings. the dreams. the nights and the days and the mornings (dreary and late) and nights.

straws. the floods needs some straws. hold. hold no one but me. and we will be.
but that is in reverse. obverse. words that sound similar but not.
sense. no sense. words that say something else but not. words that mean and not. the failures. the passes. the surpasses. the ideas that we live.

and not.

(complete)

2011-12-09T07:15:00.001+05:30

V

my love spills over
with hate
and entwines
with anger
as it meets
passions that burn.

boundaries?
there seem to be none
as rivers of longing
and currents of pain;
rains of sorrow
and flowers of joy
flow into each other.

with as much hate
as desire
it
is now complete.

(the first)

2011-12-09T06:31:00.001+05:30

IV

i want to be
the first man
to see a wild fire
burning leaves and trees
and be captured by them.
i want to
burn my hands
on the red embers
of a tree trunk
charred to death by hate.

i don't want to know,
i want to be
the first child.

i want to be
taste poison
and vomit my foolishness
and when i become old
i want to forget
all my learnings
and be
the first man
all over again.

cut my fingers
again and again
burn them
bleed them;
step on thorns
stones, fire;
jump from cliffs
hurt, chafe, scrape;
and i want to

be the first Fool.

(the beautiful maiden)

2011-12-09T06:20:00.001+05:30

III

she had no voice
just a face
that made men crazy
yet forever in the distance
in the horizon
hidden not by veils
but by miles.

she had poems to her name
but sung only around
faraway fires;
songs of her magic
of her evil
that drove men to death.
but so far
she could never hear
(them dying or their sad songs).

only when she walked to the well
that noon did the swallows
bring to her the One song
the song that surpassed
her creation even,
and while her bucket
came out of the depths
she heard the fateful birds sing

the song
the poem
magical, enchanting
unsurpassed by any other
poem in Time.

she heard
and went home,
thinking about her earrings.

(by myself)

2011-12-09T06:18:00.001+05:30

II

my hands they caress me
for there is no one else
around in this swamp
this godforsaken land of no-being.
they move
tenderly over the nape of necks
smalls of backs
and calm me.
even when i scream
they move
softly.

(seething)

2011-12-09T06:06:00.001+05:30

I

feel? do you feel?
cries of thunder rage
somewhere in the distance but abound
in clangs and booms in my head.
strange, strange, do you see?
wait there's one thing else
a silence
amidst the lightnings
somewhere in the cracks of the cloud bursts
it is that
that which i fear the most
the unbearable silence
the cry of the quiet
the tome of the adversary
the weight of the gallows
for guillotines may be lighter than air
but nonsense
nonsense is always the heaviest
to have no sense
that is the lightest life
and to be lighter than feathers
heavier than tears
to be stranger than the rain
darker than the eyes
Her eyes
to be all that
is my curse
is our curse, no?

for silence, and lightning
and thunder and blitz
and suns and
rains
for screams and pictures
and words
and tunes and drums
for monks and chants
and curses and fires
and hail and hells
and rings of deaths
for all of it
i feel.

there's something about D-major

2011-11-12T20:16:00.001+05:30

i woke up yesterday with a song stuck in my head. i didn't even know the name of the song -- just that i had (maybe) heard it on the radio a few days (or weeks) back. and it went:

"ba-da-da daaa dadaaa badaa da daa...
ba-da-da daaa dadaaa baaa dadada daaaa... (x2)
bright... (bright) bright....
Sun-Shiny day"

all day long in my head.

it felt really nice, but it also piqued my curiosity, gave rise to a fervent wish to know the song better. to pick it up on the guitar even (maybe). and so it went on and on in my head, keeping me company all day long, like a new friend, or a new found old friend.

through the day, at work, i did not get around to looking it up with the few clues that were scattered in my head, but towards the end of the evening i finally got round to searching for the song on the internet. google helped me out (as always) and then grooveshark came to a rescue like never before:

I Can See Clearly Now by Johnny Nash on AM Gold 1972

--- what beauty of the loop-de-loop!

turned out it had been sung over and over by so many different people in so many different versions, that i still felt lost, after listening to so-called versions of that song by CSNY, neil diamond, ray charles, phish, (carefully avoiding the one which sounded like something 'gangsta'), after listening to around 4-5 different versions, a few of which sounded very suspiciously similar, i felt like i had to go hunt down to the original one.

wikipedia to the rescue:

i can see clearly now

I had never heard of the "nash" avatar of "johnny", but i could see clearly that i really, really liked this song. then, suddenly, i noticed a line in the wiki-article, something that would impact the way i picked the song on the guitar later on in the night, late in the night, in my room, almost tired, and very sleepy, with a beer nearby.

it said:

"... song's optimistic lyrics, an unabashedly upbeat tempo in D-major, and a quick, sustained midway crescendo..."

D-major.

no wonder i liked it instantly the moment i heard. no wonder it was stuck in my head -- right from the moment i woke up -- all day long.

there's something about D-major.

i met him last friday and...

2011-09-23T20:43:00.003+05:30

--and this is what he said:

"you know, so then, all of a sudden, i saw that i had gone to meet her, you know, the usual place - outside her hostel. it was dawn, or dusk i think - one cannot be sure though. and we met and i saw her - beautiful and smiling as always, and then we headed out. we reached the old quarters of the city, all a-hustle and a-bustle. and we were walking in the tiny lanes among the crowds searching for a place, or a man. then what do i sense? i sense that all the people were staring at us, or rather, at me, as if i was doing something strange, as if i was an alien, something they were not used to looking at everyday. and i looked at her for reassurance and she had sort of dwarfed down from her usual height by the time i turned to look at her. it was very strange, very nauseating and claustrophobic, as if the air was pressing down on your throat and heart and making it hard to breathe. as they say, 'with trembling fingers' - so with trembling fingers i removed the odhni from her face, only to find that it was not her! but now it does not seem so surprising (or?). it turned out that the person under the veil was a dwarf man, moustached and scraggly-bearded. and i got really really scared - and now that i think of it, i don't know what was it that i found scarier - the fact that i was out with a bearded dwarf or the fact that i had no idea where she was."

here, he paused for a moment:

"well, there isn't much more of it, the dream ended at that point. and there's not much that i can remember beyond that point, if we believe that there is some sense to try and 'remember' and 'recall' dreams in the first place, that is. but i woke up at that point, and i guess, it has to be the scariest point because that is where dreams tend to disrupt. and i found that i was alone in my dark room in the cellar. one could not tell if it was already day outside, and i wondered about it. i wanted to turn on the table-light by my bed but was too scared to do it - to move my hands by even that slightest bit. more so because i had the feeling that if i switched it on i would discover that there was someone sitting in the armchair across the room, staring at me. did you ever get that feeling? this feeling of there being someone, or some thing, in the room mortified me, lying stiff and still under the blanket on the sofa-bed. and i prayed to the gods, chanting out a few mantras learnt in childhood, said to bring peace to the mind and strength to the heart. and i don't think i can remember now exactly when it was after that, or rather, while doing that, that i fell back in to a deep, sleepless slumber."

and that was the last that anyone saw or heard of him.

finding me

2011-07-21T02:34:00.002+05:30

so much has changed. and i haven't written a single word in months now. not here. not anywhere. and tonight - when i am going through the weirdest low i decided to give my good ol' blog a shot. an irritated pathetic attempt of a catharsis.

the last time i left guwahati after my twelfth board exams i was desperate and frantic to leave the city. it was suffocating me and i wanted to get away from it all and prove something. i had no idea what i wanted to prove but i knew that i had to prove something. that was six years ago. six years spent in self-exploration. ideas, people, places, faces, names, books, poems, writings, everything. the entire gamut of pseudo- and non-pseudo-intellectual pursuits.

someone has to think of something to do with 'brackets' - and philosophise on the very meaning of the word and its depth and i would have been excited to orgasmic heights till a few years back but not anymore. the transition from kundera to camus to dostoevsky to borges to bhaben saikia is evident. but even then, even now, i don't think i have a consistent self-image. and that is the problem.

this time, when i shall leave guwahati - in about twelve hours or so - i shall not be able to come back for quite a few years barring a spatter of fortnight-long interludes. and this time i find that the city is not suffocating but humidly stickily comforting. this time its hard.

and i don't know which books to take with me and which to leave behind. and i mourn the books i bought and never read. i feel sad about the people i could not meet. and there are the stories that i meant to write, and remain unborn.

when shall i return?

and when shall i shed the anglo-assamese skin? i fear there might be nothing underneath. my worst fear - that the people who love me discover my shallowness, my inability to compose, my incapacity to be me.

to set out, and to return

2011-03-25T22:09:00.004+05:30

"The poet has two holy duties: to set out and to return." - Pablo Neruda.

ten months ago, when i had just started the work on what would later become my master's thesis, i had opened the pdf version of a Physics Reports review on recurrence plots (as that was what I was going to work on) and had come across the above lines at its beginning. almost (but not quite) a year later, when I sit down to finally get to the nitty-gritties of writing my own thesis, i finally understand its import - in more ways than one. a google search of the above lines do not tell me in which poem Neruda had actually said, or even if he had actually said it ever, and i only have trust that the writers of that review paper knew what they were talking about.

'recurrence' and 'return' had been the sole theme of my work in the past year, and those two words that constantly stayed there, in the background. i thought constantly about what it means to mathematicians and what it means to philosophers, and to those who worry about eternal return.

there is a german adage that goes something like: "Einmal ist Keinmal", i.e., "what has happened but once, might as well not have happened at all". and i think about that too.

two poets shot out in different directions, as if from arjuna's bow, in search of the gods, with the intent that they shall return one day. one was a lover of the mundane and stopped to talk to people and dogs and trees and sparrows on the way, seeking and asking them to show the way. the other was in search of the gods and that was his mission, grave and courageous and heroic. he only talked with the sun and the moon and the oceans on his way.

both found their gods eventually, pierced their hearts as arrows are wont to do, and returned to their quiver ages later after having tasted the divine bloods. both returned, seemingly spent and yet seemingly full, as mere poets cannot contain the feeling of the touch of the gods solely because of their pathetic humanity. for them, nothing remained new in life, and from them, poetry flowed forth only from the memories, or rather, the sole memory: of the divine, the eternal, the infinite.

but the first poet could take solace in the fact that there was a time when he could find joy in the trees and the sparrows and the laughter of children, a joy that was not with him any more, like innocence once lost. the second poet, the one who had been on a somber mission with no time to spare for the mundane, could never regain that ever, for he never had the innocence of his brother.

i want to set out, and return, and i want to feel every little breeze on the way, for when i return, i shall only then have stories to tell.

and only then shall i feel human.

for i hold the mortal, and humanity, more precious, and rarer, than the divine.

the boy in me

2011-03-05T03:01:00.000+05:30

i still feel like a boy most of the time.

still seeking approval from the people around. still stuck in a play-act world. and still i try to write and still i fail. and still i watch others grow up and still i fall behind. i watch them chart their plans and watch them build. i watch them take blame and i watch them fall in love.

is everyone so sure as they look or it it just me? i look old, and people say i am a man - old. but the "The man in me will hide sometimes to keep from being seen, But that's just because he doesn't want to turn into some machine"

i know i don't want to turn into that, nor do i want to turn into what i think i will become. i want to be what you see me as, and i want you to be there. there'll always be the boy in me i guess, "but a woman like you" changes the way i feel.

my name is red

2011-01-07T19:13:00.000+05:30

finishing my name is red by pamuk within two and a half days of fever has been quite an experience. well, there was the obvious nagging thought at the back of the mind that perhaps, perhaps, a 102 fever was not the best thing to start the new year with. and there was the sardonic humour lurking how i was tasting the "what a way to burn" obsession in a literal sense after listening to 10 different renditions of elvis's Fever and then concluding that his was the best of course. (it's also not easy to read while you are sick - and i keep falling asleep - thanks to paracetamol. but when i can't/shouldn't do anything else - i'd rather read.)

but i feel my name is red is a great way to start the new year.

yes, pamuk was a different cup of tea - far different than any i had experienced before. i can see why he took the world by storm. the way he renders the story, through chapters that carry on the story in a linear timeline, adding the catch that each chapter is written in the voice of a different person - voices of the main characters of the story. there were even inanimate objects and animals who were taking part in the narration. interesting, very much the kind of book i would like to have on my bookshelf and then be known as an intellectual (hah). love and death and the divine are recurring in the book - and it's a captivating combination one has to admit.

but intelligence is not why i liked he book, not even because it was a murder mystery, and not because it was poetic. it was all that, sure, but that was not it. the part which really hooked me in and kept me hanging on to the words was the richness of stories that were being told via the narrative. how there would narrations of the masters of Herat, of the Khans of someplace, of Shah Tamasp, of the Tabriz school of miniaturists, and of course, of Nizami, and of Rumi, and of Firdausi, and of course, of Shirin, Khusrao, Mejnun, Farhad and Layla - it was just amazing, nothing short of it. (i vaguely remember when borges was asked what made fantastic fiction fantastic, he gave three criteria, and one of them was 'the work within the work'.)

these are things that have been falling on my ear for quite some time now, and have been piquing my curiosity unlike anything ever before.

pamuk has made me decide that i have to read them - no excuses. the only hurdles in my way are my inadequate hold of farsi, urdu, the hindi script, and the half-read copy of ulysses.

but i will get there - soon.

meanwhile, i thank pamuk for showing how these stories of ancient lovers can still be read and re-felt in our hearts.

la dolce nothings

2010-12-16T21:17:00.000+05:30

there are times when a man is sitting at his writing desk, without a thought in his head. after a brief moment's emptiness, he can come up with a word, stories that he had wanted to write. but as he writes them, and as the words take shape, he realises that these are not his own.

it is all borrowed, from the world, from the tv, from the youtubes, from the facebook posts, from the drunken conversations and sweet nothings he had witnessed.

he had nothing to offer.

and he had nothing to take, and put there, on the empty sheet of paper, with strange markings, of a foreign tongue.

what is it that we can call our own - if our memories are not ours?

life seems to nothing beyond this moment right here.

----------------------

and in other news i remembered that 'paparazzi' is not an old word, but had emerged as catch-phrase from 'la dolce vita'.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paparazzi#Etymology

i had gone to the demigod of information of our age, wiki-eus, right after i watched the film.

----------------------

to a hero

2010-11-19T00:12:00.000+05:30

you who
die on a hill top
and leave behind
no names

and you who
rise beyond self
to keep alive
our tales

the oracles divine
the prophets foretell
the legends sustain
your ascent

to the heavens where
you fight the gods
and join our fates
with them

and you who
born in one tale
live in another
and die (so glorious)

in the last.

you are the hero.

stories untold

2010-10-11T18:27:00.001+05:30

if there were stories that were hidden from the rest of the world - who would know about them? or would everyone know them, in a secret, confused piece of non-coding replicator being carried by everyone in their beings. would we dream of them, and call them fairy tales?

apocryphal, something that has changed meaning over the years, and a word that itself is so close to being hid. something that has changed from being 'away from light' to being 'false'. truth, that was always determined by the writer with his pen, and the king with his sword on the writer's neck.

makes one think about barbers - how a sacred conglomerate of barbers might have shaped the course of histories, the ones we know, and how they might have remained apocryphal, in sunlit, hairy rooms that kings used to visit to refurbish their vanities, and their beards.

if ever there was a tale of 'the barber and the king' who would have a knife at whose throat, and who would have reigned would have being the interesting debate. the idea of history being told through stories from other mouths and other eyes is fascinating and also fantastic.

the end of these stories could always start something more, and leave the seed for a newer, and more engaging dream...

-----

the monk sergius seems to be an interesting character and his tale is one of a mirror: of a prophet standing in front of another-to-be, one albeit a lesser one than the other. i now have this desire to read the travels of sir john mandeville, no less.

and i too shall call myself a knight, and put to pen my wanderings from the lamp shade of my room.

-----

missionary school hangover

2010-09-29T18:29:00.000+05:30

'functions' and cultural programmes that have a few songs, a few dances, a compère, and a few speeches (complete with a 'formal vote of thanks') takes me to my school days. missionary schools in our place had this rigid format of doing things: you had to have a welcome address, a chief guest, a guest of honour, a welcome felicitation part (with bihuans, and phulan gamuchas) and then the different song-and-dance 'items' and the vote of thanks in the end.

any programme nowadays that adheres to a similar format makes me think of it as a school function, nothing more. i also suspect that most people, having this exposure in their childhoods, retained it somewhere in their sub/un-conscious, and they are the ones who end up creating programmes even now in the same old style. they did not break out of the mould.

and the missionary school hangover does not end there.

you have to have a written application for everything. it has to have the proper address at the top, the date to the top-right, and a signing-off 'yours sincerely' to the bottom left. it has to have a subject heading, a 'respect sir', and an 'i beg to inform you'.

i wonder where mr. kartick phukan learnt all of this - from another missionary school maybe?

-----

to read charles and mary lamb and la belle dame sans merci and a bit of keats and wordsworth and charge of the light brigade. to sound pompous with marc antony's speech (friends, romans, etc.) at the oratory competitions, and recite 'tiger tiger burning bright' at the choral recitation along with the whole class. to prepare the psalm of life, and the rime of the ancient mariner, and what not and what else.

to say 'my father thou art in heaven...' every morning, and forget what it is and where was it in the gospel according to mark.

sad stories are abound of those who still use the language of referencing to the context and the style of 'character sketches' as illustrated by the xavier's and swami's of all the missionary schools everywhere - from jharkhand to kohima to shillong to chennai to rajasthan to guwahati.

-----

what was it that they were teaching us - to mimic a different culture? to feel as if we were inadequate enough so that we had to borrow someone else's words?

why can't i emote with 'dhulikona moi' or 'moi morile ki hobo, din gole raati hobo' as easily?

what was it all about?

-----

why is it necessary to listen to the empty vacuous words and clap for the numerous guests at every meeting? it is entirely possible that they need not have spoken and the meeting could just have skipped to its essence - the main point for whatever it was that the meeting was called for. it is not necessary to thank them at the end and it is not necessary to announce every piece that is being performed. sometimes, we should just try and let the art speak for itself.

-----

why do we have to try so hard?

and not just be.

-----

the rebels

2010-09-15T23:56:00.000+05:30

the reasons to buy a book of which you had never heard before might be many - not all of which are romantic. the exclusive hard-bound cover and the jacket might appeal to you. the name of the author (say, sandor marai) might sound exotic enough (but just so), the name of the book itself (say, for instance, 'the rebels'), or for even that matter, the fact that a $25 book is being offered at a mere Rs. 299 might just seal the deal.

however, the surprise of having discovered a book that you shall treasure for a long time to come, and having being the sole person to discover it, is indeed unique and of immense worth. rarely have i been able to discover a book which no one i knew had heard of before, and rarely have those books turned out to be life long treasures. (but, just to note, there had been a few, to be just to those memories, i have to name 'amaryllis:night and day', 'the perks of being a wallflower', and 'love in the times of insurgency').

-----

having dealt with those initial emotions, let me come to the book - 'the rebels' by sandor marai.

set in an unnamed town, in the backwaters of hungary sometime during 'a' war, and in the lives of four young boys, this book is as romantic and as dark as i would like to view life as. it takes us through the town and its life with a prism - that of the eyes of the boys. it calls all adults as 'they', 'them', and it cites instances of caricaturish exaggerated acts of 'rebellion' on the part of the boys - all in an effort to retain their boyishness - and not grow up.

the boys do not want to grow up and get sucked into the world of the adults. they want nothing to do with 'their' comings-and-goings and 'their' war - things (and a world) they do not understand and refer to only in vague terms.

this novel is not about 'innocence lost' or other such bullcrap. it is about the adventures of four boys caught together in an unnatural bond and their strange friendships, it is about how shallow, and how deep everything that runs by us is, it is a mirror.

it is not a take on teenage. it is not a take on the world we adults have made for ourselves. it is just itself.

there are beautiful sketches of the sun and the skies and the stars and the smells of this world and of the world of that town. there are strange characters and mysterious happenings and innocent loves.

and an even deeper current of betrayal and hatred.

this book pulled me in its world with such ease that, unlike other things i have been writing and reading for the past six months, i felt as much at ease and as much at unease that i did not know how time passed in mine.

-----

as always, here are a few quotes:

"One day he wrote something. He was fifteen. When he saw the piece of paper with his writing on it he got a fright and hid it in his drawer."

"Books hid some secret, not precisely in what they said, but in the reason for them being written at all."

"The war is a distant hourglass, sand mixed with human remains, ..."

"The actor was an object of suspicion in every respect. He used terms like sea, Barcelona, steerage, Berlin, underground train, three hundred francs. The actor would say, "Then the captain came down and the blacks all leapt overboard." All this was highly suspect."

-----

viral

2010-09-09T16:58:00.001+05:30

it feels so strange - to have a swarm of a million viruses inside you ravaging your body from the inside. they talk to you in the weirdest ways, communicating through your body. a bitter cough, an exciting fever, a colourful body ache and the most interesting of all - relentless, mad dreams.

when you got a disease you are isolated from your closest ambitions and becomes friends with those you had never talked to before, all green beards caught in a flight to nowhere. your sleeping neurons talk to the viral bodies and woo them, seduce them into inactivity while your body fights its way through the muck, through the phlegm, through the diarrhoea, through the unmistakeable adrenalin rushes of fever.

and you paint your words on the wall.

even when you have no stories to tell.

---

PS http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S5zttEPcCuQ&ob=av2e

home

2010-07-23T00:08:00.001+05:30

it rained
for a moment and was gone
and i felt it
from near me,

and a lone seed
passed by
in front
floating in the air
blowing in the breeze

going round and round and round
to spread life
somewhere else,

and the breeze
went past me
near me,

and it had something new
and it had the familiar smell
of the earth,

and i thought of faraway friends
lovers and family,
and i thought of

home.

quietness

2010-07-21T00:03:00.002+05:30

someone asked his father once what was the meaning of his name. to which that someone got the reply that his name was an improvisation - on an old and almost lost-by-now word in their language. the improvisation had to be done so that his name started with the letter it was supposed to start with - according to the stars. and the meaning of the name - the name meant 'the son of the river'.

a moment's pause ensued.

the father now asked the son - why did you ask the question? the reply was that it was just... something, well, just like that - that was what the son said.

father presumed he knew that his son was going through an identity dilemma and was trying to find some meaning - starting from his name. so he spoke, and at that time it was sunset, and the two men were having tea in the back-veranda, and the father spoke - there are those who say that names have a power of their own, and if your name does not match with who you are, a battle ensues. Both the person and the name fight for sovereignty, and this ends only when one wins over the other - either the name changes the person into its likeness, or the person changes the name, in whole or in parts, so that it suits him more.

but a name does not make a person, son, the father said, you are our son, and that's that.

both of them again slipped into a silence, the father slowly sipping on his cup of black tea, without any sugar or salt, and the son, dipping the marie biscuit in his one-spoon sugar cup of chai, put it in his mouth.

grapes and wrath

2010-06-23T16:07:00.002+05:30

so, i finally read the grapes of wrath - something that was long due. but even when i really liked the book, it is a bit of an embarrassment to admit that you have read and finished a book and did not understand the two most important things about it - the title and the ending.

first, the title: it is supposed to be a reference to a folk hymn or something of the sort, and also has mention in the scriptures. but all of that completely beats me - it would have been far simpler if it was supposed to denote all the grapes that the people dreamt of, the grapes over there in california (the end of their journey).

next, the ending: well, it was a bit jarring, and a very provocative image, but it was a not tying-up-all-threads kind of an ending. people call it 'postmodern'. i looked up the net to read about what others made of the ending, and there was a lot of talk of about how it depicts giving, and sorrow, and humanity's struggle, and other such vague things.

seemed like a huge load of crap to me - all of those opinions i.e.

and yet, that last line, and that last image is something that is still lingering on in my mind, even days after finishing the book. i think the ending is suposed to be just that - that image, and nothing more... ?

very mysterious though, both the title and the ending, and hence, it is also open to so many interpretations. everyone can make their own story out of the two.

i guess that is why it is such a great book

(I am sure the movie cannot be as great, as it will set the ending in stone, fix it.)

'fremder' than fiction

2010-06-12T18:06:00.002+05:30

some of us have watched the beautiful, and sweet, movie called 'stranger than fiction'. i have to thank devayon for pointing me in its direction, and this was years back. now i am sitting here, on my chair, 'bored' as raj concludes from the cartoons i have been sharing on Buzz, and thinking about that movie.

there are just some moments from the movie that come to mind, moments that were different from other movies, moments that had an obscure sense of humour, and an obscurer emphasis on little things in life.

a) the scene were gyllenhaal makes ferrell eat the freshly baked chocolate cookie with a glass of warm milk

b) the whole do-it-up with the phrase 'little did he know', (some more detail on it here)

c) the neurotic way in which the writer stubs out her smokes on a tissue wetted with saliva

d) ferrell singing the song whole wide world by wreckless eric

on the whole, i guess that movie was one-of-a-kind. a flick that one would not mind watching over and over again, with the right company of course.

of rain and thundershowers

2010-06-05T01:32:00.001+05:30

this is what a staff reporter writes about rains in a newspaper article:

"[the regional Met Centre] has also warned of heavy to very heavy rains at one or two places over [...] in the next 48 hours. "

and i think - although this is a line that i have been hearing in the news (the Doordarshan 9 o'clock one especially) since childhood, and have reading it too in the papers since almost forever, i still don't have any idea what the phrase 'one or two places' is supposed to mean.

i mean if it rains in 40 different localities in the same town but which are disconnected spatially with dry areas in between, will it be 40 different 'places' or one place i.e. the town.

one or two places... the phrase beats me every time i try to get a hold of it. totally.

now that i think of it, there is another phrase which was very popular with weather broadcasts over the years, it went something like:

"Rain or thundershowers are likely to occur..."

likely.

an exit to total absolution from blame.

its funny - although the science of meteorology and the theories behind it have mae enormous progress in the past two decades, all over the world, there doesn't seem to be any change in the way weather forecasts are given.

PS a) IITM, and b) its director

oddities (part i)

2010-05-26T03:23:00.002+05:30

i am not very sure - but i feel a really bad place to be stuck in will be a möbius strip.

some of us love the horizontal figure of eight that is supposed to represent infinity (∞) - even more so after 'the beautiful mind' got released (where nash is shown to cycle a pattern of ∞ on the ground rather dramatically). however, the möbius strip is perhaps a somewhat more immediate, physical realisation of that character ∞ on the sheet of paper. something more closer to an infinite something.

here is a simple image of what a möbius strip looks like:

(provided at this link: http://nuclear-imaging.info/site_content/wp-content/uploads/2009/02/mobius_basic.jpg)

it has a lot of mathematics involved in its genesis - but all of that does not take away the fact that it is an oddity in a general sense, and can be quite of a curiosity. look at the picture above and think about it, if you were an ant - and were walking on the möbius strip, then you could walk continuously and traverse the entire surface of the strip without having to cross an edge. mathematicians call 3-d objects like these one-sided.

in other words, if you were living on a möbius strip, it would be impossible to define an inside and outside of the strip. (this is to be contrasted with any circular piece of paper which can have an inside/ouside sort of demarcation). in fact, on a möbius strip, you could walk for some time and end up on the other side of the strip, i.e. right 'below' where you started.

"curioser and curioser."

which brings me to the main point at hand, the reason for this post:

i think a really untolerable kind of hell in my life would be in if it were to get stuck on a möbius strip. a string of events that would take me forward all the time whereas i would only be walking on and on on the möbius band. and as the more things would change, then the more they would remain the same.

singing the möbius blues.

----------------------

interesting links:

a couple (here and here) that show you how to make your own möbius strip with a strip of paper.

and one here that has a lot of images from art and culture and society showing the occurences of möbius patterns.

and a last one here, talking about who came up with the equations for the möbius transformations, a nice article overall.

---------------------

of course, i could not leave out russell hoban, who brings in möbius strips into his creative tale 'amaryllis: night and day' with great ease, as if they were something as common in your life as your toothbrush.

---------------------

évariste, wheeler, etc.

2010-05-23T14:19:00.003+05:30

it turns out the legend of évariste galois (and particularly his death) is not quite as it is supposed to be. he is not the innocent angel that people think him to be, and he did not compose the whole of group theory the night before he died. he did not die in the duel for a noble love affair, and he did not die because of noble political causes.

the bubble was burst by the scathing article by tony rothman. i don't why he did it (call the spade a spade) and what he got by destroying the romantic notions of many young (budding, as they say) scientists and mathematicians, who took solace in the sole tale of romance, chivalry, and bravery in their field, not to mention irony and heart-moving tragedy.

i will (am still trying to) console myself with the truth, but how will the others react?

(good thing is that the truth is not very well-known in indian science circles, and is spoken only behind closed doors and hushed tones.)

-----

and in other news, india has a cool military island facility, off the coast of orissa - where they tested agni-II recently. i am sure that had this been hollywood, we'd have had a few movies with this island in the script somewhere.

-----

and why does not coffee work when you want it to, and always spring a surprise on you when you suddenly have a sleepless night because of that seemingly 'harmless' cup of coffee after dinner?

-----

babel fish

2010-05-19T12:43:00.002+05:30

for those of you viewing this on Facebook, when i refer to the Google Translate button to the right you will not get it.

anyway, as you can see, there is a Google Translate button to the right, but be warned that it has its limitations. here is a simple, and funny, example. there are two words in spanish - 'recordarse' and 'acordarse de', both of which roughly translate to the english as 'to remember', but there are finer subtleties involved, which this rough translation cannot obviously capture.

so here is an excerpt from a spanish-english grammar forum thread, which was translated by the Google Translate plugin add-on of Google Chrome.

-----

Hola a tod @ s!

When using "Remember" and "remember" in Spanish? Both verbs mean "to remember" in English but do not know how to use these verbs in Spanish. I could not find the answer to my question on the Net "Peuden help me with some examples?

Many thanks,

Matthew

-----

and here is the reply to the above:

-----

I do not know if it is entirely correct but I learned that there are some situations where you can not use 'remember'. So it would make sense to use 'remember' instead of 'remember' always.

Let's see what others say.

-----

so anyway, point of the story is that Google Translate does not actually 'translate' your text, but look for statistical matches to the string/phrase you have entered on the net. so it comes up with a proper translation only if there is already some similar translated phrase on the internet somewhere.

the writing(s) on the wall(s)

2010-05-17T02:51:00.000+05:30

so i am walking down a street near where i stay and i see the graffiti on the building - the same one that i had taken a photo of only a few days earlier. only this time, it is from the other side of the road, i.e., this time i am right near the wall, and i can see the details of the artwork more clearly. it only prompts me to take out my digicam and click a few more.

and walk away without much thought.

later, while going through the pictures on the computer, i see the phrase that had caught my eye, during one of the shots -

RECLAiM YOUR CiTY

now, as i look at the pitcure more closely, i see a small ".NET" hovering slightly to the right of the main phrase. and i do a blind google search and come across this site that beleives in showcasing the artwork from the streets of most cities in europe.

http://www.reclaimyourcity.net/

people who appreciate the anonymous artists/prophets/rebels/renegades who make it their purpose to go out on the streets when everyone is sleeping and paint the zeitgeist on the walls. these are bibliographers of a different kind - documenting our generations, as they pass on from one to the next, in a different way altogether.

for those of you who want to imitate the talent of these who have mastered the artwork - more specifically the interesting fonts - but have none of their own, can go to the site http://www.graffiticreator.net/ - which has some really nice applets that let you make your own graffiti, and colour it as you wish.

i found that http://www.graffiti.org/ is also devoted to showcasing graffiti from around the world. i guess, this entire thing has a charm to it, what with its air of rebellion, mixed with art, mixed with philosophy, it has charted an entire history of its own.

strangely i think india does not have much of the graffiti scene - i think spray cans are not that cheap, and paint brushes don't work that good.

however, we do have a lot of these --> click here.

indian kitsch / art is a class of its own.

paradise's children: lost

2010-04-18T21:22:00.001+05:30

a dear friend (also an old spark) had made me read the fiery poema 'howl' by ginsberg (you can read the entire poem here) a year and a half ago. i was so effected by it that i had even posted about it right here, on this space (click here for the previous post on howl).

in that particular post, i had mentioned that i had composed a reply to the poem that my friend had sent to me by mail. the reply was in verse.

i called it "paradise's children: lost".

here it is - a year and a half later, stolen from my mailbox, and my memories, on a warm red night.

--

paradise's children: lost

i lost a generation to revolution
to madness did someone say?
no to revolution to dreams
to anger and hatred and ideals it seems

who lived lives all aloof of any vice
who were simple people in a simple guise
who were treated like shit and abused like hell
who were trapped in a corner fucked just as well

who fought back and did not know how
who are trapped in their revolution now
who took up arms and left their lives behind
who went to the jungles to a freedom find

lost a generation to the woods, lovely, dark and deep
not on a snowy winter evening's sleep
but on a fiery summer morn's burning smell
of burnt bodies and singed flesh in history's hell

who would have thought they'd never come back
those bright faces those loved ones who faded to black
those brilliant minds those sons of soil who are lost
we their unborn children and their dead fore fathers pay the cost

the price of losing a generation to waste
the urban shallow the comman man's distaste
would you understand when i push the needle in my vein
all i want is to forget them, the cursed souls, and end their pain?

subjunction

2010-04-08T17:39:00.001+05:30

ever since the 'history boys' (thanks to devayon) the 'subjunctive' is a word that keeps cropping up in my mind.

but instead of major historical questions all i can think of are simple crappy questions like:

* what if i had not taken a shit this morning?

* what if my pen had been green instead of blue?

* what if 'v' had been 'q' - then would 'Q for Qendetta' have had such a popular critical response?

i would like to know if i should stop right here and abandon these deliberations.

hoban

2010-04-04T14:04:00.000+05:30

how do you write when you don't want to, but have to? it is one of the most difficult prepositions of the mind to sit in front of the initially empty screen. many writers have written about this, many have commented about this, many have debated about this. i will not. that writing is cathartic - i hope people will acknowledge, and that's about it.

'hiatus' is a word which keeps cropping in my mind now. i ignore it and write on.

once i stumbled upon a lesser known writer in a some book shop somewhere in one of the malls - and the title attracted me to the blurb, which led me to read he first few pages and i ended up buying. that was nearly three years ago. since then, i have moved on. but then i found another book by the same person a few days ago - and bought it without asking why.

a) this guy's books are hard to find.

b) i love the way he writes.

as i am reading the second book - although he seems to write on a fantastic plane far removed from our own - i marveled how the writer ended up using the same themes and metaphors that have been ruling my mind since the past couple of months. patterns and things only i can see (or so i believe), and i wonder: am i walking down a similar path. a similar trail of information that this guy had followed more than fifteen years ago - in a continent far from ours?

so russell hoban proved to be more of a kindred soul than any other through his second book in my hands.

if 'amaryllis: night and day' was not enough to prove that he had magic in him, 'fremder' surely swept me away.

this post is also an attempt on my part to move beyond wiki.

hence, this is a link to a fan who posted the most evocative, and strange, of his quotes.

(if you are familiar (and updated) with me and with blogspot, you will also notice a subtle setting-of-the-stage for me to earn money from my blogs in the future - although i am not too sure of it now.)

a century of posts

2010-03-14T14:15:00.004+05:30

this has been one of the most sordid slumps with regard to blog-posting. but now i realise that my 100th post is in wait (this is the hundredth one).

what has changed since the first post till now? shall i pontificate? or just let it pass?

blogger.com itself has undergone many facelifts since my start.

vijay died somewhere along the line, dostoevsky gave way to steinbeck to borges. preoccupation with ego and nietzsche took a back seat - but preoccupation to be a offbeat stereotype didn't. people died, and got born, and others got trapped in places they never wanted to go - i continued to escape. loneliness is reigning supreme, but depression and anger are also in the power struggle for the crown.

i continue-

and the question remains - main kya hai?

but just to share a few nuggets (funny how certain words hover round your mind and you continually find a use for them as long as they are there), here are a few links and names and concepts:

the number 216

rumi

the indian rendition of rumi

and of course, mr bombastic, for inspiring a story that makes my heart beat faster and faster every next time i read it.

order out of chaos seems to be recurring theme these days, but very few have an idea of what chaos is really like. the gifted ones intuit and extract poetic order magnificently - as that seems to be the only way possible, poetry and romanticism seems to be inherent in chaos, along with the chaos itself.

... still the question remains - main kya hai?

as a friend once quoted (from an old farsi poet) -

mohabbat ke peeche parda,
uske peeche aayna.

on brevity

2010-02-06T02:15:00.000+05:30

have we lost the art of brevity?

a short piece of metaphorical fiction

2010-01-31T09:21:00.003+05:30

an apple is there on my desk.

i don' t know if i can eat it.

red.

viva la inertia

2010-01-19T06:35:00.006+05:30

cancerous thoughts sparked off by oncomemes take root in our brains, and once they are there you can't weed them out. their malignancy is complete and irreversible - it's like the first cigarette you smoked years back - you can never wish it away.

all you can do is lie back and watch the devastation play out... and hope that the aftermath will have a seed of fresh green hidden in a corner away from the ravages of the plague to sprout life and vitality back again.

but that will be in another life.

another place, another time. (click here.)

three lines on love, indecision, and me

2010-01-09T22:12:00.006+05:30

i fear love, more than anything else, and what i do to it.

and i fear indecision, and what it does to my decisions.

but most of all i fear me, for i am constantly in search of love - or so i think.

sacrifice

2009-12-29T11:53:00.003+05:30

and it's no sacrifice, just a simple word

it's two hearts living, in two separate worlds...

the father had his small daughter of around four years in his arms, and they were dancing to the elton john song playing on the stereo (on a cassette). his daughter's long hair swirled in the air as they turned round and round, with the music. her laughter added melody to the moment and shaped the music around them into a beautiful memory.

and it was so long ago, he can't remember now how they got lost in the ocean of silence and when...

on a separate note

2009-12-27T09:45:00.004+05:30

there is a breed of people whose lives aren't complicated - and everything is in black and white. they see things for what they are, and do not pontificate, extrapolate, think of 'hypothetical situations'.

and then there are people like me - pretentious pricks who can never, for even a single moment, rest easy with what they have. people who feel that there is always an 'other side' to things. people who keep on debating the possibilities, talk endlessly in dim lit rooms with cigarette smoke pouring out, the light falling aesthetically at an angle on their favourite posters put up on the wall.

these are the people who revel in being able to discern kunderan kitsch and talk in patronising tones about 'the others'.

hypocrites, all.

if it weren't for the first kind, nothing in this world would've ever got done. we would still be in caves debating the pros and cons of creating an industrialised society, or worse, debating the harmful effects that the fire and the wheel could have on future generations.

the first kind of people are a minority - diminishing with each passing day. the tragedy is that they are looked upon as underdeveloped and dumb. rather they are the foundation that we subsist on.

on a separate note, which one: the one you love, or the one who loves you?

a solemn homage to a magician

2009-12-26T00:17:00.001+05:30

to read borges is a privilege, as much as reading dostoevsky is an honour. if the lattter is the storm on a wild and violent sea, the former is the first ray of sunlight after it. reading two stories of borges just now, from my perspective as an aspiring writer and then opening a story of my own (which is a sin!) I realise that borges is the ideal: that I cannot say express a single thought in a ten page story as much as he does in a single line.

“then who is borges?”

who am I?

“I am borges reading goswami reading borges”

the quotes refer to words spoken by a kindred soul (hutashan) beside me whose fires have also been it by the flame that is borges.

all other writers, the bacteria that are marquez, vargas llosa, coetzee etcetera have struggled with ‘the idea’ and got real close at times. not only did borges get ‘the idea’, he turned it into a beautiful rose and gave it to me.

I feel lucky to be born after him.

bright lights

2009-12-20T21:45:00.001+05:30

One day in the future, I will be driving home from work in my own car, wading slowly through traffic in an orange lit metro at around eight or nine pm at night. The radio will be on and suddenly, the RJ will play the song "Bright Lights" - sending me into a reverie and nostalgia of loves lost and paths not taken.

I want to live that moment.

I hope that moment comes true in my life.

In the future.

Help!

2009-12-10T19:45:00.003+05:30

on foolishness

2009-12-04T22:03:00.003+05:30

this is a poem by Himanshu Kumar, of the Vanvasi Chetna Ashram

Jab aakhri machchli mar jayegi
Jab aakhri nadi gandi ho jayegi
Jab aakhri ped kat jaayega
Tab hame samajh main aayega
Ki hum paise ko kha nahi sakte

roughly translated to english (not by me) as:

When our quest for development will take its toll on the last available fish in the ocean

When our quest for development will pollute the last available water resource

When our quest for development will uproot the last available tree on this planet

Will it be only then when we will realise

That we can't eat money and survive

alliterative anathem-e

2009-12-02T03:35:00.005+05:30

precarious profundity paraphrased by a peregrinating pundit;

of antagonising algorithms arranged to anticipate avaricious animosity;

taking toll on teetotaling thinkers traumatically tessellated throughout totality;

leaving lahu-luhaan leftover lepers lecherously lurking in the listless lands;

searching sanctimoniously for sympathetic solace, shelter and sex.

now, noting nefariously the nearness of nought,

i conclude in cadaverous candor this cancerous cacophony of concerted capricious clout.

on the need for violence

2009-11-03T17:09:00.005+05:30

Q. stripped of all societal constructs, what are the primary needs of man to survive?

results:

Food, shelter and clothing 2 (18%)

Food, shelter and violence 1 (09%)

Food, shelter and love 4 (36%)

Something totally different (i.e. the above options are too restrictive) 4 (36%)

total no of votes: 11 (i did not vote)

the above are the results of a poll i had posted several weeks ago (click here). my primary idea behind this poll was that i had come to believe, after reading about the stanford prison experiment especially, that violence and aggresion was integral and very 'human' to human nature.

a disclaimer: i am not advocating violence, but merely making an observation, though highly objectionable and contentious. so kindly bear this in mind through the following paras.

first, what do i mean when i say 'integral' to human nature? it is, i must admit, not a very precise idea (though not altogether imprecise either), but what i wish to say is that something which is integral to human nature will imply that that aspect has been ingrained into our DNA during the process of evolution. something which is heritable and variable across humanity and which thus passes and changes from generation to generation. something like... well, our ability to retain memory, fight for survival, search for food, take care of our babies, etcetera. you are thinking that there are many exceptions to the rule. i say, exceptions prove the rule. anyway, let us return to the main point at hand.

presumably, the neanderthal men had a larger exposure to violence and bloodshed (not only of fellow men but also of animals) than the present day homo erectus. this might be the stage where this primal habituation to violence got ingrained in us along with mating behaviour, care of the young and other things. however, in the current day and age, the average human is not exposed to violence anymore. (again there are exceptions of policemen, army-men, homicide and rape victims, terrorists etcetera but think of the population by and large and think of people, on an average. this might sound flimsy, i do not have statistics to support it, but i am sure if you take the trouble to disprove me on this count, you will end up correcting yourself.) nowadays, the only violence people see and hear about is in the papers, on the telly and the radio, and in celluloid. so, the fact remains that the inbuilt faculties which enabled our species to get by thousands of years ago with maar-kaat and hinsa are, at the end of the day, being suppressed by societal norms and laws (and for good reason too, i don't need to emphasise on that).

what i want to drive home through the above discussion is that we humans, as a species on the whole, are sitting on a time bomb of violence - which can be unleashed if the conditions were suitable.

my argument is proven by the stanford prison experiment, where the subjects were removed from all societal norms (by creating an idea greater than society viz. the furthering of since and understanding) and let loose, in a manner of speaking. the subjects who were given totalitarian power within the domain of the experiment (on the condition that there will never be any punishment for them) metamorphosed from an average person into a savage, psychotic (although note here, only by humanities current standards) and nearly insane. this is because, i believe, they found that violence was satisfying, satiating and something that was 'very them'.

of course i shall not overlook that there were others who metamorphosed into personae which let themselves be hurt and ostracised. where, then, is their violence? the answer to this is, it is not necessary to be the aggressor, the primary thing is that you are part of the violent act - it does not matter in what capacit exactly. being a part of the violent act at the very ground level is gratifying - that is my thesis, your precise qualitative role is simply incidental.

by gratifying i do not mean to say that it gives a perverse form of pleasure. no that is not my point, i am not here to glorify violence. the point is that violence, so inherent to us, on being suppressed, leads to dissatisfaction and discontent - and the 'gratification' i talk of is simply the removal of this discontent. look around, our entire generation is wallowing in shallowness, dissatisfaction, meaninglessness and the lot, but give them a revolution to rebel in, music to dance to and drown in, sports to strive forth in, and poof! all the ennui and meaninglessness vanish. this is because all these activities are substitutes for violence. so are the acts of sex and love. they imbibe in you an emotion level which so mischievously skirt around violently grey areas that it is not surprising they fill you with a 'thrill'and 'energy' so akin to the feelings of a valiant soldier on the battlefield.

if all this sounds utter crap to you, then think about this - had violence been harmful to Man, it would have been weeded out by evolution in the past 50000 years. since it is still a part of our society it shows that this is not possible. we have to learn to live with it.

again you might rebut that violence might not be heritable which sounds pretty logical, but i believe that it cannot be entirely environmental (read parental and societal influence) either.

keeping these in mind, the fundamental questions of war and peace resolve into a picture of disease of the human nature - violence. it is a disease we have to strive against, wage a war against - and rise above ourselves adhering to the principles of non-violence. i feel that sums up, in a nutshell, why we feel our lives to be inadequate and meaningless and what it is actually about.

so this what i conclude -

the primary needs of a man are not food, shelter, and clothing but food, shelter, and a third component which I cannot give a name, and which contains within its boundaries the acts of sex, communication and violence.

nutty professors!!!

2009-10-18T19:37:00.004+05:30

i am at a loss for words. read the following blogpost for yourself:

Respectable physicists gone crackpotty

(%@#!&% !@#$)

hey raam

2009-10-17T20:07:00.007+05:30

it's diwali, or deepawali for the conservatives.

i am in a flat all alone with a droopy lovable old she-dog (i don't want to use the puta word), with the lights on, the net on, thinking of usa dreams, listening to blues on yahoo/lauchcast, thinking of changing my religion (and then recoiling mentally in horror), feeling my life pass by and time stop.

crackers and phataakas are going full blast now. it's diwali after all.

lord raam, the seventh avataar of lord vishnu, came home tonight, amidst darkness, and a row of lamps lit by his people. all this happened a long time ago, and a lot of other things too, on this very night, across millenia.

Their Take

here's the wiki link on diwali --->

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diwali

and here's a typical rosy conception of diwali today for the average indian (note the get-up of the page) --->

http://www.theholidayspot.com/diwali/history/

and here's a page which gives a good concise description of the festival --->

http://viceunversa.blogspot.com/2009/10/darkest-night-of-october-and-legend-of.html

My Take

it's a new moon night. it's dark with sporadic bursts of light here and there. but it's the twenty first century and so i am sitting in a well lit city which is well lit every night of the year, and doesn't have to worry about non-electric lighting on a daily basis. this i believe is not so in the majority of indian villages even today (http://labl.teriin.org/).

it doesn't matter to me, or anyone of you who read this. we are products of the missionary schools, and public schools, and all the other schools which make you forget your mother tongue after your tenth. we buy gifts, and printers, and jeans, and t-shirts, and computers and god-awful, artificial cadbury chocolates to spread the mithaas and richness and money on diwali. we clean our homes today and leave the garbage out by the front in the open.

we buy and burn crackers that pollute and teach our children to do the same, we buy lamps as a token, and as a gentle reminder that we don't need them for the remaining 364 days unlike the bitter, unlucky, and un-rich, pathetic populations living in darkness. diwali is about celebrating the victory of darkness over light, of good over evil, of joy over sorrow. we are the ones who have won, we are the victorious, the good, we are the light shunning out the darkness.

only i don't feel like that any more.

probably it is just my loneliness talking but i don't want lord raam to come to my home. i have a feeling i won't be able to face up to him or look him in the eye. for he is one whose eyes would pierce through my facade...

prison experiment: a poll

2009-09-30T10:10:00.002+05:30

i have added a poll for the first time on my blog. you can see it right here to the right. well, at first sight the options might look a bit odd, but just think about it carefully.

and you might want to look up the following links before voting.

--> The Stanford Prison Experiment

--> Wikipedia article on the Stanford prison experiment

i will elaborate further on this topic once the poll is over, which by the way, is a month from now. i have deliberately selected such a long time period as i don't have much of a followiing. :-)

a cutting chai take on history

2009-09-19T12:09:00.003+05:30

history does not talk about the good boys and girls, the ones who go to school regularly, who conform, who love, live, and die by the rules, by the norm. history is replete with the stories of misfits, who dared to defy, to change, be it bad or good, but it is written about those who did something extraordinary, something out of the way. history does not talk about your best pal, the guy whom you can count on, whom you trust, whom you wish you were like, who loves his parents, his wife and kids, sticks up for right and justice, no, history does not talk about them.

history is about fame, about who wins over whom, and about those who fought – who went out of their homes, thinking not what will happen if they died, how their loved ones will live on without them. that was not on their minds when they put themselves out there – they did not think about what people will say, what they will think – had they done so, they’d never be able to achieve what they did, and get their names written down in history.

on the eve of your examinations, and also after exams which you have messed up, you get to thinking – what does all this mean? grades, marks, assessment, the whole lot, what do they actually imply, if you fail in a subject and not pass in another? is it really the end of your world, your life? you start to think about the basics, you begin to get back to the fundamentals, that all you need to do is fix a proper way of a stable source of food and shelter, that is all a man needs – the rest, at best, are accessories, by-products of society.

then you wonder, if that is the truth, then why are you putting yourself through all this? if you know this to be the truth, why not cut to the chase and start fixing yourself a stable source of food and shelter? then you realise, that these grades are a means of society to assess you to an extent to determine the proportion in which you shall be sanctioned your right to earn your food and shelter. mind you, even at the end of all this, you still have to earn every grain of rice, every piece of cloth, every brick of shelter – your results are not a trump card to unlimited food and shelter, they are just a means to get on the platform.

and that’s why your loved ones put you through all this: it is they who want to see you happy as this is a safer bet of securing you a comfortable life. but the thing is, the safer route is boring, mundane, mindless, and yields only moderate results. when you know that you are not cut out for mediocrity, you begin to detest it – the safer route.

but the truth is - you need to be a complete genius, a whiz, and/or a retard to break away – as that is what it takes, not more, not less. and once you break away, the stakes rise, there is pain, there is suffering and there is a lot to lose. but the rewards are also in a similar vein, immeasurable, vast, and without bounds. and the best part is, you are responsible for yourself, your action, so you don’t blame anything or anyone else, like society for instance. you live, as they so often say, by your own rules.

i think the trick will be to lower the stakes apriori. the first step should be to lose everything you have. to get to the nadir, without a shred of possession, for when you have nothing left to lose, only then can you play by your own rules.

and go down in history.

the lost letter of love and lament (the final page)

2009-09-16T17:52:00.003+05:30

for the first page of the letter click here.

for the second page of the letter click here.

I feel deflated... after pouring out so much. The night is drawing to a close and sleep is dawning on me. I feel as if my mind is at rest already, I don't know though. Has the storm passed? Is this a lull? Who has the answers? Where is the Prophet who shall deliver me?

I can hear the world waking up outside as my body and my mind grows weary by the moment. They seem to be in a perfect symphony, notes blending and all those beautiful, poetic things. They don't need me! What should happen if I were to go away? 'din gole raati hobo, gosot phool phoolibo.' They don't want me. Neither do you, neither do I.

I don't want me.

That is strange and perhaps not logically possible. All Cartesian bull.

So much for the world, it's life, their loves, their trial and their tribulations.

I should never have grown up... ' nalaage toi daangor hobo, baideu ma aita hobo, boyoxore baali sondaat pori roi jaabo.'

As a little birdie told me recently,

'This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.'

It is important to repeat the line three times to show reluctance and emphasis, therein lies the three wise men.

your friend and conscience,

tearfully,

b_g

the lost letter of love and lament (the second page)

2009-09-15T11:04:00.004+05:30

for the first page of the letter click here.

I would be in your arms or you in mine. Words would flow... 'like summer tempest', eternities they were, such bliss, such heaven! I shiver at the thought of them now, in this cold dark room all alone, I 'shiver all night long'. But why, tell me? Why can't a thing of beauty be a joy for ever? Why can't it be so? I want it to be so. I demand it! I cry and I weep and I beg for it. Please... why tell me, am I going away so far... why? Why? Why? Why???

'Roses, roses, all the way, with myrtle mixed in my path like mad'
I wish it could be like that forever...

I ask too many questions and I process too much, it is not at all good for the soul or the heart, that. The best is the simple fool, ignorant and happy. The best is 'conscious inertia'! But being all alone here, without anyone to ask of me, to want of me, to love and hold, it feels lonely. Loneliness that pinches, burns and stabs. Loneliness... It has no end to it. A single pang of the lonely can obliterate eternities of bliss. A single tear can wipe out pages of joy. Is there no end? Can there be? I don't think it possible. So be it. Lonely I shall be for now, and for ever more. I feel, that even if you were to come now and kiss me all over and endear me to your heart, I would remain lonely, that is how much I hate you. That is the truth. All others... superficialities, masks, all of them, falsehood. Hah! How does it feel? I am telling you... this - this is what I shall tell you.. I hate you... and not only that you hate me too, and have always done so. Why are you blushing now? Is that rage? Hah! Now you know... bitter that is what I am and that is what you shall be. And lonely. It was all a lie. All of it, I am laughing at you now, at your pathetic state, can you hear it? I am sure you can, you know my laugh very well, why, only the other day when we were about to sit in the bus, and you tripped on... and I laughed at you, and you although you were embarassed and ashamed couldn't help but make a pout and laugh too.

Oh! Your pouting lips! How I would die to kiss them once more? I love you. I love you! Please forgive me, I was blabbering all nonsense just now, I don't mean a single word! I love you that is the truth. The end of it. The start of it. The middle of it. Everything.

Will you forgive me? Shall we be together again?

Oh I am a Hollow Man! With straw in my headpiece, too. I don't know what I mean to say and I don't mean what I actually say. For the meaning is hidden in riddles, in mazes and in puzzles. All in my twisted, distorted, uneducated and broken mind. Is it not a sad sight? I am, I am sure. My mind. My heart. My soul. That is me divided. The executive, judiciary and the state of me. Oh when will I cease this nonsense? No... but this is necessary. I must do this.

Catharsis. Drunken, lonely, late night, frost bitten catharsis.
And perhaps an epiphany too, but later.

contd.

the lost letter of love and lament (the first page)

2009-09-09T10:08:00.004+05:30

Dear(est) A________,

Why do we fight so much? Why can't we just let things be, or talk as we used to before? Why have the words run dry? I feel so distressed that I don't know what to do. I feel like tearing my heart out! It pains! And how! I don't really know what people mean when they say that they want to tear one's heart out, but I feel like doing so. The phrase seems to fit into my emotion. Oh, how self absorbed I can get, I surprise myself. Perhaps a letter to you is for the best. It is an unburdening, a presentation of facts, arguments and rationale. An invitation to constructive debate. So let's get things going.

I Love You.

Have I told you that enough? Perhaps not. It always boils down to that, doesn't it? That I don't talk much, that I don't say much, that I keep to myself, that I don't volunteer information. It never meant that I did not love you, and I hope you knew it. But it sometimes felt like you didn't. Sometimes, it felt like... it felt as if you thought, you presumed, that I did not, could not, ever love you. When I saw that doubt in your eyes, heard it in your voice, amidst all the bickering and the shouting - it took a moment, and then, it simply pierced through me. It was a weight that crushed me down in an instant. I could not breathe! I was gasping for air, fighting my tears, holding back. I had no idea! My love! How could that be ever in doubt? My love! Was it a joke?

Well, perhaps it was, then. All of this is a joke.
You. Me. Everything.
Things ceased to make sense after a point. Right?

I know I did not talk much. I listened. I loved to hear you talk. Your silly little things. Your sensible advice, your profound wisdom, your stupid mistakes. I loved each and every word uttered from your lips. Each sound, intonation, each hint of a smile, each laugh, (something is happening to me at this point, as I pause for a moment, the word 'each' - it suddenly seems like a meaningless sound to me, 'each', 'each', 'each'. But let's carry on...), each and everything. All of it would send me into a rapture undreamt of, a paradise of sensations, and bliss. It was a serious case of eternal infatuation that I had for you. So I listened.

And I don't know, but I guess I do have a problem with volunteering information. It just doesn't come naturally to me. It is not that I want to hide anything from you (event the thought of it!) it is just that I can't think of anything to talk about impromptu, and you will also have to concede that I am not a poor conversationalist at all, won't you? I talk, don't I? I reply to your queries and we have debates and they carry us off to god knows where... We talk and talk and talk and keep on going on and on and on for hours don't we? I doubt that there is anything in the entirety of Creation itself that has not come under our purview. And such sweet eternities were they, when we would just talk.

contd.

look! new logo!

2009-09-05T17:35:00.004+05:30

so i added a new header to the blog!! i made it, scanned it, and uploaded it!

but does it look nice?
that's what i am asking.

there. i removed it.
now we are talking about something which was never there at all.
like the tree which fell in the forest when no one was watching.

the last of the 23-isms

2009-08-26T21:27:00.005+05:30

last year on this date i had poured out a load of bull on the number 23, how i was obsessed with it, how it influenced my life, how it kept reappearing here and there, and how i looked for it everywhere, for the whole saga, at your own risk, you have to read this piece >>> (click here).

anyway, cutting through, the bottom line (literally) was that i expected the twenty third year of my life "not to let me down" and "somewhere along the line, i hope(d) to be born".

well, i don't know if i was born or not but i sure did feel like dying a lot of times in my twenty third year. i don't know if it let me down or not, but it sure did fail to keep me up. my lethargy and ongoing cynical bout of depressive machoness prevents me from going into the tarantinoesque gory details.

moral: life's not romance, or vice versa, and never get your hopes up.

as the old saying went, hope for the best and expect the worst.

or not. just let it all go to hell.

PS inspite of all this, the obession with the number 23 remains (human nature).

kill bill vol. 2

2009-08-23T11:29:00.003+05:30

the scoop

here's a scoop for those who love the mythology and philosophy of the graphic novel world (read tv series, movies, comic books based on graphic novels). and a revelation for those who thought superman and batman were for kids.

it's a monologue from kill bill vol.2 where bill is educating beatrix on the mythology of superman.

the excerpt

... Now, a staple of the superhero mythology is, there's the superhero and there's the alter ego. Batman is actually Bruce Wayne, Spider-Man is actually Peter Parker. When that character wakes up in the morning, he's Peter Parker. He has to put on a costume to become Spider-Man. And it is in that characteristic Superman stands alone. Superman didn't become Superman. Superman was born Superman. When Superman wakes up in the morning, he's Superman. His alter ego is Clark Kent. His outfit with the big red "S", that's the blanket he was wrapped in as a baby when the Kents found him. Those are his clothes. What Kent wears - the glasses, the business suit - that's the costume. That's the costume Superman wears to blend in with us. Clark Kent is how Superman views us. And what are the characteristics of Clark Kent. He's weak... he's unsure of himself... he's a coward.

Clark Kent is Superman's critique on the whole human race.

---

little voice

2009-08-15T00:26:00.006+05:30

I saw an amazing movie on star movies last night at around 3 o' clock, oh well, probably it was today morning, no it's past twelve now, so it would have been yesterday morning. anyway, this amazing pic was called 'little voice', starring i dunno who, but a cute little girl along with ewan mcgregor in the supporting cast.

it's a british movie by the looks of it, about a young girl who becomes a socially-phobic recluse after her father's demise and just listens to all the records of jazz and blues her father had collected in his lifetime (he owned a record shop). and she's a talented singer who can do an impression of anyone from shirley bassey to lady day to monroe to you name it. its a great initiation to jazz and blues and cute too.

and the best part -?- the actor did her own songs - all of them.

i really liked it, i dunno how good movies like this one slip through the cracks somehow...

i seriously recommend this as a must watch if you are an open minded music lover.

PS i know i am not talking about freedom at midnight on 15th august, but hey, i am a next generation product, i take my freedom for granted.

YOUTH: Mother Is Bugged at Me

2009-08-13T00:03:00.002+05:30

so there is this really interesting article from the Time in 1952. i was taken to it in my wanderings around the material on the beat generation.

(you see, i have just finished 'on the road'.)

i suggest people read the link below.

YOUTH: Mother Is Bugged at Me

mr. magorium's wonder emporium

2009-08-06T00:47:00.009+05:30

so there is this sweet little wonderful movie doing the rounds on star movies these days by the name of "mr. magorium's wonder emporium". it seems that it was released toward the end of 2007, it has dustin hoffman in the role of a quirky, eccentric, extremely verbose, two and a half centuries old genius who owns a toy store, which by the way, has magic in it. in fact all the characters seem sweetly quirky.

but what i like the most is what mr. magorium (dustin hoffman) has to say about death to his protege molly mahoney (played by natalie portman) -

Mr. Edward Magorium: [to Molly, about dying]
When King Lear dies in Act V, do you know what Shakespeare has written? He's written "He dies." That's all, nothing more. No fanfare, no metaphor, no brilliant final words. The culmination of the most influential work of dramatic literature is "He dies." It takes Shakespeare, a genius, to come up with "He dies." And yet every time I read those two words, I find myself overwhelmed with dysphoria. And I know it's only natural to be sad, but not because of the words "He dies." but because of the life we saw prior to the words.

[pause, walks over to Molly]

Mr. Edward Magorium:
I've lived all five of my acts, Mahoney, and I am not asking you to be happy that I must go. I'm only asking that you turn the page, continue reading... and let the next story begin. And if anyone asks what became of me, you relate my life in all its wonder, and end it with a simple and modest "He died."

(courtesy IMDb)

- i could watch the movie over and over for this one fantastically scripted moment - a little gem in the whole trove. i know all this is coming out two years too late but hey - ...

PS you must check out the cool toy creator at magorium.com.

borders

2009-08-03T18:26:00.003+05:30

i dug this up on my computer the other night, reread it and i don't know what i felt. this was not a nice one to begin with. i had written it months ago.

borders

Think, a hot afternoon in June, a midday swoon,

of the teary sun, of sweaty palms and cringy eyes –

think, of an AC car a blasting tape, of a self made life,

of borrowed ideals of traded dreams, of trying to be get there and of getting there.

Think, these words… let them take you there

to the road, to the signal, stopping, for a moment, inside the car, imagine,

you, or me or anyone else, if you wish to be. Think

of faster life, of fatter checks, of rarer wines, of hotter flicks, and come,

to the moment there, of AC car, of traffic light, of red, of sun, of cool and white,

of the world outside, of you inside – the stereo, the sound, the music, and

of how the song went, ‘Some one told me there’s a girl out there

With love in her eyes and flowers in her hair.’ Think

of all that was, of prelude, only to lead you there, (that moment), while you were

on the way to bigger things, to bigger dreams, on the way to being on the way. Think,

of college days, of rocky bands boozy binges sexy morals, think pseudo debate

of moving on of finding jobs of friends forgotten of desires hidden of loves laid waste,

think family, their hopes, their money feeding you, your money feeding them

think, of growing up, to the city, to the AC car, the traffic red, to there and then,

of being trapped, cars ahead and cars behind, cars to the left and cars to the right,

of that trap of ease, of never having to fight, think happy, think content,

and think, when you look out that window, think that you see a child.

II.

Think, a hot afternoon in June, a midday swoon,

of the teary sun, of sweaty palms and cringy eyes –

think, of burning sun, scorching skin, barefooted sores,

of concrete road, smoky cars, dirty faces, matted hair.

Think then, of flowers, of fragrance, of smell, of sight, of red, of rose,

of boy, of girl, of anyone else you wish it to be,

of poor of hunger of thirst of her eyes, of envy.

Think these words… let them take you there

to the road, to being there, to being beaten up, to being small and weak, think

of fear, of handing over all you got, scared, of AC cars (of walking up to them),

of closed windows, of the signal, of only hope, of prime strategy, of daily quota,

of the moment, looped hundred times over a day, of the midday meal, of its chances

of charity of pride of the lack of it, think of tattered clothes of wanting new ones,

think jealousy – as you see children go to school, bathed and clean and loved, think

their parents, holding them close, think of being shooed away, think

of knowing to sell, of provoking pity, of hating yourself and of being weary,

of not being strong, of not running away, and of wanting to escape

(and of how you can’t), of wanting to run and yet still standing

as someone in a car rolls down a window, think, of handing over the flowers,

ever so slowly, and think of how it feels, the fresh breath of cold air, the crispy note.

Think then, of crying, not for money but for the heart where something just died.

in our time - hemingway

2009-07-13T13:23:00.004+05:30

i had given a list of books up for comment in an earlier post months ago. this is the first commenting to be done from that list.

hemingway is an odd sort. i mean his writing is all about toning down and simply stating facts. i guess that's what makes it so hard hitting and powerful.

i found the book 'In Our Time' in my uncle's apartment and read it in 36 hours. it was a bit slow at times but, as i said, hard hitting and truthful (i assume).

hemingway, as always is simple and easy to read, with not much of obscure-vocabulary-testing usage of language. and in this collection of short stories, he takes us through a variety of relationships and situations of day to day life, most of the ordinary with a bit of the extra ordinary, and makes us think about life, in general. that's good, making us think.

my favourite was 'cat in the rain'. you read it and you'll know why.
also, i hear that this collection was his first book, in fact, to be published in the united states.

as always, i supply a few excerpts -

"The strange thing was, he said, how they screamed every night at midnight. I do not know why they screamed at that time. We were in the harbor and they were all on the pier and at midnight they started screaming."

"The Greeks were nice chaps too. When they evacuated they had all their baggage animals they couldn't take off with them so they just broke their forelegs and dumped them into the shallow water. All those mules with their forelegs broken pushed over into the shallow water. It was all a pleasant business. My word yes a most pleasant business."
-
but i have to confess that i did not much understand the short passages in between the stories. perhaps, someone else an enlighten me.

rock n rolla

2009-06-25T08:55:00.005+05:30

rock n rolla is a dark movie. no doubt. i don't keep track of names and trivia of these things but i'll allow myself two names - guy ritchie, whose previous movies are the smart and witty 'snatch' and 'lock, stock and two smoking barrels' and the mindfu***ing 'revolver', and toby kebbell, whom i had seen for the first time on screen, and who took his role of johnny quid, a derangeddruggie/guntotingknifeslashingrockstar, to a whole new level.

but unlike ritchie's previous movies, rock n rolla is dark. it is dark in its portrayal of life through johnny quid (kebbell). the rest is practically nothing new, all standard ritchie issue. but kebbell, ie. johnny quid, is something altogether different. he will make you fall in love with your darkest and want to take a deep plunge into it's black sea.

but it's the movies. you have to be wary of what you fall in love with and what you want to extract from it. taking plunges have to be thought out. and thinking defeats the purpose of sex, drugs and rock n roll, you are not supposed to think of consequences if you are a rock n rolla.

so i feel scared of these people on the screen and i become wary.

and know that it looks good because they make it look good.

it's the movies, after all.

but i appreciate the art involved and i take my hat off for johnny quid.

here's a take out from the movie - and i think you'll concede rock philosophy doesn't get better than this.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rTIP7WIGSdU

and remember - it's the movies.

on a moment of clarity

2009-06-23T01:33:00.004+05:30

it's the bulb, flickering in the night by the road, on and off, on and off, yellow and black, yellow, black. it's the bulb. by the road.

my life.

it's a leaf there, fluttering in the yellow stroboscopy by the road, in the breeze of yellow night and light air, hanging by a loose thread to the tree and fluttering. there. by the road. high up on a tiny twig. the leaf.

my life.

while someone, somewhere is hanging

by a rope, on a coil of deathly hope

his nightshirt and underwear hiding

beads of cooled down sweat on his dead skin

his irritating loin and his soiled bum,

hidden from the world by his dirty clothes

out in the sun to dry and purge and purify

his soul.

which, sad to say, is nowhere to be seen.

while someone is inside, with the ac's, tv's, fridges, and lcd's

purring contently in the soothing current

hissing softly in to it's rippling flow.

clothes that are cool, happy and sorted out

not crying, not for the sun, not for the rain

not happy though, someone, for he's not there.

but he doesn't know.

he's somewhere else, as he measures

carefully counting the last of many,

the number of coffee spoons left on the table.

he loves the ice screams, the stuff he pours

on anonymous bowls and belly buttons and nipples

brown and pink and vanilla, flavours all

tastes all, sweets all, his favourites all.

all... that melts - in the heat, the scorching sun

as he burns as he hangs, hangs it all

lets it go, lets it loose, the thread

tying him to the rest, and not to Rest.

it's all for good luck, he thinks, all for good best

all for cheers, he smiles, and all for the test.

he burns, while his bums scratch

his soul chars, while his clothes dry

them tears cry out, while hair ruffles in breeze

them hearts stop, while them thoughts cease.

it's all in the sun, in the summer, in the rain,

in the thunder shower of fears

in the floods, in their plains,

in them valleys, in them rivers and them drains

his hellish smile in the summer rain

his bitter sweat in the flooded drains

as he froze there, suspended to decay

his soul brims over

like a cup of hot steaming coffee.

book talkie

2009-05-02T10:06:00.006+05:30

i read a lot in the past months, and not talked about it.

i guess i will in a few days, and the list is -

.. Pulp - Charles Bukowski

.. Tropic of Cancer - Henry Miller

.. Mysteries - Colin Wilson

.. Siddhartha - Herman Hesse

.. Coda - Octavio Paz (thank you, anonymous commenter)

.. The Marriage of Heaven and Hell - William Blake
.. In Our Time - Ernest Hemingway

in just, a few, days.

A Haiku on Indian Myth

2009-04-26T00:17:00.008+05:30

"it's time", said Rahu,

"to rock and then to roll",

to crazy Ketu.

evening to night to morning

2009-04-08T15:18:00.005+05:30

you get all tripped up and high about something anything anytime you don't know. how a single unthought of unprepared impromptu improvised pint of beer leads you to a triple seated bike ride in the cool night air to a smattering of tasty parathas munched down on the footpath on the roadside swallowed down by a colder than cold glass of extra sweet extra cheap cold coffee which you can't finish 'cos 'i'm full' - how it comes to this you don't know. you wonder about the substances raging through your body your system and how it is effecting your mind. you mind if that is how it should work, from the body to the mind, or from the mind through to the body. is the beer still in you? or did it flow out through the heavenly piss you took under the night orangy lights in the darkness under the shade of the tall tree by the roadside.

you wonder if the voices you hear, of your friends, of your mind, talking to you, you wonder if those voices are really getting to you, or are they just bouncing off your cranium. who would want to live like this? us, comes the answer from all around you, five, no maybe four, voices in unision. unanimous, in their opinion, 'we want to', 'this is the life', 'these days, they don't come back', but these are the days that are slipping through, your fingers, your butt crack, your shit hole, your pee, these are the days that don't hold back, they flow, these are the days that just flow on through to the sea, or to the sea first.

how the night ends, you don't care, a late night practice session, of unbanned sports, of table tennis, of basketball, of dribbling, of feet-work, of showing off, to your friends, of boosting your ego, how bombastic it becomes sometimes, that you don't care, you don't give a shit, a flying fuck.

you go on, to have your late night bath, deep dark fantasies, your body cooling down in the water flowing from the shower, over your sweat, cleaning it, flowing through to the sea of your dreams, as your eyes close, and give way, your thoughts sway, to your images, fleeting through your mind, as the water continues to cool your mind...

how shall the night end? with sleep maybe, after you read a few lines, wondering if the beer is still there, somewhere hidden in the corpuscles, in the complexes, in the heme, in the coordinated bonds that make you... wonder if it would have been any different, if you would have liked it to b different, before going to sleep, how the night ends? with sleep?

or with the dreams that bring the morning with them?

coda with a curse

2009-04-06T14:08:00.005+05:30

the word 'coda' keeps on buzzing around in my mind, like one of those flies you can't see but hear going all around in your room and in your ears and in your mind. i heard it for the first time around nine years ago in an obscure album by third eye blind, they had used the phrase "a coda with a curse" in their best hit number, 'semi-charmed life.'

the word still buzzes around in my cranium with the intensity and irritability of a six year old who just got a light-and-sound pistol from his parents.

'coda' generally means a concluding part to any piece of work, be it music, art, or literature, which serves to round off the piece with an air of closure, and which is also, at the same time, distinct from the piece itself. i found out the meaning today, after so long, but at long last, as they say.

but that's not all, what i also found out that led zeppelin has an album, released in 1982, after the band had formally disbanded, which contained a series of outtakes from their years, and and other unreleased stuff which were being otherwise bootlegged all over the place.

this 1982 collection of led zep's odds and ends is called 'Coda'.
i wish i could get my hands on it.

it's really strange, how certain seemingly small and inconsequential things seem to define you more than you ever would imagine them to. now that i know what this wonderful sounding word means and what it implies, i suddenly realise that any piece of fiction that i write almost has had a coda in it, so to speak.

i personally like to read and listen to pieces with codas, something that ends off in a well rounded way, and that does not leave you hanging in midair. it just fits with my type of thought.

... One stop to the rhythm that divides you
And I speak to you like the chorus to the verse
Chop another line like a coda with a curse
And I come on like a freak show takes the stage ...

- Semi Charmed Life, Third Eye Blind.

All Fool's Day

2009-04-01T18:39:00.005+05:30

hello and welcome! it's All Fool's Day!!!

so read this, read that, click this, hate that, screw, come, go, as you please, as they please, one and all, all and sundry, whoever be, have fun, have cakes, have nothing at all, be a fool and be cool if you want to, play pranks, cranks, the guitar, play up to the ranks, with words, with your life, with death, be a fool, full of noise, be a vessel, all empty, be an All Fool on this day.

The Joke
This is not kundera and this year there was no joke. no pranks, no tricks, no fool's errands to run, no nothing. it seems me, and those around me, everyone is living such a twisted-tight, pinchy-ass, screwed up kind of life we just don't have it in us. probably it is just our age. or the age. or the times. or the herald.
who knows?

so there are no jokers this time around. all are either dead or defeated or sleeping - around with the queen of spades and the ace of diamonds.

kitsch and jokes both be damned.
there is no laughter this time around and the devils are dead.

god is at the roost.
and it is getting very boring and sad.

The History
It seems no one is sure when this holiday came into being. it crept into the folds of the crania of the europian populace at some points in history in such an imperceptible locus that when people finally decided to study history as a subject in universitites and some stupid beer ambisexual sex starved doctoral student decided to do a thesis on All Fool's Day he (or she) found that it was impossible to point a date to when or how it began.

there is the whole julian-gregorian calendar theory - which is crap.
there are references to it which might be inconclusive.
i mean, what kind of academic bullshit is that?

what i feel is that, i can simply imagine a bunch of friends, idlers all, sitting in the noon sun in a temperate glade somewhere admiring the ass on the local farmer's daughter, and drinking booze, when they suddenly hit upon an idea of playing a prank on the farmer's son, one of their best buddies, but a real stuck up at that. they had so much fun, and due to some inadvertent argument, they decided to do it again after a year. revenge served cold. in fact, it was the first official slap countdown in the history of mankind.

and they started this ritual in their friendship.
this was picked up by their children and their friends and their children and their friends and the next thing you know is that the whole of europe is annually making fool's of themselves.
(hail be to the power of memetic migration.)

not very unrealistic - if you also believe that you actually have 572 friends who are linked to your orkut profile.

The Bicker
thank me later, but the bicker ends here.

The Quote
"The first of April is the day we remember what we are the other 364 days of the year."
- Mark Twain

black

2009-03-30T09:35:00.006+05:30

wake up with a dead scream in my throat, eyes drowning in sleep , and a mind crying for tears. and blood. black. that is all i think - see - feel - heavy, weight, unlike light, bright and sunny - unlike that, i feel black. i hear. see black in black tee. hear black in a song.
pearl jam.

songs you once loved.
songs penetrating through with their haunting melody
songs you never understood
songs taking new meaning
songs you become.

your life becomes.

humour is the last thing on my mind, what with feeling all heavy and shitty and tied down to my soul. cynicism is easy but, a dear companion at all times. my cynical me. i can sense the fear in my fingers which hesitate to type out these words, they seem to know something that i don't - and it fucking gets to me. all this fragmentation of my existence. how the fuck am i supposed to keep my shit on the road - and 'in the right direction' - if my fucking existence is split into so many parts, all of them harbouring knowledge unbeknownest to me.
fuckae, ays wisnae maent fir this. ah mean, which cunt wudnae want to smile the likes ay the sun ayn a fukin sunny mornay, fuck that and fuck irvine welsh for twisting mah bented mind a notch further.
fucking introspection.
glue. welsh. black. pearls. jams. sounds. music. melody. colours. moods. that's all there is to me right now.
streams. consciousnesses. pluralities. now is that what dreams are here to do? screw up your morning?
'cos these did for sure to me. these dreams of - yes, let me quote rhetorics now - of 'lost innocence, of 'lost love', of 'the light of other days', of taboos, of sex, and more black.

...And now my bitter hands
Cradle broken glass
Of what was everything
All the pictures had
All been washed in black
Tattooed everything
All the love gone bad
Turned my world to black
Tattooed all I see
All that I am
All I'll be...

the man from okinawa - what he says

2009-03-10T21:54:00.005+05:30

i recently re-watched kill bill vol. 1. it is great, graphic, bloody, terrific. gore was never this classy.

a favourite line from the movie which simply stuck with me was when hattori hanzo, tha man from okinawa, tells the 'yellow-haired warrior' about the sword which he made for her, so that she might kill the 'vermin' she is after (he had to break his oath that he would never make 'instruments of death anymore' to make this sword and it took him a month to make it), anyway, so it's all samurai an' all in this japanese kind of room and there's cool samurai / wild west music in the background when hattori hanzo pulls out the sword from the sheath (the shiny white silver making a zzznnnn zzznnnn sound whenever the camera focuses on it) and does a cool move with it and finnaly hands to the 'yellowhaired warrior' - so he is handing over the sword and he says -

'I can say without ego - this is my finest sword. If you encounter God on your journey, God will be cut.'

- i say that's awesome and totally the coolest thing any maker of 'japanese steel' could have ever said about his work.

the distracted centipede

2009-03-02T13:54:00.003+05:30

A centipede was happy quite

Until a frog in fun

Said, "Pray, which leg comes after which?"

This raised her mind to such a pitch,

She lay distracted in the ditch

Considering how to run.

-- Anonymous

???ohw???yhw

2009-03-02T13:41:00.004+05:30

whose blood would you rather draw? your own? or of the one's you love? is it possible for one to happen without the other? are not the two linked?

hate. your self. hate. everyone else. but something has to feel right. don't it?

is it ever possible that your life is not meant to be, that is a nonsensical statement, however powerful it may seem. non sense - that is what it all seems to be about. and negativity.

passivity.

watch and float,...drift.

apart.

whose heart?

is it?

whose heart are you killing?

murder. she wrote.

i write, hope.

to be.

to make.

choices.

choices. they are always there. some good, some not so.

who will judge?

who will guide?

who will take responsibility for the raped ruins scaterred on the bloody earth afterwards?

who?

is this how people start believing in God?

i am walking back to the fence of the agnosts after spending treasured days in the heart of the cool, shady, comforting jungles of atheism.

something does not feel right.

a trickle of phrases

2009-02-25T14:29:00.002+05:30

go all out, physics. then lunch. gravity. then coffee. parvati baul. bangladeshi film festival. overdose of 1971. genocide hitherto unkknown. plays. dreams. sapney. late night addas. tea after dinner. evespotting. tea. late night.
flow. drama. college fests. dreams. unrealised. 'mysteries' by colin wilson. crap. mental degradation. amnesia. forgetfulness. things misplaced. lost USBs. lost thoughts. forgotten scribblings.

somewhere on the back of a dirty brick wall, the tears of a seven year old flow down relentlessly as he tries to stifle down his puke caused by the stench of his shit which had come out in his pants.

graphic.
dreams.

unplugged

2009-02-18T17:45:00.003+05:30

the plug is out of the socket. i am unhooked. the boy, its a hard life, his. but he walks down the road, to the building he has seen so often. in his dreams. in his ultrasupersubun-conscious thoughts. he does not think about it much, except when he sees it. but today, he shall visit it. he walks up the stairs. wonders where it goes, to his room mostly, his mind, it likes to play sometimes.

like now. he thinks of memories. how they effect him. how the hippocampus, amygdala, cortex, cerebellum and the zillion connections in his body connive and conspire against him, he is revolted.

but disgust will do. to use simple words, he will never learn, to take the simple path, he will never learn. to stay away from repeating patterns and prolific prose, he will never learn.

his brain has a few problems. as in right now, as he walks up the stairs. to the room.

he opens the door, to see a wall full of pictures, poetic, ironic, plastic pictures, all hanging on the wall, without frames, without words.

he steps in, he steps out - of the hallway - in to the room, thinking as i write, smiling to himself as he recurses in a loop of 'himself's. he doesn't want to be rid of this feeling, only when he sees her on the floor, bare and naked, does he come out of it. he steps in.

he comes over to her. he touches her. she winces, then squirms with pleasure, it seems to him. a silent dialogue begins, both of them biting, licking, like animals and primal beings. instincts, they take over. they become tangible in the air of the room, across these type faced words, in your increasing heartbeat, in my pulse. the instincts trigger hormones, in the bloodstreams, thoughts get muddled, images get dimmed, vision hazy and senses heightened.

the most primal is touch. every point of contact between the two bodies seem to electrify. seem to ecstasize. does not he cannot stay for along, although he wants to, he has to go. so he steps out.

outside, the weather is green. hazy olive with trees and purple grey with buildings. the air pin points the pin drops of sweat on his body, naked in the afternoon sun, on the terrace, after the fix, and attacks them all at once. he cools down.

he does not remember the girl and her name, but feels her body on his, his on hers, still. closing his eyes, he searches his memory for those recent additions, creating the past in the present in tthe abstract dimension of his brain.

the various organs required to do so comply. he unplugs himself.

he goes off the line and thinks about it all, all at once.
he smiles.

Apolitical Intellectuals

2009-02-17T14:25:00.001+05:30

One day
the apolitical
intellectuals
of my country
will be interrogated
by the simplest
of our people.

They will be asked
what they did
when their nation died out
slowly,
like a sweet fire
small and alone.

No one will ask them
about their dress,
their long siestas
after lunch,
no one will want to know
about their sterile combats
with "the idea
of the nothing"
no one will care about
their higher financial learning.

They won't be questioned
on Greek mythology,
or regarding their self-disgust
when someone within them
begins to die
the coward's death.

They'll be asked nothing
about their absurd
justifications,
born in the shadow
of the total lie.

On that day
the simple men will come.

Those who had no place
in the books and poems
of the apolitical intellectuals,
but daily delivered
their bread and milk,
their tortillas and eggs,
those who drove their cars,
who cared for their dogs and gardens
and worked for them,
and they'll ask:

"What did you do when the poor
suffered, when tenderness
and life
burned out of them?"

Apolitical intellectuals
of my sweet country,
you will not be able to answer.

A vulture of silence
will eat your gut.

Your own misery
will pick at your soul.

And you will be mute in your shame.

--Otto Rene Castillo

burning dreams

2009-02-11T22:56:00.004+05:30

burnt my dreams,
so dead,
smeared their ashes
my head,
black and brown and black

now light as death
crying to be reborn.

wedding fact file # 1

2009-02-06T09:45:00.003+05:30

getting two marriages done with in your home up and close makes you appreciate the sacred ritual that is the hindu marriage in the light of your personal table lamp, dark, merciless, unsparing, while you are working your ass off to clean the house for the guests, pick up the mithais and what nots for the celebrations.

here are a few wedding facts:

1. the wedding is about everyone but the two persons who are being married. they don't contribute even one percent to the guest list, they don't know half the people gathered there, they are starved, embarassed in public, bathed with cold water in front of a crowd in the winter cold and they are deprived of the wedding festivities from start to end.

2. the bride and the grom are house arrested before marriage. ??? (an ancient form of contraception???)

3. getting your older siblings married entails a steady shower of 'so, your line is clear now!' and 'green signal eh?' comments which irritate your more than a red ant in your crotch.

4. the ceramic industry and the glassware industry should officially declare they they survive solely due to weddings. they should come out of the closet to sponsor a few.

5. the bride and the groom take their sacred vows in a language that they don't understand for the most part. so at the end of it, they have not the faintest idea what they promised each other in the ceremony, what they are required to do next, and any of the finer clauses of the wedding pact.
which might just as be well, in these days.

more to come later, as this is all that i can remember right now.

of bunny suicides

2009-02-04T15:14:00.005+05:30

why are 'little fluffy rabbits who don't want to live anymore' so intriguing? beats me, but andy riley makes a great piece of art about it.

read - the book of bunny suicides. a complete book of cartoon strips without a single word. a silent comedy of the deepest philosophical problem for man, deftly dealt with intelligence and charm.

i heard of it at beyalora's - http://beyalora.blogspot.com/2008/12/brother-death.html

bunnies and suicides.
who would have thought of it?

a boy flows through

2009-01-07T13:48:00.005+05:30

the boy, he doesn't know what he is going to do, he looks around, to see that everyone around him is busy, with something or the other. everyone has found meaning it seems, but not he, the sky is blue, he notes, indigo, someone says, it's indigo, not blue, whatever, he thinks, and continues to read, for he loves reading as that is the thing he is not supposed to be doing at the moment, he loves reading, and he is reading, therefore, a book. he had found it in a corner, where he does not remember, only that it was a corner. some books are always meant to be found in corners, aren't they? well, it's funny how things transcend beyond their intended meaning. but he likes the book now, and continues to flit his eyes across the lines on the beautifully type faced page, only he is not reading anymore, he has drifted to someplace else now, someplace where he is not supposed to be. what is this lure of the forbidden? questions, paradoxes.

the middle path, the books says, is the path to be followed. but it is not easy. ah, he thinks, not easy. life was not easy, he knew that, but it is easier than some of the lives of others, he thought, and tougher than yet of some others. he didn't know if he loved or despised these 'others' that are meaningful with their lives. those that have settled down to a certain goal, he doesn't know if that was bad or good. perhaps that was why he hadn't selected a goal as yet? but he left that for now. for he had chanced upon another book now, as he was walking down the road. he had chanced upon it in a corner, again, he liked corners; he was not sure if they liked him though. ambiguity. ah well. but he picks up the second book and starts to read. he likes it. he lets go of the first one. it flies away to it's corner. a dusty, overlooked address in an ill visited locality of his brain. brain. mind. soul. he wanders. with the new book.

with the new book, the boy changes now, you wouldn't even recognise him, no, not now, if you knew him from before, you would say, hey, is that really you, boy, have you changed (!), you would like to exclaim within parentheses, only, no one would notice.

for there is no one around, except those that are essential for the boy, essential to the timeline, which, by the way, is almost non existent. almost. it is a void. but not too much of a void, because voids suffocate our boy. he still has to find his meaning.

streamline your self, screams the old lady on red, get your self straightened out, but how can he, when he is busy reading. he is thirsty, and he likes to drink. water. blood. emotions. and most prizedly, knowledge. he just can't help it. he wants to know every thing. he wants to be every one. for he sees every thing in himself. he sees in him a fighter, a writer, a poet, a scientist, a crier, a lover, a father, a mother, he transcends the world in him self. but he doesn't make any sense. that's his problem. that's your problem, screams out the lady on red, who is now on blue, you don't have focus. it is high time, boy.

tide, he thinks, it is high tide. beckoning him in the night, in his poetic fancy, the dark black waters of the ocean in the high tide. he takes a step forward. and then,

then he spits. he spews out saliva, thook, vomit, puke, he throws out everything he has in him self.

and still he has no meaning.

my diamond ring love

2009-01-03T21:37:00.004+05:30

the people who were with me that evening slowly drifted away to other interesting objects in the mall. i was left walking slowly among the brilliance of the jewellery section amid the rings and necklaces and pendants and also with the neighbouring section showing off the most expensive and manly metal and leather watches. i dawdled around.

my thoughts took flight and i swam away to different oceans of different times and different places, my eyes vacantly hovering over the counter and the sales girls, pretty, all of them, vacantly passing through, not being there, and being there, both at the same time.

i wandered through.

until i stopped. or rather, was stopped. by the most beautiful and elegant ring i had ever seen. it was made of gold, the yellow variety, and had a small, dainty solitaire set in it. it had long selder arms moulded to a circle which fitted round the finger of the pretty girl having a look at it. its arms did not join together at the bottom of the stone, as most rings are known to do. rather, it's arms stretched to either side of the stone, diametrically opposite and hugged the solitaire, sparkling it's faint refracted light in their midst.

it was as light as a ring could ever be. the portion of the gold near the stone so thin that the person touching might fear breaking it if handled without care. it gave off the air of wanting to be cared for, with senssitivity, delicacy, and love.

love, that was what it exuded. the need for love. the beautiful pretty virgin ring lying now, back in the counter where it had been before. a lone star of elegance, aesthetics and beauty. i gazed at it, and then some more. i just couldn't get enough. i heaved and sighed and lover's ought to, trying to get it to talk to me. trying to imagine the lucky maiden who will wear it, who shall be given it, only not by me. i try to imagine the man who will come and rescue it from it's prison of ugliness, those vile, opulent, fiery obscenities that shared the same counter as my love, yes, my love, and that dared to call themselves rings, in her presence.

in her presence. in front of my love. that ring. that venus of diamonds. those slender arms of gold. that heart of stone.

i still remember that evening, the evening of december the 31st, 2008, as the evening i fell in love with a diamond ring.

Diamond ring, diamond ring

Baby, you're my everything,

Diamond ring

things that want to talk to us

2008-12-31T10:01:00.002+05:30

are you sometimes bugged by this one single insect which just keeps hovering round you no matter how much you shoo it away? a fly, or an ant, or a moth, or a mosquito even.

i just can't help but get the feeling that they are trying to tell you something. they seem to want to talk to you, start a conversatoin maybe, have a chat or two. you know, like an ol' friend or somethin'.

i was woken up today by fly which simply refused to go away. i wonder what was it that it was trying to tell me.

for future me

2008-12-27T00:35:00.006+05:30

if i had to give a piece of advice to the me that i will be in the future from the i that me am right now i guess the only thing i would say is -

do not forget what you were when you were young.

everybody seems to do so, and i hate it when they forget how they were and how they end up becoming their own worst nightmares and repeating the same mistakes they swore they would never make...

thinking straight

2008-12-24T21:46:00.001+05:30

i think people can't think straight when -

a) they are full of shit

b) they are full of piss

c) they are turned on

d) they are drugged

the trader in words

2008-12-11T11:24:00.003+05:30

a dear friend of mine, had written this short verse a long time ago and showed it to me. i know he would probably be pissed at me for doing this but i have to let this out, it's so beautiful.

it's about words.

words words words

this trader in words

is soh lonely withour her

O for the one

who darts without the word.

Delhi, 12th March 2006

words

2008-12-10T13:32:00.003+05:30

words, i wouldn't know what i'd do without them, they are my fix, my torturous fix. I am a trader in words, as a friend once put it for me, not to describe me but someone else, but i fancied myself as one too. give me anything any point to start off from, anything to talk about, any god damn thing you want, real, unreal, surreal, abstract, tangible, anything, i can weave...

i can weave a web, a beautiful silken web of words, around it, over it, under it, covering it, caressing it, whatever it is. i can give it new shape, form, meaning, take it on a ride, bring it back, contrast it, juxtapose it, put it in perspective, look at it from up close, really close, and then give it back to you.

and the beauty of it all is that i do not even know what they mean, all those words that i use, i do not even know what they mean to others, how close to hearts they might be, how far and distant they might be, some of those words that i use. i do not know what the dictionary speaks of them. but i do know their soul, inside out, and that's how i use them, with their spirit to guide me, by experience, by instinct, by the force which tells you to take a left instead of a right when you're driving in the country side.

i do not see them as words, for all that they might be, in phrases in sentences in books in poems, i do not, for a moment, see what they are intended to be, by convention, by decision, by majority, by history. i see them for what they are, and what they can become, in my mind, in my hands, as i write, and as i weave...

i fix them every today, in a new mould, in a new avatar, and treat them as my own, i love them, for they, these words, they are my torturous fix.

and i cannot live without them.

as they cannot without me.

apocryphal stories

2008-12-06T18:29:00.004+05:30

i found this book in a second hand book shop at flora fountain in bombay, and till that point i had never heard of anyone called karel capek. yet, having a predilection for all things literary and simultaneously czech, i picked it up and read the blurb, then the first few pages. the ensuing humour made the smile on my face stay for quite some time - till the point the first story (about the trial of prometheus) was playing in my mind.

i no doubt picked it up.

it was a marvelous comic read, intelligent and witty, with the only catch that you had to have atleast a basic knowledge of the historical and mythical figures being talked about. capek takes everyone's case - right from prometheus to pilate to hamlet to napoleon to alexander, treating them with flair and panache and with a taste of modern wisdom, giving the entire recipe a taste of humour.

a good read on the whole, light and easy on the mind. yet thought provoking, in a way, if you wish.

i don't have any excerpts at hand but as i say, get a hold of the book and read it.

and then there was blood

2008-11-28T21:09:00.003+05:30

carnage blood path bath living eating dying dead

can you can we

uncan canny

uncanned un certain violence

fear hate love date blood blood image

picture picture sound video tube

no but yes

like me like you

sense none feel none feel scared

all alone and scared

blood

all alone

1024 hits

2008-11-24T01:34:00.002+05:30

1000 hits.

it's been a slow and snail-ish haul since december last year. and this is the first time i am using my blog to talk about my blog.

reflexivity.

generally, reflexive references lead to paradoxes (see liar's paradox, and variations) but i don't know... where will this need to.

my first 1024 miletone crossed...

may the powers-that-be let it be so.

an early morning symphony

2008-11-21T10:25:00.010+05:30

a very bright morning!

think of me
think of you
think of the millions of others who awoke at the same instant as this
think of music
movies life coffee
marx ayn rand salinger chomsky
priest metal radiohead iron and wine juno
think of a generation think of X Y Z
think of lives think of the moon the sun not the stars
but there you thought of it
think of unlearning
think of your mom your dad
think of them who know not what they do
the father the son the holy spirit think of
the bramha the vishnu the shiva the kama
think of sutra think of sex commercialised debasement
rape blood seventy men on one woman
millions adoring a few think of a fewer still
ruling the world deciding how this moment this morning
think of this moment
for this is not only yours think of it as a communion
think of it as a marriage as a live in legalised insulted
misinterpreted as pregnancy think of it as stigma dogmatic pedantic think of it
as a curse something to live with every morning
every day when you i have to wake
every morning i.e till you are alive

think of kal ho naa ho
think of the days you will not get to see
think of the places you won't get to go because they are just not there
think of animals dying cornered scared retaliating
extincting think of a register a low priority secret file in a top organisation
dealing with dealers in arms think of war
think of dogs think of bitches think of heat think of the most expensive industry
what makes this world go round
think of this planet a speck a dot think of an ant on huge boeing 747 think monstrosity
contrasting minuscule sense an atom in an universe a non existent blotch on the fabric
think of space-time
einstein newton pablo gogh renoir noir avant garde dadism contradiction
relativity relatives family indian heritage sages zen tao confucius marcus aurelius
cheap coelho wise ass think of new age philosophy shallowness depth length breadth
think of dimensions life death four-D DVD blue ray sting ray sting brand new world
think of megalomania hitler new world order oppenheimer
think of fuck shit curses blasphemy think of Sodom Gomorrah Lot Salem
think of wanting it that way think of boy bands think of the beatles pop culture respecting elders
think of nuclear family think of wanting to want less wanting more wanting to hate love friends
wanting sex getting none getting some action van damn god damn jean claude jean paul
camus beauvoir second sex first sex virginity sluttiness bitching
live ins denims levis adidas sweat shops in myanmar suu kyi
think of what you will think that someone somewhere has already thought it not once not twice
but a million times over think of the identity of how common you are how
un-different non-unique you are how in the entire world people are living the same
life with same delusion that they are different unique
think of unlearning renouncing think of the buddha the siddhartha the prophet
the muhammed the brahman the nine steps the gates of dawn the river of the same
the same of the dante's inferno think of unlearning think of exams

think of peer pressure smoking ganja weed hash marijuana an entire generation a total entire culture
living off grass
living off dreams
fake
ideals
knock offs

think of media jobs hegemony times of india of a minority state of the fourth estate
of jeffrey archer of thrillers of formulas of entrepreneurs of the road less travelled by
of the cliche most widely used of used condoms of sanitary napkins ridden with the blood
of a twelve year old bride of primitive culture of majority ruled perception of culture
of pseudo-everything of false sense of comfort of being beaten up by your mom
your dad beating her up your brother drunk and fucking your sister
incest
think of nature's laws think of the pope the local parish
think of homosexuality of lesbianism feminism of guilt ridden consciousness of
the knife in your back of vernon of your friend who wants to be your lover
of ruined lives of faded celebrities of pride coming before a fall
of rising up from the nadir
of hitting rock bottom of the bottom of the barrel of the bottom of the bottle
of the bottom of your sexy teacher think of fetish think of porn
cheap labour
easy money industry agents pimps rappers negotiations

think of the zillion compromises you have made by just waking up where you did just now
think of the millions of other things you could have doing think
of reading something else wondering what this is doing to you
what this is think poetry of words flowing in the abstract space
of your consciousness of what you call your mind
think of prose of written word misused debated abused
education think of G B Shaw of not cutting the heads of children to decorate
just because you like them like flowers think of witty comments
quotes of quoting others of not wanting to conform think of a soulmate speaking to you
through a book a letter an unintended blog a scrap of paper by the side of the road
a stray incident or simply a stray think of slapping of curs of codas
of one-time-wonders of the wonders of the wonder years of western culture
of orient of the express the expresso italians think of yummm of eastern culture
of chinky of racial slang of undercurrents of change of nothing else but
what i tell you to
of being ruled of being wanting to be ruled of masochism
of sadism of sex toys of dildos of two way three way every which way
think of want to strip of your clothes and lying kneeling on your floor
buckled up for a slap on your ass think of spanking sexual innuendos
of overtones of undertones of demeaning
meaning something else
of not meaning to hurt to effect the sorrow of others
of instead of inspite of living a samaritan life
of hurting some losing some more of effecting the grief of
a million before turning twenty

of birthdays
of deathdays

of wishing your friend a happy death day
think of gross
marquez
solitude of punctuation of lacking it of IT of dot com
of not me of not you of shunya of om of karma
of catchwords of greener grass of other sides of the others
of them of us of us against them of us and them
of an unexpected mail snail mail of an unexpected surprise of out of the blue
of moby dick of simple dick of blowjobs of sex being the most widely
talked topic in the world of eras of the zeitgeist of now
of the past and the future of sangam of confluence
of both coming together at this moment
of slipping by like grains of sand
like water like something you can't hold
think of metaphor of imagery of the narative of the metanarrative
of literature of aims of failed lives of revenge of culinary skills
of cold sandwiches of knuckle sandwiches of the sandwich islands
of the banana republic
of fake heads of state of state organised terror
of hidden agendas of jehad of religion of terrorist
of a small boy seeing his dad killed his mother and sister violated
of being offered a chance to live by them who you hate
of hating your self
of not meeting the eye of not being able to see yourself in the mirror
not living till forty but dying till the same of official bureaucracy of
applications submitted in duplicates triplicates of attestation
of voter ID cards of cheap sales of identity of cross border of borders itself
of human constructs of falling into your own trap
of tripping over your own words of nonsense
of slips of tongue of giving tongue of giving head of going down on her
of her just her and not her but someone else
of cheating on her of her best friend of her boobs of abusive fantasies
of polygamy think of monogamous relationships of open relationships
of long distance of the space in between of paas hoke bhi door
of bollywood of buxom beauties of B grade movies of cheap motels
of truck drivers of ugly prostitutes of having nowhere to go
of AIDS of STD of ISD phone booths PCO passing fads
bell bots robots asimov autobiographies will smith superpowers
of chains in the reaction think of them

think of chain of thought train of thought thought itself
thought think think think think

think what you may think what you will
think about a gazillion things
think about nothing
think about anything
think some other time maybe think of calling me
think of some other place
think want to be
think think think
think of just being
instead
in spite
of all that you have thought
think
think
of the end
or rather
think of the beginning
think being jumlbed up wodrs
think of the vicious circle
think o god please let this end!
think now think right here
think not now
think perhaps
think of being ruled over by for three hundred years
think of foundling independence of sixty
think of contrast
think of being told what to think
think please no wise cracks
think oh please don't end this with a gimmick
think oh my god why is what i think written there
before me
of everyone's god of selfishness of dire straits
of random

think everything but don't forget
to remember that you thought
you think
you think
i tell you

i am sexless
genderless
faceless
clueless

to think all that and some more
just think... to think all that
to think and oh just wonder
what to think

don't be just think
don't think just be

contradiction
paradox
isolation
islands of words
again

think

slow ride

2008-11-19T16:54:00.004+05:30

vijay, our familiar urban metro guy, rode in a truck for the first time in his life today. he didn't even expect it to happen, really, he was just standing sweating in the sultry afternoon by the side of the road, waiting to hitch a ride to his work on someone's bike. he sees this truck heading his way and he wildly, almost half jokingly, thumbs the driver as if to test the ridiculousness of his seemingly unending bad luck.

the truck slowed down...
.... and halted to a stop in front of him.

well, not to be outdone, without blinking an eye, he hops on, after a small exhange with the driver regarding the details of his destination, and sits in the front, with two swarthy, but obviously warm hearted alpha males.

the world seemed a little different with the adrenalin running through his veins and the perch from where he was viewing it. it seemed as if he were looking outside a large high window being heated on all sides by warm fumes and radiation. also, he couldn't close the door of the truck as he didn't knoow how to, so he just held it tight to the body of the beasty machine and played it cool, as if the door were properly closed and all. the driver and the guy sitting next to him (why do trucks always have a guy next to the driver?) did not utter a word. neither did vijay.

the ride went on, and finished, in silent perspiration, in anxious contemplation, and in ten minutes.

vijay hopped down, just as cooly as he had hopped up ten minutes earlier, from the truck, and waved a smiling goodbye to the driver and the guy sitting next to him (why, again?). the driver seemed to utter a few oaths and mutter a few curses interspersed with something about five rupees but they could not keep the truck waiting at that point for too long as it was a busy intersection, so they went away.

and vijay, went to work, smiling and happy, oblivious of the cares and fares of hitching, and happy to have had a miniscule adventure in his meaningless urban existence.

on losing and hurting some

2008-11-14T10:52:00.006+05:30

vijay has lost yet again. he makes his way through the crowd, the smell of his sweat and tears mingle with the dank smell drifting in the air that spoke to him in harsh tones of his attempts and failures and pictures of faded memories of childhood and emotions of loss and hurt fill his putrid imagination disgusting himself against himself and his lack of faith and luck and conviction. he turns a block and stops for a moment to gather his thoughts. they lie battered and mutilated all over the place and he feels like a quivering blade in a slaughterhouse.

he doesn't have any idea where he is and what he is going to do. for a moment...

he trudges on... dazed and numb, hurting, very bad and hurting, and then some more, but he tries, he tries, not to think perhaps not to breathe but it doesn't seem possible. how many more times shall he perish in this vicious trap of hope and illusion till he gives up and takes another road? how much more, is the question. how much more can he take?

vijay chokes on the air in his lungs and then wonders if that were actually possible. the image of the list on the wall still continued to slap his face incessantly. if that were possible, at all, i, he thought, i, he thought, i he thought again, but he didn't know what to do with his 'i'. it didn't matter, we could all go home for all that matters, there's nothing to see here, just a burning soul, trying his best to sign a pact with the powers-that-be and take control, and for once, be a part of the living dream and indulge in his megalomaniacal desires. for once...

how do you escape from the muck of desperate artless clueless disgusting people that form the common, the mass, the swamp of average and middle class: how do you escape to the fringes of human existence? to those that look down on the masses, or look up? to those that are different?

and why do these maniacal visions of genius and grandeur persist even when every form of judged opinion on his abilities and talents suggest just the opposite? not that he was bad. it was just that he was.. well, average.

blog carnival

2008-11-10T04:27:00.002+05:30

i am taking part in a blog carnival hosted by

http://bookcarnival.wordpress.com/

and the carnival, which is, -

"Today the 4th edition of the carnival, containing your submissions,

was posted at The Symposium, at

http://review.nanashi-inc.net/2008/11/4th-edition-of-the-book-review-carnival/"

happy reading.

walking on

2008-11-06T15:23:00.004+05:30

i silently gather the shadows of dusk
in handfuls and cart-fulls in greed and lust
to help me remember a long lost dawn
and a new turn and a few old reborn.

i walk along the road as i must
and i simply walk on.

and so it goes,
and i simply walk on.

the day after... blasts ripped assam

2008-10-31T11:00:00.004+05:30

the rigmarole has begun. today is the day after... death tolls, varied in their content and quantity, are pasted in headlines throughout the nation and in the 'world' section of papers throughout the globe; photos, of charred cars, burning fire trucks, injured and shocked people, dead bodies on police cars are stuck to the asses of appalling headlines in papers, national, international, and on the internet, and a few days later, in the weeklies; the people hate the government and the police; the opposition is blaming the ruling party; the ruling party is blaming (trying its best atleast) the militant outfits; the usual suspects are silent as yet, one (the ULFA) has even denied any involvement; and local parties have called for a statewide bandh on november 1st, as a sign of protest.

protest? protest, you say? HOW? how on earth does anyone protest against charred bodies, mutiliated remains, destroyed families and traumatised lives? HOW? and to whom? to the police? the government? the bureaucrats? GOD? or perhaps, the terrorists themselves? they do not need protest, if they had even a paisa's worth of sense in them this day should never have come.

protest.
sign of protest.

and to what end? what does one get by protest in this hour? this time is not for pointing fingers and protesting but trying to heal irreparable wounds and mourning for those who left us behind. mourn. not only for them, but for those who loved them.
mourn.

anger.
and hatred.

these are maybe the most primal and most common emotions that any human can feel, and everyone one can relate to this. they may say that love is blind but hatred is more so.

hate. hate is blind to sorrow. immune to pain. deaf to cries. it is so easy to hate. to let passionate anger take over and misguided intellect justify vengeance and hatred over the dead bodies of hundreds, thousands of innocents.

it is so easy...

what is not easy is to crush your pride like a bug, douse out the fire of hate, and just live, and let be.

it is not at all easy...

blasting off (!)

2008-10-30T13:45:00.005+05:30

a series of blasts ripped through assam just a few hours ago. no one has any idea yet as to who had done it or why. but soon, as all of us blast prone citizens of this 'shining' nation know, some outfit is going to claim responsibility, some police crackdowns are going to occur, some politicos are going to blame each other, and all of the people, the aam junta, are going to be 'apalled', 'hurt', secretly relieved that they weren't effected, 'condemn' the attacks, and then, go about business as usual.

death tolls will be released, debates between the official and unofficial figures will take place. the police forces will be pooh-ed at for their 'incompetence', they will lash back saying that they had managed to prevent so much more that could have happened.

and the aam junta will read all this in the morning papers with their tea and breakfast and live life as usual.

there is nothing else anyone will do, for there is nothing else anyone can do. we all do our jobs, and that is what we are, or rather should be, concerned with.

it isn't possible any other way.

but at the end of it, i really pity those pathetic souls who have to resort to such measures to 'prove their point', to 'make themselves heard'; those poor people who have become cannibals, for killing someone is the same as ripping his heart out, frying it in oil and eating it with a dash of pepper and a garnish of sauce.

how is it that we ended up this way?

howl

2008-10-28T17:24:00.008+05:30

a dear friend made me read 'howl' by allen ginsberg. i read it once. composed a reply in a similar vein but in a different manner, and sent it. then a few days later, i read it again. this was just a few minutes back. this time i read it aloud.

the unfamiliar references and names and places and images and visions did not seem to matter as the poem ripped through me. i shall refrain using metaphors of body and mind and soul and essence and being and the lot because they would not suffice not in this case. hence i say that the poem first ripped through me and then continued through vibrations amongst the disjointed fragments.

i am reminded of the ghost song (in general almost the entire essence of the album 'an american prayer') by jim morrison. it seems to float in a similar universe as 'howl'.

everyone seems to know, or atleast pretends to, what 'howl' is about, even if they have read it only for the first time. it echoes a familiar note in all of us who have been (un)lucky (?) enough to have urban lives. i am not too sure though, as though even when it seems to hate what it is depicting, yet the depiction itself is so beautiful in its antithetic imagery that one cannot but help be attracted towards the imagery (and its consequences) in the end.

a short excerpt -

....

who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space

through images juxtaposed, and trapped the

archangel of the soul between 2 visual images

and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun

and dash of consciousness together jumping

with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus

to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human

prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent

and shaking with shame,

rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm

of thought in his naked and endless head,

the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown,

yet putting down here what might be left to say

in time come after death,

and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in

the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the

suffering of America's naked mind for love into

an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone

cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio

with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered

out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.

....

of sunday mornings and cutting chais

2008-10-26T14:58:00.004+05:30

waking up on a sunday morning in pune in october 2008 has its charms. even though the days of your lives may be going at a painstakingly slow pace and yet life on the whole may present to you to be slipping somewhat, somewhat like the grains of sands in a fist metaphor that is common in self help books. yet, even then, at that juncture, waking up on a sunday morning in pune in october 2008 has its charm nevertheless.

heres the picture, the air is crisp, as they say, nippy. it gets through your nostrils to your smoke damaged lungs and refreshes you on the way to the hostel common bathroom for your morning toothbrush/pee/poo/poke/scratch/spit routine to cleanse yourself of the sins of the night past. you come back to your room feeling wet behind the ears (literally) and alive in between them.

you have your morning reading of the papers, temporary disgust at the world, followed by disgust at the breakfast offered by the mess, followed by a venting in the form of waking up your friend when he didn't want to be woken up.

the twosome now make their way out of the hostel onto the road to a neighbouring ATM where they are to curse their fallen ways and fall upon them again in the night with the refurbished zeal (read money) withdrawn.

on the way they see a sight which makes them stop, smile and fills their hearts with warmth and happiness. it is none other than their faithful ol' tapdi which has restarted near their hostel dutifully encroaching the footpath which no doubt has a fractionable contribution from the taxpaying parents of the twosome, and which had been mercilessly removed in an evil spate of construction and road expansion in the past few weeks. progress of mankind. inevitable.

anyway, so you and your half asleep friend take your cutting chais and sit down on the park bench beside the tapdi and sip away in silence. as the invigorating sugary beverage assimilates in your system a psychological response creates a transient sense of simultaneous euphoria and calm and you forget that you had been depressed, drunk, and on the verge of admitting that your life, for all practical purposes, was over, and that your dreams would only remain as dreams and you would go on to become and old and insipient toothless nobody who dies (and lives) in oblivion, only the night before.

all this from a cup of cutting chai at a roadside tapri in pune on a sunday morning in october 2008.

blabberwock

2008-10-21T23:25:00.005+05:30

the dark nihayt sayeth to the boy:

"The powers that be for al' of tahime

hayeth giveth to this nihayt this dhay

the Sunday morn of the marooned fahive

and the Rubik's cuhube by a historial jay."

"i don't have any idea whatcha talkin about ol'man",

said the boy in his low waist dishevelled elan

"shut the fuck up and get the fuck out",

and saying so, he moved up the bar for a tin of grout.

what: me, truth?

2008-10-17T14:37:00.002+05:30

this sentence is not true.

one hundred years of solitude

2008-10-14T17:34:00.006+05:30

i read 'a hundred years of solitude' by Gabriel Garcia Marquez for the second time a few days ago. this time i think it really hit me - all the solitude. when i read it the first time it sort of appealed to me as a magical folk tale of contemporary people. but this time, i read it, and it sank in, the solitude, and the loneliness, in the middle of the crowd - i read it, in between binges of drinking and partying with friends, amidst people who loved me and wanted me to be there, and i felt the pangs of the web of solitude that i too had created around me - knowingly or unknowingly, i do not know, but a trapping web nevertheless, trapping me in it's distance from the world at large, a world so near to me that i only have to speak out.

in the still of the night, i felt the curse of a race having to live in a hundred years of solitude, to have never a second chance in this world.
i felt the weight of the words in the wee hours of the morning as i read and i felt my heart flutter through them into the mist, the grey and cold vastness that Marquez weaved around me, and i felt moved in my immobile suspension, in the still of the night, i felt all that, all alone. in the silence, i...

all i say is that this time it hit me, i fear the third time when i shall read it, perhaps a year from now, or perhaps later, when i perchance find the book lying on a table thrown carelessly (or fearfully) by someone.

"The first of the line is tied to a tree and the last one is being eaten by ants."

what do we do?

2008-10-12T20:38:00.004+05:30

the urban human is obsessed with the following:

> relationships

> life

> death

> god

> politic

> freedom

> what man has made of man [sic]

this is not an exhaustive list but it has come to my notice that almost all that is talked or read or heard or felt about in the existence of an urban individual can be put into one or more of the above heads.

the question is, why?

tired and journeyin'

2008-10-06T11:59:00.004+05:30

harbour thoughts in a line
   sleep in a sack
   love in a case
in case
   in case they cage us

in tired incoherence

in smelly confusion

when the sleepin' in your eyes

is a cruciating dream

the achin' in your back

an inky blurry, yellow green, yellow green

walls they scream

eyes they dream

dreams they sow

screams bow wow

the little runt by the tracks

by the shanties by the hags

by the people by the tracks

caught up, trapped in, held stead

by the wealth of their rags.

- for those who took the journey with me

for they will get it

not if they were sleepin'

but moreso if they were a dreamin'.