The Gravity of Love

grav·i·ty  (grv-t)

n.

1. Physics

a. The natural force of attraction exerted by a celestial body, such as Earth, upon objects at or near its surface, tending to draw them toward the center of the body.

b. The natural force of attraction between any two massive bodies, which is directly proportional to the product of their masses and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them.

...

We fell from a height

You, a broken thread and I, a kite

On the moon or the stars, together we'd fall

Guided by gravity and nothing else to stall

We fell on earth

It was us against the world

You fell first, you fell in love

As I was ripped apart by gravity and the wind

in different directions,  blinded by the din

The din of kids who picked you up and took you away

while others chased me in earnest anticipation

As gravity fought the wind and I floated for the rest of the day

Time  cut our ties into pieces in inverse proportion

of the square of the distance

By the time I fell ,  I fell in love

straight into what seemed like a big black hole

A place of infinite gravity where someone once told me, time stops altogether

I laughed at the irony of destiny's die-roll

Wouldn't that be the perfect place to love you, for ever and ever?

WESTLIFE FOREVER

Fourteen years. 25 top ten singles. 45 million records worldwide.
A band. A phenomenon. A dream.

That's WESTLIFE.

A band who's last song is called "Beautiful World"

This is the full episode of "Westlife- for the last time" which aired last year and takes you through a journey of the 14 years the band ruled the world

A lot of things have changed around me since 2000, the year when I bought my first westlife audio cassette after going ga-ga over "My Love". I have changed, the world has changed, people have changed. Yet, Westlife's been a constant, the only constant I've ever had in my ever-changing life. I've yet to come to terms with the fact that this will all change when the leaves start to fall this year. The most powerful force against all the senseless music that's made today is taking its last breaths.

WESTLIFE will live on, in my heart and soul. What'll die is a dream, one that I've seen so many times now - watching them live in Ireland. I've probably had this dream since far longer than I've had any other - about 10 years now. And now, all of a sudden, when its the least possible for me to make it happen, its coming crashing down. If only I could afford to fly to London and watch them this spring, I could die in peace. Dammit, why am i so poor. :(

As much as I'd like to be angry, I cherish the music thats carried me through all these years and will stay with me forever. The magical voices and the words of wisdom have kept me human in the craziest of times. In a world which does not respect love anymore, the lads have been indomitable symbols of love. They stand for all the good things we're beginning to lose. They're great human beings as well. With all that success, they're still as humble as they always were. The childlike wonder in their eyes whenever they perform in front of big crowds is adorable. They put in so much passion into their performances that every penny spent on their concerts is worth it. I don't know how people could possibly cheer those hardcore rock artists who hardly give a damn about the audience, are always stoned and sing behind layers of unkempt hair on their faces. Westlife are for real and the constant smiles on their faces even when they're panting just lifts your spirits. They respect their music, their success, and most importantly, each other.

Its sad to let them go. Yet, its humbling to realize the kind of heart-wrenching sacrifice that must've accompanied a life changing decision. To grow up to be a men who can give up a dream, a career for their families is something that takes immense courage. Ending on a high note perhaps looks easy, but isn't so when you don;t know how higher you could go, or where you'd go when you leave the only thing you've ever done in your life. Thats why, I respect these guys even more now. They continue to inspire me to be a better person everyday, and teach the world how to live, love, be successful in one's career and yet be successful fathers and husbands. I can only aspire to be like them.

Thank you Shane, Mark, Nicky, Kian and Brian for being WESTLIFE and for filling up this crazy world with so much beauty. I wish you guys all the best as you embark on your final journey as a band - The Farewell tour. I will continue to believe that you'll be back one day, and that my dream will finally come true!

Burning Hearts

On an empty canvas of love,

they tried to paint a shade of red.

Little did they know then,

it'd be the colour of the tears they'll shed

They loved, until they couldn't love no more,

until their eyes burned with desire.

Little did they know then,

that their hearts would burn with fire

A fire, unquestioned, unrivaled, unscathed,

rose up from love's pyre.

Reminding them of unkept vows,

it consumed them in an untamed spire.

No water could ever extinguish its ire,

No rain ever quenched its thirst.

WIth all the tarnish eating into them,

Beng cold blooded is the only way they'd trust.

And all that's left in the end,

like fighting kites, like aimless darts,

fooled by love, fueled by love,

are two burning hearts.

Oh girl! Did you ever stop being vain?

Oh boy! Did you ever see her pain?

Once bitten twice shy,

but once burnt only rusts.

The colour of love starts to bleed,

until every drop is replaced with lust.

"Pick up the ashes and move on", they wonder,

"What about the faith broken?

What about that world you gave me and tore asunder,

Why did you just leave me yesterday as a token?"

Now life is all about hiding the scars,

listening to the broken symphony of what used to beat like a heart.

Learning to live in a world without a morning star,

Their canvas is black and white, love is a forgotten art.

And all that's left in the end,

like fighting kites, like aimless darts,

fooled by love, fueled by love,

are two burning hearts.

The Incredible Indian

They say India is well on its way to becoming a superpower. They feel proud of the country's rapid economic growth. They celebrate the high stock prices, and rejoice the growing political and cultural clout of the country. They stake claim to a permanent UNSC membership. They call it 'Incredible India'.


Really now? Well, i'm not against my country's growth nor am I against the opinion that India is making great strides in every field, right from swindling millions of rupees in scams to winning the most prestigious international contracts. I just think that in pursuit of the 'incredible' we have lost touch of the 'credible'. India is good, Indian is not. I don't know if losing the culture and letting in western influence was a big deal, but I just cant stand the way we have dumped all our values and mannerisms. Perhaps, we never really had them? Yes, we will be a superpower one day. A superpower of zombies - lifeless, valueless, devoid of all emotions that maketh a man.

While there are several examples that I can use to elucidate my point, I would only go as far as my aching back allows me today. I'm particularly pissed with the way the Indian entertainment industry is doing its best to pluck out all possible humanly emotions from each one of us, be it a poor villager who can't afford a day's meal, or an educated westernised youth with all mental faculties peaking. And with time, its starting to show in people's behaviour and mannerisms. I dont really watch TV a lot when I'm in Bangalore, but I can't help laughing my ass off looking at all the tv shows my parents, my grandparents and my sis watch whenever I'm home. Its not even their fault, becuase TV's an obvious form of entertainment for them for whatever time they have during the day after all the daily chores. But what's shown on TV is what bothers me.

On the one hand are the  innumerable family soaps, which should be given a "100+ and still alive to watch" rating. I never understand how people even digest the utter crap they show every time, episode after episode. Saasu maas exploiting teenage married bahus, exploiting grandmothers trying to screw a girl child's life, jealous bhabhis mixing pepper in food cooked by the innocent bahus, husbands spying on every move the wife makes outside the house - hatred, envy, vanity, pride, heartache, wham bam damn! Its like every house in TV's tinsel town is trying to plot against every inhabitant in new and innovative ways and somehow burn itself down.

The other end of the spectrum belongs to reality shows like Emotional Atyachar, Splitsvilla, Big Boss, and the likes on Bindaas, MTV, etc. Although I do think they're much more entertaining than the former class of TV shows and much more watchable for pure entertainment purposes, they still only add up to the big black hole of values that could make us a better class of people than we are, or are becoming. By trying to show that all one cares about is sex and money, they not just pass on a wrong message, but also corrupt many impressionable minds out there. The day is not far when people become so comfortable with whats shown that they wont bother when all this happens in real life, so much so that they'll even start doing it themselves. No respect for relationships, shallow mindset revolving around scheming, plotting, and not even thinking twice about right or wrong - all of this is getting branded on every Indian as the years pass by.

Ofcourse we all know what a joke the news channels have made of such a serious subject as news. You would think no1 can screw up something as simple as an omelette, and yet you watch these channels screwing up facts every day. A scientific approach to disseminating the correct information to the masses is the least one would expect of a news channel. Not an indian news channel though. In this age when everyone wants to get away from superstitious beliefs and old, outdated thinking, the channels seem hell bent in bringing it back in fashion!

While Indians are busy trying to recite the last rites for their values and righteousness, the west is exalting every possible possible human emotion by atleast the ways which creative media allow. I've been watching US and British TV shows atleast since the last 6 years now, and even though all of them may not seem too generous on good stuff, atleast more than three quarters convey beautiful messages through each episode. While shows such as OC show how family bonds can help one overcome any kind of trouble in any stage of life, shows like friends, How i met your mother, etc keep the funny bone tickling and yet explore the different facets of friendship, without any stupid negativity coming in the picture. Even superhero shows like Smallville always build the episodes on a theme - love, family, friendship, pride and honour, humility, truth, etc. There are shows that make you laugh, ones that make you cry, and everything in between too. Yet, they have an underlying feel good factor about them, that fails to find parallel in modern Indian entertainment industry. Think about it, when was the last time you actually saw something on indian TV, other than a politician accepting a briefcase full of bribe, that actually gave you goosebumps and made you think?

Creativity, too, seems like a forgotten art when it comes to Indian TV. All I can see in the name of creativity these days is - some very lame stand up comedy shows, and some very very lame news headlines ("Indian Cow kidnapped by Alien spaceship"). I miss the good shows - Banegi apni baat, Just mohobbat, dil kya chahta hai, special squad, khichdi, sarabhai vs. sarabhai, and so many others before these. They were atleast light hearted takes on different situations in life, and more closer to reality than the current crop of shows.

My point, after all this ranting is, that the west is generally growing happier and more positive in its outlook. People genuinely take interest in the life they live, and not just stuff they have to do everyday. With the global churn and changing landscape, India is growing more powerful, but with each step ahead, Indians are losing it, on all levels of humanity. I dont know the last time when I met a stranger in this country and noted some genuine compassion. I have, in all my innumerable visits abroad, atleast found much warmer handshakes, hugs and eye contact. For Indians, the whole world can go to hell. Its my friggin world and I dont care what anyone's doing, its my friggin road and I can drive wherever I want, its my frigging piss and I can dispose it off wherever it's clean enough to do so, its my frigging govt. and I can earn as much money as I desire, by any means possible. What a shallow race we have become. And I blame the media and entertainment industry in part, for whatever small amount of recurring damage it has been doing since the last 10 years. I hope we can get our act together and, if nothing else, atleast play the Incredible Indian in a credible way - because when this country goes into a huge financial recession, or a nuclear war, all the vain vanity will bury its head in the ground, and all that will be left will be an ass to kick.

The House That Built You

It seemed like the clock was suddenly moving in reverse motion. Amidst the yellow fall leaves in the backyard, he stood and looked at what seemed like a different age, a different time, and a different him. As he inched forward, his feet seemed to awaken a thousand fallen leaves from their slumber. The gate had creaked open this time though, and the grass stood a tad taller than it used to. The sunlight sieving through the trees looked faded, just like everything else about the place. The house that stood in front of him, that he'd once called home, now stood amidst overgrown bushes, like an old painting slowly draining off its colour, just like his cheeks that flushed bright red, and his hair that once shone dark black.

He looked at the dark wooden door with the number plate - 13,  still intact, as if some strange power had preserved the sheen through all these years. The number spelt doom for most people, the unlucky 13. And yet, for him, it was an inseperable part of his life, in almost everything he did. He turned the doorknob slowly, knowing and yet not knowing, what beholds him. With the stale air that rushed out through the small crack in the door, rushed in memories of his childhood, memories of the times when life was as simple as the cricket game every evening.

If you could drink the water while the river is still bluewhile the winds still fresh and the soul still new
you'd give anything to see your reflection
in the myriad memories of the house that built you.

He was only 5 when he'd come here for the first time, too young to care where he was, how his life will be, and what he's gonna make out if it all when he grows old. The hand that was writing the book of his life was still warming up with a cup of coffee, and was in no mood to twist the story in unsuspecting turns. Life was good - the only thing that mattered was how to finish off the boss in the new video game he'd started playing. Cricket was always compulsory - whether played or watched on TV, and studies were a no-brainer. Dressing up was a trivial task and talking to a girl was never about getting her to have coffee with you. The world was white, the world was black.


The carpet has little footprints from the little white shoe,
The room upstairs where you did your homework smells of mildew.
Buried under the cobwebs and the dust of ages,
all you want to take back are memories from the house that built you.

He made his way across the hall and noticed the old clock that chimed every hour, still looked fresh and ready to sing. He found the old drawing books he used to paint mickey and donald duck in different poses, and got a glimpse of his first signature in them. He'd once thought he'd become an artist when he grew older. How naive was he to think that way, how confused too. The old wooden table with his name etched on it reminded him of the long sickness he went through, and how this table had doubled up into a dining touble as well as activity center when he was too weak to get up from the bed. He felt a strange connection to everything around him, as if everything was still trying to call out to him, in some inaudible frequency range, reminding him of the olden days. The diary where he wrote his first stupid poems and strange things looked as if it were scribbled only a while ago, and yet he knew that it had been abandoned a long long time back. He had grown out of these diaries. He had a blog now, something that made him feel part of society, and something that increased the number of results google showed on his name. Identities that were once made with school id cards with stamp size pics had ceased to be acceptable as genuine proofs, ever since characters had started to be built on the internet.

Problems were more but the worries were few
For a change there was no payment ever due
Listen closely and you might still hear the sound
of an innocent, hearty laugh in the bricks of the house the built you.

He found his cricket bats and wickets still neatly stacked together, and suddenly found himself in the middle of the makeshift playground, running after the bowl, trying in vain to save yet another boundary. "Why can't you run faster?", was the usual rhetoric, with which even God seemed to agree with a sideways smirk. Another day, the sky in shades of pink and orange, and yet another bowl delivered full length to the bulky batsman. The red bowl was hit hard, a bit flighty, and he was at mid-on. This time, he told himself, this time he'll prove it to them what a great fielder he is. This time, they will respect him. This time, he will catch the red bowl coming on at 100 kph and make them proud. The bowl came straight to his face and he put his left hand in front of it just in time. It hit him too hard, a loud thud followed and he found himself back - staring at the old bat, looking at his hand that thankfully didn't have to bear a life long burden of his daredevilry.

Buried in the old playground, your innocence lies
Where the wind still whispers to the old swings, sweet lullabies
To have wings and gamble to win, was but an innocent lesson that upon you grew,
as you moved away from the house that built you

He had come here after all these years not for an annual inspection though. He had a higher purpose. After all these years of wandering, trying to realize his childhood dreams, he knew he had outgrown his childhood itself, too early, too fast. He thought the touch of all these memories will heal the void in his heart, will let him dream again just like he used to, and make him see his future in technicolour hues. He was someone else outside, but here in the house that built him, he was what he was, and was always meant to be. He looked at his old casio and wondered where the melody has suddenly disappeared in everybody's lives. Did fate, or God, upload it on youtube, while trying to give it a try? He saw his old piggy bank, and it was still heavy with all the coins he'd collected over time. Only now the futility  of the whole exercise struck him. Wouldn't it be so much better if we were to save our souls, our happiness, in bits and pieces, so that we could only find the treasure later when we needed it? As he looked around, he saw memories, glimpses of his past, scattered all over the place. Its going to be a long, fulfilling day, he thought. And as the summer sun cast familiar shadows around the house, he felt himself slipping back into time.

He had built his own house today, yet he never felt more at home than he felt in the house that built him.

Trying hard to hold on to the yesteryears, as time writes a premature eulogy
don't let the grip loosen on your life's symphony
Dancing with the hubris of your desires for too long if you do
just think of the simple times in the house that built you.

Painted in concrete...

 

Painted boat upon a painted sea,

coz your life's all concrete.

It once bore you to the shore,

and waited till you didn't care for it anymore.

The waves that licked the strings,

did not wait for the tide to turn.

They carried it away and afar,

while you roamed about in a shiny car.

The waves are still in spite,

yet the boat would still fight.

Until the wall around you breaks,

and the earth around you shakes.

Will you swim the fiery sea

And reclaim your life while its still twilight?

Or will your life forever be concrete -

only a painted boat upon a painted sea?

You Raise Me up

You raise me up so I can stand on mountains
You raise me up to walk on stormy seas
I am strong when I am on your shoulders
You raise me up to more than I can be

I dont know when was the last time I truly felt this about someone in my life apart from God, ever since the time I went away from my grandparents and came to Delhi. I was barely 14 - left at my own to sail through the murky waters of life - without anyone to raise me up. And today when I look back, the very bonds that make a person who he is and raise him to become what he does - look all broken to me. A big question mark hangs when I try to recall parents, friends, relatives...

I'm sure it wasnt me who went wrong. I was only seeking something that this world wasnt ready to give - love. I've taken care of myself all this while - raising myself up on just one thing - an undying faith in love. But I'm so tired now of keeping undying faith in a dying commodity - my shoulders are so weak, that i wish someone were here to raise me up for a change.

What happened to us? Why did we all become so stone hearted? Why is all the love ( love not just between lovers, but in every sense of the wor(l)d ) out there busy playing ostrich - so afraid to stick its neck out and always afraid of being beaten back down?

Will anyone today say -
ab jaan lut jaaye
ye jahaan lut jaaye
sang pyaar rahe
main rahu na rahu...

Bah! Humbug.... love isnt worth dying for

One last question - what do all the above pics mean to you?

Average is the best...

I was wondering if pursuit of the best- every time and for every other thing - is really the best thing to do. All my life, I've done exactly that - and the life that I live today is a testimony of how good or bad it has been. Ensconsed in a degree from a premier university and a job at a reputed MNC, I can safely look back and think about how things couldve ended differently, still without the guts to have done things differently! But what when you sacrifice your childhood, your teenage to make a brighter adulthood, which again ur'e gonna be spending on making a better future? Its a struggle for the best, where best = struggle for the best. Nice infinite loop, but seems like we(atleast some of us) really enjoy getting sucked into it. Now I feel so regretful because everything has turned out horribly wrong, and there's nobody else to blame but myself.So i guess i'm just thinking about being an average for a while.

I, for most part of my life, have never known being average i guess, except in sports of all kinds. In junior school, I was the best debator & elocutor, best singer, best student, best writer, best friend to many... and the list goes on. Strangely, I never ran after being best at these. I guess I got lucky. Things changed when I shifted base to my parents' place in Delhi. I sudddenly found myself an average guy in a new school, in a new city which was completely alien to me. It was tough to find a place and respect among the new people. It was suffocating to live like this - with everyone around, including your parents, after your life. I guess this is where I started fighting for my place - started striving for the best.

New school and 'home' somehow started to have a bad influence on me - the best debator began to stutter, the best singer lost his voice and sense of music, the best student began to forget his lessons, the best writer just went into hibernation, and the best friend to many was left without a friend to boot. Yet two things survived in me - love and the ability to laugh at myself, and a lot of it.

What started as a mission to leave home turned into preparing for the hallowed IITs (i'd heard they had hostels!) - another race for the best. Fortunately or unfortunately, I got through. Four years of hell further beat up the best in me and tried their best to carve out the average. There were no friends - only competitors. Racing for the best was not a choice, but the only option. But this wasn't the one I was gonna win easily. The average me slowly but steadily took more control. I had long lost the bests in me I had had during junior school years. The other two things that had survived till then also started falling apart. Laughing at myself no longer remained an ability when everyone else was already laughing at me. My idealistic concepts of love and friendship were bludgeoned by somebody I thought was my best friend. Self esteem just ambled away too i guess. And now i dont know if i'm even capable of loving. Getting an average job and average CGPA in the end was just the icing on the average cake.

Coming this far, I really feel average is better than the best, except when the former comes after a desperate race for the latter. I'd have been a much better person had I always been average. So what exactly is the 'average' that I talk about here?

Average is the person who doesnt have the biggest of brains, and thats why uses his heart more often.


Average is the student who knows his literature, but isn't obsessed with it.


Average is the employee who works long hours, but doesnt forget to live his life.

Average is the one who can get away doing what he wants and not what should be, because people are not expecting much of him anyways.


Average is the friend who'll pray for your success and watch your back, but wont be around you all the time to take implicit credit.


Average is the lover who'll love without expecting love in return.


Average are the parents who'll do everything they can so that their children could have a life they never could.


Average is the person who gives his best shot and lives for the present, without worrying too much about the result.


Average is the Sid in you and me who hasn't woken up yet.

Maybe I wouldnt have had as well paying a job as I have now (and i'm not saying this one pays well). Maybe I wouldnt have had a degree from IIT. But maybe, I'd have been happier. Maybe, I'd speak clearly, and be able to sing well. Maybe I'd have been laughing along with a bunch of close friends tonight. Maybe I'd have known unconditional love. Maybe I'd have smiled more often. Maybe...

Twenty Ten is here...

Ever since I wrote the "I return to blogger post", it seems like the starting credits of my sequel are still running... And it took me quite some time to realize this!! :)

But hey whatever, there's no better excuse to start afresh than a brand new year. So whats the big deal about new years' anyways? Why is it so hyped all over the world, and maybe in some distant planet(or 'pandora') we dont yet know about !! Yes its like a fancy date I agree... 01/01 followed by a pair of new numbers. But apart from the fact that the 12 pages of the gud ol' Roman calendar get exhausted on this day, I dont see anything worth harping about.

Lets rewind a bit, and try to figure out what made Dec 31 the last day of the year, and what made January cheekily follow it. From what I remember of my history lessons at school, seems like a few Roman emperors had some personal rivalry with a month called February. So Julius Caesar removed one day from it and added to July, while Augustus removed another and added it to August. Poor ol' February thus has to do with 2 days less for 3 years until it leaps to party with a bonus day the fourth year. And july and august stupidly broke the harmonic alternate 30, 31 day series just for pride and glory. Doesnt it make one wonder, then, why January! Lemme explain... Jesus Christ, born on 25th was 'circumcised' on the 8th day ie. Jan 1. And how could such a big event go without celebrations... so they called it the beginning of the New Year and "feast of circumcision" (Why anyone would wanna celebrate such a thing is beyond me... and yet we all do now!!). The romans apparently celebrated their new year in March, when Julius Caesar thought of doing something new in his free time when he'd gotten bored of all the dames and announced "Fuck you all, from now we will celebrate New Years' on January 1. And the calendar will be called 'Julian' calendar". Romans had no option but to oblige...

Traditionally, it was thought that one could affect the luck they would have throughout the coming year by what they did or ate on the first day of the year. So why do we celebrate it these days drinking like a fish into the wee hours of the morning? (Scratching head... oops...2 hair strands come out :( .. ). Another theory that makes me laugh is - "It was once believed that the first visitor on New Year's Day would bring either good luck or bad luck the rest of the year. It was particularly lucky if that visitor happened to be a tall dark-haired man." Talk of a patriarchal society and gender bias. Wouldnt it be so much better if the first one to visit you on a new year's day were a tall, fair, wavy-haired, light eyed, pouty lipped, busty brunette??!! And i'm sure this would work even for the girls out there :P

Another thing that tickles me is the concept of resolutions. Why would we want to chose one day as the day when we decide what we're especially NOT gonna do the whole year? Talk of showing the middle finger to a mirror? My new year reso is to think about a good reso for the next year. Whats yours? :P

Anyway on a more personal front, I dont remember doing anything special on new years'... something that'll bring me luck or whatever. I mean i was so stoned that I couldve been easily grinding with some random babe who couldve been equally drunk and fantasizing about another babe. Does this qualify as something that'll bring me luck?!! Or does that mean this is what i'll be doing most part of the year? Well well... now we're talking :)

After all that hype about Twenty 20's though, I'm glad that Twenty-10 is here for a change !!

Once bitten, twice shy... not anymore...!

After a long hiatus and long hours of deliberation to decide the fate of my sanctuary, i'm finally back. Not that anyone was really waiting with bated breath for the floodgates to open, but whatever.

Although I havent really written anything since my last post (i'm not into not posting my writings), a lot of things have changed. And whatever I've written has been for some objective, or for some premeditated reason - so unlike blogging, which is writing down one's whims, one's fancy and all that jazz that cant be explained by reasoning. Writing as a tech editor for the recently launched NOW Magazine will never give the creative satisfaction that blogging could give. And yet its not for creative satisfaction alone that i used to or will blog. There were so many things this place gave me that nobody else could. It opened me up as a person, and taught me to lay myself bare to all and sundry, without worrying too much about the reactions. It feels like I'd improved and reached a pinnacle in my writing skills with blogging- which culminated as a 6 on 6 in GMAT essays. It gave me new friends - some of the best people i've ever known. And it gave me a patient ear when there was no1 else who'd listen - and just a mention of this fact can never do enough justice to it.

How can I then just abandon it and leave it to rot? How could I have even though of pushing the delete button? Even though I dont have much or almost no time in my posession, I wanna keep this place alive with all that I have to give. I dont know what the future will be like, and something tells me I'm gonna need this place real bad some day.

I'm out of college and there's a whole new world is waiting out there with a whole new bunch of experiences - in different cities, under different skies. All of it worth capturing in my journal, my blog - coz if tomorrow never comes, I dont wanna be swept away into unwritten pages of history... Atleast some1 will live on to tell my story, and maybe even say the things that I never could n never would!!

EIGHT POINT SOMEONE- PART 2

(Note: Reader discretion required. This post contains explicit content and is strictly not permitted for the weak-hearted.)
It was after quite a long hiatus that I'd dressed up in proper formals, having missed the placement season due to my fortunate PPO. The whites and the blacks were good to wear for a change, but they reminded me of the dreadful ragging days, and of what had happened on my second day at IITR, way back in freshmen year.

Circa July 2005. Although there had been no official declaration, word was out that seniors had given out clear instruction- we were supposed to dress up in white shirt, black trousers, black shoes, no belts and that we couldn't carry any bags. People seemed to be a terrified lot, but I was chilled out about it, with a bring-it-on attitude up my sleeve. I didnt have everything upto the senior's specifications, so I picked up a white t-shirt, black trousers and sports shoes. So did many other people. Not because of fear, but just because nobody wanted to risk getting ragged. After sitting(umm...sleeping actually) through four lectures, I had no clue what lay in store for me when I was ambushed by two 'seniors' on bicycles ( a luxury we were not supposed to have for the first two months). I emphasize 'seniors' here because both of them were inches shorter than me, and I could've ripped them both apart with just 1 blow( well...thats what i'd like to believe atleast!!!). I looked around for some support among my batchmates who'd solmenly vowed to stand by each other whenever evil would befall. But here I was in the middle of the most tragic situation that could have hit anyone at that time, and if one didn't call it evil, it would be worse than blasphemy. I noticed how the vows were broken quietly and evry1 just vanished into thin air, just like they show in the movies. So here I was flouting the norms set by the seniors, surrounded by the lawmakers themselves. Without so much as a reading of my fundamental rights (and lefts), I was handcuffed(ahem...thats just to add to the drama), and taken into one of the hostels in which a freshman would find himself if and only if he was being ragged.

As I was dragged along the corridors of power (duh!), I noticed how spitefully the seniors lived. Narrow alleys with dim lighting and paint wearing off in patches, there wasnt even room enough for two people to walk together. Everything was strangely painted green- the windows, doors, almirahs, etc etc. What was more noticeable was the presence of a first yearite in almost every room. And with most of them down to there undies, the scene wasn't very pleasant. My dislinking was only magnified by the anticipation of what I was going to face in one such room. My wait wasn't long though, as I was ushered into a room where some negro from South india was already lurking, being ragged. Thankfully he had all the clothes on, or I'd have had nightmares every night. He seemed to be in a particularly jovial mood, as if he were enjoying everything that the seniors had been making him do. It gave me a ray of hope- the thought that i was soon gonna be let off mildly. It started with the usual song and dance routine. They asked me to sing some crazy song and the negro to dance on it. They didnt like it much though, so they stuffed two newspaper balls into the negro's tshirt, to make it seem like a girl was dancing. I was repelled at the sight of a negro being converted to a negress. It was only worse, and yet the idiot went on and humoured the seniors-changing his steps to suit that of a girl. I was happy with singing though when the seniors smugly suggested that I should take some advantage of the 'girl' dancing to my tunes. I acted confused, but they only made it more explicit- I was supposed to press the "imaginary breasts" and the 'girl' was supposed to act orgasmic (ewwww!!!! ). I did what they asked me, thankful only for I wasn't in the position of the 'negress'. They asked us some silly questions after that, and just when I thought I had my share of ragging and twas soon gonna be over, the two seniors who'd brought me in took me to another room.

A final yearite sat there squatted on his bed, with 2-3 sycophant third yearites around him, and right across stood this guy who had nothing on apart from a skimpy blue underwear. (Yes, blue. I remember distinctly!! :P ). Henceforth the guy will be referred to as 'muski'. The senior took an instant disliking to my tshirt and I was made to take it off. Well so much for decency. The two of us(me and muski) were then asked to recite as many curses as we could. I managed two, while muski could only manage a "gaali dena gandi baat hoti hai"!!! The seniors laughed, and so did muski. Now laughing while ragging in local parlance was known as 'muski', and there was an elaborate ritual for anybody who dared to do so- a ritual which was as obscenely funny as it was difficult. So that was it, 'muski' made a 'muski' and he had to pay for price. Ofcourse since he didnt know how to perform the ritual, he took a gud half an hour to learn and perform it. Wasnt all fun for me though, as i was asked to sit like a chair!!! Might sound crazy but yeah, its a real tough posture to maintain for half an hour !! We were then asked questions, and if we got the answers right we could wear one piece of clothing back, or else we'd have to take one off!! I dont remember all questions but there was one which was really absurd- "If your mother and sister lay naked and u had a piece of cloth with u, what would u do?" . I answered- "Tear the cloth in two, and cover both of them!". I was told- the cloth isnt that big, and so I'd to compromise with my vest... I was fortunate to still have my trousers though. I wondered what will happen if muski got the answer wrong!! I was in no mood to go throught that torture!! I held my breath and waited for his answer- but he jus gave out another muski...i was relieved. We were later told the correct answer to the question- "cover ur own eyes with the cloth" (duh!)

The seniors got bored of us after about like an hour and I was told to 'phantom'ise myself. That basically entails wearing one's undie over one's trousers. I was taken into a room where I could 'change'. I did as was ordered, and i looked damn funny. It was embarassing nonetheless. The seniors had a good laugh over it for some time. Muski still stood there makin another zillion muskis. They turned on some porn, and we were asked to enact the scenes!! Ahem...it was a doggy style scene, so we had to play both the guy and the girl's part taking turns. And not just that, we even had to "feel" as if we were actuaylly doing it... so we basically had to mimic the sounds and expressions too!! That was a big torture, esp with my phantom look :P

It was then time for the worst part- the buzzer round!!! We were literally qualining when it was told we'll actually have to do something, which till now was only a part of the legends that we'd heard back at the hostel. We had half a mind of bottling out and running away like chickens. Now, for the uninitiated it will seem a bit weird that i'm acting way too peevishly for another innocuous round of ragging. But then he/she doesnt probably know what the 'buzzer' is. Well, its that part of a man that defines his manhood. Now you getting it? So here we were, with the senior acting as quizmasters and two pitiable freshers with hands on 'buzzers', and not their own, but each others!! ewww!!!! I will forever be grateful to god that i had my trousers on !!! There was no escape- we couldn't afford to not press the buzzers at all, coz the one doing so will be let off. So the first question came in, and we hesitated, looked at each other, in a sort of trustful mistrust- a last cry of mercy. But that was it, I'd had enough and wanted out. So i did the dreaded- pressed the buzzer, and guess what- muski didn't give out so much as an ouch! His silence meant the buzzer hadnt been properly pressed, so i pressed it again.... and once again, silence. For a moment i doubted if at all he 'had' the buzzer.(i doubt it still - when wer'e gud friends!!). I made another go- this time it was a big blow- he couldn't stand on his feet after that....

There were a few more trifles that we'd to engage in after that, but after a period of 4 hours and 2 missed tutorials, we were finally let off. They say the purpose of ragging is to get introduced to seniors. But of all the seniors I've ever met and known at IITR, those that ragged me were never in the picture. Guess they could never even face me out of guilt, or just embarrasment. It wasnt the end of ragging for me though. It ended not until the dean and the director themselves had ragged me. As for poor 'muski', he got christened with that name after that fateful day, and thats what he's called even now. I just hope that his 'buzzer' is still intact though!!

It was different now that I was dressing up for the farewell. The memories seemed so old, and yet were so fresh in my memory. I'm thankful for that day because it taught me how life's gonna be for the next 4 years at IITR, and strengthened me to face it with elan. I'd been through a lot of things, and even as I strained my memory, there was hardly any thing worth remembering. The farewell seemed so futile, and the pics that we took don't mean anything to me.

Its all over and I didn't even turn back as i left the gates of IITR for the last time. Nostalgia seemed to have been asphyxiated by the bruises of time. The leaves of memory had fallen into the whirpool of destiny...

EIGHT POINT SOMEONE- PART 1

(Note: I dont intend to write a journal about my 4 years at IIT. There are only a few things are interesting enough to be told- actually its just one- ragging! The first part of the post is just intended to break the ice. All and sundry about ragging goes in part 2!!)

It was the same old hateful raajma, along with the same boring butterscoth ice cream, which had already melted by the time it was delivered to my seat at the mess. I'd decided to eat at the place that had feeded me for 4 years, and that I loved to hate, on the last day at IIT Roorkee, just for the kicks. As I ate the last piece of the chapati (thats what they called it, though i didnt figure from what angle it looked like one), memories from the very first day came rushing to me.

It was an excruciatingly hot n humid summer day. I was just a boy unprepared to take the reins of my life in my own hands and be dumped in a 'hostel'. A rank of 454 in the hyped up JEE had got me a course in computers at IIT Roorkee. Not bad. Not bad at all. That's how it seemed at that time atleast. It was a long and painful journey to the place which was gonna be my home for the next 4 years. I had never known a tradition much observed in our country before that day. During the last week of June, millions of bhakts (so to say) travel bare-feet to haridwar to fetch 'kaawad' (holy water) right from lord shiva's feet, and bring it back to their homelands before "shivratri". The indian govt., in order to keep its Hindu vote bank happy, shuts down most parts of the highway to give these bhakts a clear passage. Elaborate tents are set up at every mile and free food, water and bedding is provided to these people. So its basically not really a big sacrifice on the part of these 'bhakts' as it seems at first, but only an annual feast, a picnic they'd love to go on year after year. As a result of their devotion to lord shiva and the govt's devotion to them, the roads are closed and earthly mortals like us have to bear the brunt. Consequently, a 5 hour journey turned into a nightmarish 10 hour one. In any case, I thought thats probably the worst I've seen. But then I was goin to enter IITR, and the worst really couldn't have been defined at that time.

A day's work was what it took to clean up the shoddy room that was alloted to me at the hostel. Yet, I was happy that my rank got me the best possible room in IITR, and whats more, it was one of the rare single-seated rooms. I could have some privacy atleast! The room wasn't really what troubled me much though, it was the idea of common bathrooms and toilets that caught my fancy (or ill-fancy). I just couldn;t adjust to the fact that I wouldn;t be able to drop my towel after a nice bath and swerve to some music a la ranbir kanpoor. Weird right? Not really. But then I also had to survive the summers without so much as a proper fan. And i almost fainted in the evening when a swarm of mosquitoes n insects of all shapes and varieties came buzzing by, greeting every part of my body. I didnt know then that this was to become the routine for the months of july- october every year for the next 4 years. Adding to my suffocation was the dust, the bustling crowd of parents and all kinds of weird to-be hostel-mates.

We were all supposed to line up at 9pm outside the hostel for an 'attendance' as if we were in an army school. I was stupid enough to think shorts and sandals were good and comfy in that heat. I was made to run to my room to change them to something more formal, not together, but one by one...coz the warden at the hostel didnt had the habit of telling the rules all at a time, but in spurts!! The 'formalities' - attendance, proper clothes and shoes to the mess, continued for about a month. The attendance, which was kept as an excuse to make sure everyone was back at the hostel at night and was not loitering in some senior's room being ragged, was the first to be flouted. It was followed soon by the attire that one wore to the mess. The shoes gave way to sandals first and chappals next. The trousers gave way to shorts, and students doing so were given an apt term- 'kachchhadhaari'- coined by someone witty enough to do so.

It was only the second day when rumours of ragging had started doing the rounds, and stories of oppression were told in hushed voices, in the evenings when there was nothing else to do...

To be contd...

All (or something) about blogging

(If only life was this simple, and computers could demand a blog post and even suggest a topic...sheesh... though one day thats gonna be possible) ;)

There's something about blogging that has never really caught on with me. It may seem like a bolt-from-blue, and a very random notion as well as a very purposeless post. But thats what its meant to be in the first place. Face it, i have nothing else to do coz there's no electricity and no human company. And it is during contingenies such as these that a man who still hasn't lost his onions takes to ranting on a blog. Here... a lot of you( huh!! who am i talking to in the first place...ok so one or two out of the 3 or 4 readers) might disagree with me, simply because we differ in our motives in writing a blog. I've been through so many blogs, some good, some bad, but there's mostly one thing common- some writers write so that others can know their opinion on an issue or play critic on their poems,while some others write for reasons crazy enough for a mortal to understand. The reason for my blogging my seem to fall in the latter catgory for some of you, but according to me I only write when I wanna talk to sumone and there's no 1 around. Yeah,my dear blog is a very good substitute for real people.

There's another thing that i really miss about my blog when compared to others. I miss having a community of readers who also write blogs and are close friends as well. Something like this could've been possible had the concept of blogging been popular when I was in school. And again, it could've happened if i was in a real "college" with some creative people around, or simply people who could talk sense sometimes atleast. But that wasn't to happen. And that I guess, will never happen!!

IF you've started wondering by now why i'm writing a post comparing my blog or blogging habbits with those of others, I should make it clear that's not what I set out for, though some deviation from the main script is allowed for even the best of the writers, unless one is on the panel of 'Prison Break', or '24'.This is just supposed to be a blog post about blogging... confused? even i am!! :D

Some people blog anything and everything under the sun, right from the time they wake up to the time when they get beaten up by their wives... though making ur partner's assaults on u does have its own advantages. Atleast its a good alternative to the govt's "ghantee bajao" andolan (oops...campaign!!).

Some blogs are like...ahem...i'll let the pic do the honours...


Some just do it to attract attention...


While some others are meant to hide the real identity of their writers and show them in a more desirable light to the blogging world...

On a more serious note, I was wondering if any quality post by anyone among the earthly beings who blog could deserve much attention, even if the writing style or plot is comparable to that of an established writer. And yeah, we should leave out bloggers like Amir Khan, or Amitabh Bachhan, or even "fake IPL player"!! As much as i would like to restrict this discussion of branding to blogs, I can't help think about analogies in other areas. So consider this... if i'm pitted against an engineer from "any other" engineering college in India, and someone has to chose between the two of us, you and I know it very well who it's gonna be!! And the reason- jus coz i'm a cow who luckily got branded with an "IIT" tag on my beautiful buttocks... The same can be said about fragrances and perfumes. Who would even test an unlabbeled or unbranded bottle in a store? People wanna buy perfumes precariuosly named "Paris Hilton" or "SRK" just coz they believe theyr'e buying these celebrities in a bottle. How foolish. Haha. Hey mumma, look what I just bought... "Britney Spears"... The background music goes "maa da ladla...", u know the rest...

But then a blog is also a place where one can be very very creative, and do a lot more than just write. I've tried hard to adopt that skill from some avid blogger's. But I aint no "peter patrelli" from "heroes" who could absorb anybody's powers!! ( Well u have to watch that series to get this line of sarcasm... u can ignore it as a bad joke if u havent already) . In any case, you might've noticed how my blog is slowly moving from emotion-oriented to being reader-oriented, in the fact that what I write now mostly takes a form where my emotions find a voice in more sublime forms. Probably thats coz i figured that its not right to publicise what one feels, coz if one does, then people jump at the opportunity like hungry foxes to take advantage of the naive blogger. Even if that reason isn'y good enough, there's something wrong in opening up oneself to the world... simply put... nobody's interested in one's emotional crap, broken heart, or a lost friend..Trust me, blogging isn't a stress relief kit like the one below ..

I'll end this idotic post here, and I know not much has come out of it... Sorry for wasting so much of ur time, i was already wasted!! :P

I'll end with one question- What if the ten commandments were written on a blog?!! :P

Sapno Se Bhare Naina

Portrush Whiterocks beach was strangely silent. With the silence crept a strange uneasiness in him, maybe only because it made him aware of his own loneliness shrieking, crying and yearning for a prod, almost as if he was in an alien land. He sat in the company of the sea, the bright orange evening clouds and an irish coffee. It had almost become a routine. Routines... that he had so religiously followed all his life, and that now seemed so unimportant. Yet, routines were all that he was surrounded by again. The waves crashed with a thud on the golden sand of the beach, the water retreated and it all went on in an endless, untiring loop. The only difference- the higness or the lowness of the tide. He looked at the sea and felt its magnanimosity and power, and smiled as the thought came to him- how is it that the frickin moon can control the tides of the earth's powerful water bodies... how could it make such a mockery of water's kingdom, and play kingmaker from so far away! Such were the ways of nature. Wer'e measly earthlings... powerful and yet powerless, with our destinies chalked on a higher power's slate. With our voodoo dolls in control of megalomaniac demons who can twist and turn us any way they want to. And however hard we try and squirm to get free, there is no escape, for the world is a matrix running on a laptop with no "esc" key.

The limestone cliffs of the White Rocks stretched from Curran Strand to Dunluce Castle. The grassy knols with little, trembling blades of grass owed everything to the sun and the wind, before whom they bowed every sunrise and every sunset. A routine set quixotically and followed unreasonably. Just like his life. Just like everybodys' lives.

Twilight began to shroud not just his thoughts, but the horizon too. The horizon... where everything seems to meet. Only, it never does. He wondered how many horizons he had set for his life, and how naively he had run after them wishing to arrive there. But isn't it what makes horizons funny- you keep running after them and they'll run faster away from you. They'll elude you no matter how you plan to pursue them. And yet, that's what we mortals do the whole of our lives- run after dreams that never come true. All those times when he thought he did it, the satan laughed in the background on the insipid creature. There was a lot he'd achieved- the world's best degrees from the world's best colleges, a well paying job, and the praise of people around him. Everything tangibly possible to make him feel that the horizon's approaching, but nothing intangible to make everything meet. The best of the times had already gone by, all well spent in achieving, running, proving? Nah. He couldn't have been worse off. He wondered if he'd made the right choices, and yet felt as if he'd never had a choice. It may seem an esoteric notion, but it seemed to him that a new road had began at the end of every other road he'd ever taken. And now it felt as if he'd been cheated, brought back to the very place where he started from. All those times when he thought he was trying to change his destiny, he was just a train which couldn't make any turns unless the tracks turned themselves...

The ocean which had seemed blue-green only a few moments ago, was on fire with the descent of the twilight, with bright red-orange flames. He thought of how everything, and everyone changed colours, as if their insides were hollow and transparent, just a shiny reflective plate. He thought of all those moments when his friends had betrayed him, and those when he'd betrayed his friends. To mimic the ways of the world, to follow the golden rule of doing unto others what other do unto you...that's how everybody lived... that's how he'd decided to live. But it wasn't him. It was somebody else living his life, as he slept behind the veil only to be waken up now by the splashing waves off the rocks of Islay. But could he have lived without the veil? Or died a hundred deaths that could've disabled him forever? It didn't matter now. It'd have been the worth the risk. But he never tried. Bogged down by peoples' insanities and vanities. He'd thought what goes around comes around. But the love he'd given others had never come back, not even in dreams. Fair enough. What about those who were just like him? He'd brushed them aside unflinchingly, egged on by people who he thought loved him, but those who were only trying to change him as they pleased, never giving a thought about what he would want. And so those like him had faded away too, covered their hearts with stones, and shrouded their persons with the proverbial purdah. They'd forgiven him. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe they should never have. He wondered why it was that he could never understand people. Why, even though he knew so many people, he really couldn't see through them. It was hard to locate the flaw. But he knew it wasn't a flaw. He was just born human than many others, but the others made sure he becomes one of them, and he did.

All around me are familiar faces
Worn out faces, worn out places...
Bright and early for their daily races
goin' nowhere, goin' nowhere...

If only he could 'paint a perfect picture' right now, it'd be complete with the golden sands, Shelagh’s Head, the Wishing Arch, Elephant Rock and the Lion’s Paw- headlands of distinguishable forms rising out of the ocean- a cozy bonfire, a couple of friends and her....

And then he thought of her... how much he'd loved her, and how much she'd loved her back... He'd always blamed destiny for taking them to the point of no return. Today he knew it wasn't destiny or the voodoo dolls. It was him. He came this far only to leave her behind. He didn;t find what he sought, and he lost what he had thought he had. He couldn't read what was so explicitly written in the stars. All those times when he'd been at Bunratty castle, he had hated what he wanted to love- those medieval banquets where immaculately dressed couples in ball gowns and tuxedos serenade each other like juliets and romeos. Hated them not for what they were, but because he could never be a part of them. He'd made a hundred pilgrimages to Whitefriar Street Church, asking St. Valentine- or whatever remained of him- to grant him his wishes, his love horizon... and so many times had even ended up cursing love. Everytime he left the place he smiled at what the Church was meant for- 'Seek.Celebrate.Curse.'

He was here, the place he'd always wanted to be... and yet it was just the place and nothing else... It was dark now... the fire in the sea had left a gory ash in its place...

Door hi se saagar jisse har koi maane...
paani hai woh ya ret hai ye kaun jaane...

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Pre P.S: Portrush Whiterocks is located in northern Ireland. Bunratty castle is one of the most popular romantic destinations in Ireland where a medieval style ball is organised every evening. Whitefriar Street Church is the place in Ireland where the remnants of St. Valentine are kept...

P.S: Its been a long tym coming... but i guess i didnt wanna write unless i really had time for it... and now seems like i never will have time !!!

P.S 2: Hope my old readers return...along with new ones ofcourse ;)

P.S 3: Sorry for breaking the dry run with an excruciatingly long post...But thats ma style!! :D

HONEY AND THE MOON

Her silhouette seemed a bit distant as she stood against the divine light that followed her everywhere. Her eyes, like two static balls fixed in their slots, trying hard to take in things she didnt want to see, and yet hiding the emotion, or the absence of it. The effort lay almost exposed through her drooping lids, as she slowly closed and half-opened them, trying to find comfort in her dreamland, which only a few minutes ago, had seemed so promising. Words, she tried to find but failed, as she realised the futility of putting life into alphabets and punctuation, that could never stand up to the emotions that are beyond one's very existence.

As he stood an inch away, he could feel the space between them involved in its own valiant effort to expand, and even though he knew how easily he could supress his enemy, he could see how it had began to dictate its own terms. He looked at her with a heavy sigh, at her reluctancly open eyes. It amazed him how blank they were, when only a few hours ago, they were brimming with such an eclectic mix of emotions. It amazed him how they'd lost their power of expression, when only a few hours ago the smile on her face had seemed such a lame effort compared to the brightly lit up eyes. Her visage, now, was a grim and ineffectual prison to the beauty that lay within, and one that had ceased to be coy - one that had been shot at innumerable times and at innumerable angles by an almost professional photographer that he'd recently found in himself. Looking at her beatific pics had become an obsession that had been his very own panacea in times of distress.

As she looked up for one last time before the lift popped open, the irrepressible urge to feel her lips on his came back like a spasm which refuses to die, even when it has been balmed over a hundred times. Self-restraint had never been her ball game, and this was one of those weak moments when "self" leaves one for its own selfish pursuits. He reached out with just a hand to shake, and as it touched hers the weakness of the moment dropped to an all-time low, and yet the lift door smugly opened its jaws, exposing the intimacy of a sweet act that the society has made out to be a shameful one.

She had never hated farewells upfront, but this time if only she could conjure up some energy, she'd surely be game for a one-on-one, even if team farewell was tagged with team fate. She felt the old laziness returning, and as her hand slipped away from his grip, the daredevilry found itself on the wane. It had not taken a lot of effort to learn the ways of fate, and when it comes to her life, fate had been quite unforgiving. She'd taken the stones hurled at her, along with an occasional flower, without any complains. What she was not used to was something being snatched away from her so cruely. Indeed, fate had changed its ways to magnify the pain, and reduce the moments of happiness to tiny specks on an empty canvas.

As she lost herself in the mirage at the horizon where her past and future met, he caught one last glimpse of her, and for once, he felt contented. The kind of contention that he'd felt when they'd both lost themselves to the pleasant toxicity of vodka. He had still not understood how she'd managed to do the most mundane of tasks- ordering pizza, when the 2 of them were so high that they'd brought the life around them to wonder if there's any worthiness in being sober. Every kiss, then, had seemed like the first time- the pleasure magnified a hundred times and then twisted by lips made wet by alcohol to give the feeling of pure ecstasy, and he'd instantly known how every emotion was as real under the influence as without it. She'd become a small kid, and yet had exuded so much sensuality that he'd found it awfully tough to restrict the free flow of emotions, and even sexual desires. Those eyes circling round the eyeballs, as if trying to hold themselves steady to let the world revolve in lazy circles, only to wake up the next day and find, instead, the fan above her heavy head, doing what her eyes had been doing the last night. TV cameras couldnt have afforded feeling bereft of such magnificience, as they managed to capture those big eyes and the cute sideways grin, that was mostly a result of a small doze of Pinacaolada at Cafe Leopold. That was her 60 second of fame moment, one that he wanted to be part of forever. He had been treated to those seductive eyes, with a viagra-effect again at Bandra bandstand, as he had to expend only a minimal effort to get her swooning over him, with every sound of the sea lashing against the rocks. He had loved to hold her swaying then, her whole body pulsating with happiness, craziness and loveliness, augmented by a few dozes of beer, topped with a blue lagoon. He was missing her, and her childishness, already...

She,meanwhile, had wasted no time in returning her faithfulness and attention to his substitute- a stuffed doggy that had been her birthday gift and whose neck she'd so cruely twisted in some fit of anger, when she'd mistaken it for her real object of affection, and had got so involved that it had taken her some time before she finally figured out her craziness. She lay there now, cuddled up with the doggy, in an effort to make her lover return out of jealousy, knowing pretty well that it won't need a photo-op for him to kno what she's upto behind his back. But then, it started to seem like an empty gesture, and as if the stuffed dog had feelings, she started to feel she's not being faithful to it, cuddling up and yet thinking of someone else, in whose arms she'd found her nights' comfort, and with whose kisses she'd began her mornings pepped. She let go of the dog and lay in emptiness, trying to conjure up the feeling of lying in his lap, with complete contentment and carelessness about the piercing gaze of the dog that lay neglected. Suddenly, the thought of the neglected sweetheart- the doggy made her embrace it all over again, as she caught sight of the christmukkah tree that they'd so lovingly bought and decorated with small silly shiny things. Sigh, how many neglected things will she take care of, without leaving herself in a state of neglect! In this life, she remembered, one must stop one's thoughts if one wishes to remain intact, or guilt, pity and loneliness would take everything, even one from oneself. Her eyes became blank again, but her struggle with her senses went on...

A sweet song played on his ipod...

Don't know why I'm still afraid
If you weren't real I would make you up
now
I wish that I could follow through
I know that your love is true
And deep
As the sea

We're made out of blood and rust
Looking for someone to trust
Without 
A fight
I think that you came too soon
You're the honey and the moon
That lights
Up my night

anything,everything.... for you...

Monday, December 1, 2008[photo courtesy: Nishi's blog]

A life that's hard enough
and a heart thats weak enough
it sometimes doesnt make sense
why they have to exist in a bluff
coz when one's squeezed out of the other
it wouldn't matter why...

To the cussed life its the heart that beats for it
To the lame heart, its the life that oozes out of it
This way they go on for years
trapped in a cauldron
that makes the life dry, and the heart bleed
makin it seem like a comedy of errors

It takes love to come by
for the life to learn to live
and the heart to learn to beat

The heart tells love i'll do everythin you want me to
The life says i wanna be a part of you
and each day they keep falling in love with love all the more
the truce is broken, enemy lines are drawn
to have their own happy endings and rewrite tales of yore

My heart and my life still fight
but when love asks me what I feel,
I say love
When it asks how I know, I say trust
But its never enough
coz I alwaz lose to the showy brilliance of my heart and my life.

Everytime I wanna tell you
That its every little thing you do
that makes me fall in love with you -
There isnt a way I can show you
ever since I've come to know you
And its every little thing you say
that makes my everyday
But there isnt a thing I can point to
maybe its every little thing you do

Its quite a fight to keep one's dreams alive
when the heart and life want to tear it in pieces,
in a million crossroads when there should be none
if only there were signs to show me what direction i should follow.
If i'm so deep in my wounds, maybe i'll be gone tomorrow
hey love, i dont want you to feel my sorrow
It'll be enough if you could pick up the pieces....pieces of me

You wont know my mind my love,
Not that it would ever make a difference
my heart and my life will never surrender
even if you take them away from me
but i promise they'll be with you till the end
they wont let you down

They'll fight for you now, together
with unflinching and undoubtable belief
They'll take you to your happy ending
and if i forget to be there,
i'll watch from afar..
and be glad that more than a part of me
could be a part of what was meant to be...

FALLACY OF A FANTASY...

The sky seems silent today

With its thunder it once ruled

Even the sun looks bigger and bolder

its size only its proximity fooled

The world seems to move along

in lazy circles somewhere in the milky way

Its learnt the art of bluffing the innocent

with one side night and one side day

A world of fantasy makes us reel

hypnotizes us subtly into an innocuous slumber

feeding us with notions of a fake hysteria,a made up history, a promising future;

maybe a small nap for man,  for mankind its been a great plunder...

There's money, name and lots of fame

For the less unfortunate also a lot of shame

The movie seems splendid but they laugh at the director's face

isn't he just another actor in life's great game!!

painting dreams in a golden hue

with rose-tinted glasses and a black canvas

maybe there's more to life than chasing false dreams

or only as many races we can win for a medal of brass

We yearn to make it work,we pretend to live it true

caring not to scratch the surface for even a minute or two;

Moments in the film of life seem so colourful

developed in a room red, why do they all turn blue?

LET GO...

Its the end of the monsoon season ,with the clouds deserting the skies to give way to a sardonically smiling sun, leaving behind a strange "depression", and the beginning of a cruel month-log oppressive heat,as they call it. I sit by my window sill, a silent observer to nature's farewell to the pompous army of wispy white-silver blurbs that had invaded the skies only about a couple of months ago. The trees are bowed, all prepared to shed off the regal green costumes they'd been wearing for the annual play, still lookin fresh, nonetheless like a full grown adult whose just passed the prime of his life. A flock of birds move swiftly across the sky, blocking the rays of the sun intermittently, in a way of strange defiance to its all-pervasiveness. They dont look back, neither do they hesitate for once at the prospect of having to leave a place which was their haven for quite some time now. They just move on ....to another country, another season, another home... seamlessly...

Its a small occurence in the yearly cycle of nature, and yet so significant as to teach one a lesson of how everythin that comes has to go away, sometimes so subtly that this fact becomes hard to sink in. Questions of why and how arise, yet they seem a ruddy rhetoric, coz there exists no answer, no explanation to pacify the ostensible nature of our lives. 

The most powerful man at IBM taught me the most humblest of lesson in a 5- min speech. It was an innocuos and yet pertinent question - "IBM sold off everythin that had taken it years to invent and develop, in a matter of days to save itself from turning into just a name in the golden pages of history. Wasnt it tough to let go?" . The answer made us listen in a wide-eyed astonishment, "Its true that it had taken lots of efforts, and nurturing to develop all those technologies. The biggest opposition to the sell-off were the scientists who'd worked on it for years, for it was their soul and their lives more than their daily bread. It, had, however become impossible to keep it any longer. We could only keep our children if we could watch them wear torn clothes and bang their plates in hunger. We thought it a better option to give them away to someone who could take better care. We had not turned irresponsible, but the responsibility had become the roadblock. So, we decided tolet go. And its never easy to do that. But , at some point you come to realise that you cannot have everything for urself. You visit a hotel, stay in a room and like its furniture, possibly even get addicted to the plasma screen, but then when u check out you dont take all of it with u, and its inadvertent , it comes naturally as the most obvious thing to do. Its the same about so many things in life. Think of those who have to get a part of their body amputated because it has become cancerous. This is letting go. "

"I let go

With no yesterday

Neither a tomorrow

No fantasies of pleasure

No baggage of sorrow

I let go

I have now

And now has me

The coming moment will decide

What the next step will be...

For I'm but an idea upheld

Another idea can also be me

I let go

To be another me!"

-quoted from "http://humorix.20six.co.uk/humorix/art/22750318/I_let_go#comm"

I'm amazed at the way children and dogs have this innate capabilty to let go(not that i'm comparing the two in any way-i'm not a child hater nor a dog lover!! ). They become so attached to people close to them in a very short time, but when those very people go away even for a short time, its convenient for them to forget all about them in a matter of hours or days at worse. They wont hang on to them, and would still smile with a faint recognition if they see them again, only to show that same affection if the countenace is prolonged for some time. I had a cousin in singapore, and we used to go there every summer when she was just 2-3 years old. For the 2 month period that i used to be with her, i was the one to bear her peskiness and the only one she'd look for every morning at the ring of the alarm bell. She used to hug me so hard that it was always tough to say goodbye. She used to cry and miss me for a day , and then again the very next year, she'd be like the 5 second Joe, behaving like she'd never seen me before, leaving me with the daunting task of wooing her again, only to say goodbye again. I met her after a long time a month ago. She has grown up to be a 12 yr old with the typical British accent and attitude. She remembers me, but sadly for me , feels no affection at all. I'm just another acquaintance that her short life had treated her to. For me, its hard to swallow this fact, and yet for her it doesnt make any difference. Same goes with dogs, u live around em for a few days and they'll bow before u...u come again after a year, try to poke them and off goes ur finger(poor u- u'd never realised that the loving dog ever had such sharp canines!!!!).

It takes us more than a tear and a resolve of the greatest degree to let go of anything, or anyone- our possessions tend to take over our very existence - be it the people we love, our dogs and cats (it took one whole song for a certain Jai to make Aditi overcome the loss!!! :P ) , boyfriend/girlfriend, a job, a dream which couldnt be realised, or sometimes, even an obsession!! We hang on to it like a baby does to his bottle of milk. We sit and think about the loss so much that it makes no sense to live at all. And all this, because of our expectations that never cease. From the moment we first get attached to somethin or someone, we start expecting, and then we start expecting those expectations to be fulfilled, which goes on to become a vicious circle which threatens to undermine our very own selfs!! Its not that letting go is something i preach, beacuse i'm the worst person in the world to practice it- and one doesnt preach what one cant practice!! I've always somehow managed to lose everyone who has ever come close to me -and they have somehow managed to fade away swiftly into the depths of time. Be it a friend who has hurt me , or left me high and dry in times of need, a teacher at school who was more than a teacher, a girl who broke my heart, or just somebody who forgot me with time. But i still hold on to the memories, keep believing that someday i'll find them all back, and lead an ideal life- with the people i want. But then there's no such thing as idealism in our prosaic lives. In the end it boils down to god's pencil and the papyrus on which he inscribed the lyrics of our lives. We can do anythin but cannot make God buy an eraser. You may call him a miser but then thats what he is... Whats meant to go, will go...we can ill-afford to miss a glance at whats coming next...watch out!! It might be meteoroid!!! :P

Kabhi kabhi aditi zindagi mein yu hi koi apna lagta hai

kabhi kabhi aditi wo bichhad jaaye to ek sapna lagta hai

to phir koi kaise muskuraaye kaise hasde khush hoke

aur kaise koi sochde everythin's gonna be ok!!!

The day we find the answer to this 'kaise' we'll be truly happy!!! :)