old and new

the pink of the waterlilies has faded whitish in the winter. and the goldfish have grown. there are some new lil white n black ones that will probably turn gold when older. u can tell so by the spots on their skin. Diner has put tables in the sun. and chrysanthemums are all around. but its not really cold this winter. its like a hoax call after last year's 0 degree. and yet sunrise is so late that my mind refuses to wake up despite the phone and psychological alarms that i set. and i now have a friend in office. yet i love raoming aimlessly in the sun. squinting against the warmth. with my hair growing longer n softer around my face. its hardly six months here. and i feel a sense of proprietorship about this place. its so easy now to go to eatopia and eat on the barstools watching random sports on the flatscreen. mountain biking it was yesterday and today waterbikes.

but the potted flowers make me feel nostalgic about the beds in the hostel garden. that riot of colours there in the winter which soothed your mind after the hours of shazam in the lab. the bright yellow and that mass of red poppies. and that running barefoot on the grass. not once have i visited the place since then. part of my mind doesn't want to disturb the memory of the place by a new visit.

the following is a letter started by some friends. If you agree with and support it, please leave your name, location and email id to be used as signature on the letter.


A Complaint against TV & Radio Media

Dear Madam,

We are some citizens of India and the following is our opinion. All of us were disappointed with the attitude of the Indian media in handling the terrorist attacks in Mumbai that started on the 26th of November 2008. The TV channels appeared as selfish, reckless, insensitive profit makers who did not lose any opportunity to make their TRPs soar. We also believe that they put at risk the secrecy of the offensive by the security forces. This was in particular, done by both TV news and Radio channels in the case of the Police and ATS Operation at the CST Railway Station of Bombay and by the TV news channels (specifically reporter Srinivasan Jain from NDTV) in the case of the Operation at Nariman House by the National Security Guards.

Another major issue we have against the media in how they handled this situation, was the way in which most TV channels spread speculations and rumors, without caring for the vulnerability of the viewership at a time of such crisis. Various channels have gone around making claims about the identity of the assailants, about the reasons why our security officials got killed and about the motives behind these attacks without quoting any authority on these issues.

Also the TV news channels did not lose any opportunity at sensationalizing live tragedy. Moreover they competed with each other in the drama that they could attach to the news reporting. Barkha Dutt from NDTV was unbeatable in this regard. Most media reporters were also uneven in their coverage of the attacks. The low profile areas like the CST Railway Station and Cama Hospital were overshadowed by the Taj and Oberoi Hotels though people were getting killed even there.

And we do not see any sense in inviting politicians on TV even while poeple are being killed and to allow them to fight each other in their calculated forecast of what should be said to malign the other and win votebank. In fact also the interviews with Bollywood Celebrities and other Socialites totally unaffected in these attacks were pointless and criminally money minded.

We do in a way hold the Ministry of Information & Broadcasting responsible for such reckless abandon.

In times of such national crisis, we think the Ministry should revoke some of the freedom allowed to the Media at least till the situation or the attack has been brought under control.

Specifically,

1. Cameras and Media reporters should not be allowed near the location of the Offensive because as we all know Terrorists these days carry technologically advanced communication devices and any information leaked out about where and how our Forces are hitting back could be dangerous and fatal.

2. The media should not make statements like "Someone said ......". If the media is reporting a comment made by someone, it should categorically state the name and Organisation of the person who has actually made the comment, probably even play a video of the person saying the exact words. In case the comment/opinion is purely of the employees and reporters of the media channel itself, it should be clearly stated as being so. In this case a disclaimer of the sort : “The findings are based on the media channel's preliminary investigations and are purely speculative in nature. These need not necessarily be true”, must be made.

3. The Ministry should draft out some codes of ethics for the media in cases of such crisis and sensationalism should be strictly discouraged. Politicians/Celebrities should be discouraged from being invited on media at least till the situation is brought under the control of the Security Forces.

We do understand that free media in a democracy is very important, but at the same time we cannot ignore the facts and experiences from past that these media houses sometimes do misuse that freedom for purely business motives and that in cases of crisis this could cost our country, our Security Forces and our people dearly. Our demands for regulation of the media, therefore apply in times of crisis alone.



Thank you,

my google reader has never collected so many unread articles in the past. its as if i read the first line of each in the left hand summary and dismiss them all because they seem to continue their lives as always. as if nothing has happened. the same kind of posts that i liked earlier, seem irrelevant and luxurious in some way. as if they are ranting about their personal lives when some others cant afford to think normally. when for some others their lives may have suddenly been torn apart.

my cousin talks about the england test getting canceled with a lot of regret as if that was the biggest tragedy to come out of it. im sure he is jumping now.

personally i still feel a strong dislike for the city bombay. when i think of living there. when i think of the day i was commuting by a local to college like so many other days, and our train suddenly halted and all of us started cribbing about how important our time was. the reason for the halt was apparently a man who had been crushed underneath us. i think each one of us gave a peak below when we heard that and then the crowd that is the life of the city swiftly raced in another direction to reach the next earliest train on the other platform to get comfortable sitting/standing space.

another day we were waiting for the clock to strike 12 as it was new year's eve. we were in jw marriott and malaika arora was supposed to dance in the first minutes of the new year. there was an entire room to bread and cheese, and another to streams of chocolate flowing over strawberries and cakes. i'm not kidding. i hadn't seen that kind of lavishness before. and there was a bar where barmen shook bottles with strange liquors over your open mouth while people drank and danced like mad. one man on the dance floor got a heart attack. he blacked out. people stopped for a few minutes to clear the way for him. he was taken away and the dancing resumed.

when the word resilience is mentioned after people having died these are the two scenes that i associate the word with. its not anyone's fault. its just the way the place is. it doesn't leave you with a choice of any kind. i've been there and i don't think i ever want to live there again.

there was once when i bought vada pav and frooti and left it next to a man who lay apparently sleeping or unconscious at the marine lines station with some blood near his head. i don't know if he was alive. people stared at me as if i was a lunatic. apparently because the man was in rags anyway.

but what happened this time is not about bombay to me. this is about what happened to people. those people could have been from anywhere. probably the fact that i have had good moments also around that city and that i have spent quite some of my years there, makes this as personal as it could get without losing someone. but for me this has got nothing to do with the symbol of the taj or of south bombay. i hate people talking about it like that. its purely the scale and the impact of the attack on people, on the perception of civilian life that has suddenly changed; that makes all the difference.

Mumbai blood donation and requirements

BLOOD DONATION ALERT: Call 9222221947 to volunteer your blood group.
Families in need will directly contact you by phone when there is a
match. Save a life.

FIND BLOOD DONORS FOR RARE GROUPS: Call 9222221947 and find the
nearest donor for the blood group you are looking for.

http://blog.chaupaati.in/2008/11/28/blood-banks-for-victims-of-mumbai-attacks/
http://mumbaihelp.blogspot.com/

why are people talking of china as if its the next superpower. as if the US has its days numbered what with the financial crisis. and as if its already a bipolar world with china waving as it peacefully rises looking at US go down. incidentally, someone in office cited the chinese opinion on china's peaceful rise with an example of a china man/woman hitting you on the head chanting "china's peaceful rise" if you objected to giving the rise its credit.

what i don't understand is, firstly where do i see signs of the end of the superpower US. so what if theres a bout of recession. secondly, do we forget that no country has ever risen or will rise without substantial global support at least in the beginning? where are china's friends? a meagre pakistan who has become a poor relative begging for assitance or bangladesh and maybe sri lanka? those who can't look beyond their own boundaries because of their internal problems. how can a country be on its way to superpowerdom when global opinion doesnt trust it enough to grant it market economy status as yet? will china be able to gain people on its side with bilaterals? when india and the US both refuse? i am not saying that india matters a lot because its a power itself (for those who love to claim that we indians get happy with lil titbits of acheivements given as alms). but what is important is that india is a regional power in the neighborhood at least and the US is what it is. where is china heading gathering everyone's mistrust as it goes along?

a tired rusted yellow moon. stopped fighting against the darkness of the sky and yet too listless to decide to withdraw. just hanging there. at the mercy of the night. waiting to be finished

both were a little annoyed with each other. i because he was. and as a result his annoyance was wearing off while mine was sharp and fresh. it was time to part for the time being. i thought i could hurt him by an impersonal and cold bye. attempted a mumble without looking at him and headed for the green and yellow rickshaw that was my victory escape. noone heard what he said. he just pulled my hand and the next moment my body lay standing limp against his. every bit of me. there was no defence. i felt him in every strand of myself. noone timed the hug. to me time stopped. it was one of those defining moments. when things obstinately declared their shape and meaning. i didn't utter a word on the way back and my companion who had been witness to the mute scene was too scared to make a sound.

all struggle was pointless after that.

micro-brahmaaan

there were nights in dschool when i would keep myself awake. like a solitary celebration of time on hand. the night after a major hurdle of an exam of sorts. i would rudely shake myself out of any hint of sleep that touched me. it would more often than not begin with some music while i could disturb the human co-habitants. after lights in rooms quit one by one, i would turn to some form of silent entertainment. reading. sometimes simply waxing my limbs leasurely, especially in slightly cold months when i loved warm wax on myself. staring at the moon from my balcony or just the sky from my bed upward. the moon i never tired of. when it showed on that side of the sky that is. and then creeping down to the ground floor to watch tv at 2-3 in the night when the socio-geog buffs finally left it alone. once i remember tired of it all and yet resolute on not sleeping i just slipped between the locked with a wide gap gate that supposedly shut out the terrace to us. and i just sat up, lay down, surrendered to the mosquitoes and nursed my bruises waiting for the sun to rise. and i did manage it. it was like a new beginning. like a maturity crossed. like i was there before the world began.

today i sort of feel like that. like forcing a jagran on my senses. like celebrating this leave i have with such difficulty weedled out of my boss. my boss who has given me a conviction in the soul's survival and rebirth after a body's death. because in no way can he be a one-time creation. nothing can ever produce as debased an output as him. nothing other than, a chain of deterioration.

but a night up cannot be accomodated in this busy schedule. its funny when i was in dschool i thought i had never been as busy as that and never used time better. i still think i was right and yet time flies by now. doing nothing of great value. while the great valued things wait for my laziness to wear off. have to do so much before i see that proof of rebirth again...

a new season here. half the year gone again. how time flies in this place

couldn't smell the champas today with this nose on temporary holiday. the paintings in visual gallery were disappointing. hit a bicycle on my way to work in the morning. and the guy didn't even curse. didn't even glare. just made sure his spokes were all there and pedalled off. knowing very well that i had the right to curse in this case. had my ears blocked in a weird sense because of this cold. made me feel handicapped in a way. and made a real accident on my way back dangerously probable. only to my scared mind. breathed agitation in more than out once more. and felt like last winter was just yesterday. already missing the summer.

to my right, though i couldn't see it cos there were so many cars obstructing view, i knew there was the loud red ball stopping traffic on my part of the street. and to my left, in the night sky was glowing a white ball, seemingly of peace.

diwali will be a moonless night. we will forget this beauty and won't even miss it

a mystery+an argument=an idea

why do magazines and all such weekly/fortnightly publications always come out in future dated issues? iv seen the phenomenon since i probably picked up my first copy of one. and yet today it struck me as really absurd. especially today, when every two hours or even more frequently the world financial scene is updating. i was reading online and there was so much that had happened in the last two days that i felt i had read volumes on it. and then i turned to the physical library and was faced with the choice between the two available mag prints in front of me. an Outlook dated the 13th of october and another dated the 18th of october. for a minute i lost my sense of real time. what was today. and both these had pages dedicated to the financial crisis. old stale news in the date of the future. upset my sense of reality and my value for information. so why do they do it? there has to be a logical reason for this practise.

some people gave me these answers.

one, a competitive market in which each publication wanted to outdo the other in terms of being 'new' in the market, and because unlike newspapers, such publications do not just report news, they dissect it in hindsight; they could afford to talk about past topics till much further into the future. so if you saw a Business World dated the 5th (Di) and another the 7th (Dj) of the same month the consumer mind would possibly be lured to buy the latest mag, even though the stories would be more or less the same in the two and the date of buying (Db) was say the 1st; which also implies that the rational mind knew the date of reporting/writing (Dr/w) couldn't in either be newer than the 31st/30th.

Choice{Di,Dj} = Dj; when j>i even though (Dr/w)for both i&j <= [31 or 30] < Db

the second answer, a more tangible one claims that vendors of such publications have deals with the mags which guarantees buyback of all unsold copies by the publishers. so the farther in future the date of publication is, the more time is available to sell more copies before the date the magazine is declared old, i.e. the date of publication.

reality may be a combination of the above two or of some more marketing strategies. if the weightage of the first reason is substantial, it would be interesting to do a behavioural/empirical human choice study testing perception of newness.

also in case of either of the two above, wouldn't a magazine be competing with another one of its own brand at a different date? so in the first case, the trick would have trickle down effects on the magazine's own 'older' issues (here i talk about 'older' issues that are still in future dates).

and in the second case, wouldnt there come a date earlier than the date of publication printed on a mag (the date when a more futuristic issue of the same mag hit the stands) when it would be declared old? on the other hand if not for this practise (the alternative being an honest declaration of date of publication), probably a mag issue would have remained 'new' till the next (honest dated) issue was out; thus gaining substantial sale time before the publishers were obliged to buy back. wouldn't that be closer to a mechanism in which truth telling was most efficient? but apparently there is an incentive to deviate.

(on cross checking i notice that all Outlook publishing dates are mondays. and yet 18th of october is not a monday. a lapse of my memory i guess yet i remember it so clearly. even the internet doesn't help reconfirm. the issue is/was too futuristic and is not up on the website)

the longest journey

i just read and re-read the most beautiful ramble i've ever come across

"The soul has her own currency. She mints her spiritual coinage and stamps it with the image of some beloved face. With it she pays her debts, with it she reckons, saying, “This man has worth, this man is worthless.” And in time she forgets its origin; it seems to her to be a thing unalterable, divine. But the soul can also have her bankruptcies.
Perhaps she will be the richer in the end. In her agony she learns to reckon clearly. Fair as the coin may have been, it was not accurate; and though she knew it not, there were treasures that it could not buy. The face, however beloved, was mortal, and as liable as the soul herself to err. We do but shift responsibility by making a standard of the dead.
There is, indeed, another coinage that bears on it not man’s image but God’s. It is incorruptible, and the soul may trust it safely; it will serve her beyond the stars. But it cannot give us friends, or the embrace of a lover, or the touch of children, for with our fellow mortals it has no concern. It cannot even give the joys we call trivial – fine weather, the pleasures of meat and drink, bathing and the hot sand afterwards, running, dreamless sleep. Have we learnt the true discipline of a bankruptcy if we turn to such coinage as this? Will it really profit us so much if we save our souls and lose the whole world?"


i cannot attempt to explain it. i could only ruin it. i just wish very often that i had lived in the early 1900s. and to think of the fact that most people think Forster boring. i wish i had known him, held him in my arms just once

125th post

from one moment to the next
i am not the same
and yet i retain enough of me
to recognize myself
and like me too

"'What are you talking about? Of course he was in love with me. D'you think a girl doesn't know when a man's in love with her?'
'Oh I dare say he was in love with you after a fashion. He didn't know any girl so intimately as he knew you. You'd played around together since you were children. He expected himself to be in love with you. He had the normal sexual instinct. It seemed such a natural thing that you should marry. There woudn't have been any practical difference in your relations except that you lived under the same roof and went to bed together.'
Isabel, to some extent mollified, waited for me to go on and, knowing that women are always glad to listen when you discourse upon love, I went on.
'Moralists try to persuade us that the sexual instinct hasn't got so very much to do with love. They're apt to speak of it as if it were an epiphenomenon.'
'What in God's name is that?'
'Well there are psychologists who think that consciousness accompanies brain processes and is determined by them, but doesn't itself exert any influence on them. Something like the reflection of a tree in water; it couldn't exist without the tree, but it doesn't in any way affect the tree. I think it's all stuff and nonsense to say that there can be love without passion; when people say love can endure after passion is dead they're talking of something else, affection, kindliness, community of taste and interest, and habit. Especially habit. Two people can go on having sexual intercourse from habit in just the same way as they grow hungry at the hour they're accustomed to have their meals. Of course there can be desire without love. Desire isn't passion. Desire is the natural consequence of the sexual instinct and it isn't of any more importance than any other function of the human animal. That's why women are foolish to make a song and dance if their husbands have an occasional flutter when the time and the place are propitious.'
'Does that apply only to men?'
I smiled.
'If you insist I'll admit that what is sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose. The only thing to be said against it is that with a man a passing connexion of that sort has no emotional significance, while with a woman it has.'
'It depends on the woman.'
I wasn't going to let myself be interrupted.
'Unless love is passion, it's not love, but something else; and passion thrives not on satisfaction, but on impediment. What d'you suppose Keats meant when he told the lover on his Grecian urn not to grieve? "Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!" Why? Because she was unattainable, and however madly the lover pursued she still eluded him. For they were both imprisoned in the marble of what I suspect was a n indifferent work of art. Your love for Larry and his for you were as simple and natural as the love of Paolo and Francesca or Romeo and Juliet. Fortunately for you it didn't come to a bad end. You made a rich marriage and Larry roamed the world to find out what song the Sirens sang. Passion didn't enter into it.'
'How d'you know?'
'Passion doesn't count the cost. Pascal said that the heart has its reasons that reason takes no account of. If he meant what I think, he meant that when passion siezes the heart it invents reasons that seem not only plausible but conclusive to prove that the world is well lost for love. It convinces you that honour is well sacrificed and that shame is a cheap price to pay. Passion is destructive. It destroyed Antony and Cleopatra, Tristan and Isolde, Parnell and Kitty O'Shea. And if it doesn't destroy it dies. It may be then that one is faced with the desolation of knowing that one has wasted the years of one's life, that one's brought disgrace upon oneself, endured the frightful pang of jealousy, swallowed every bitter mortification, that one's expended all one's tenderness, poured out all the riches of one's soul on a poor drab, a fool, a peg on which one hung one's dreams, who wasn't worth a stick of chewing gum.'
Before I finished this harangue i knew very well that Isabel wasn't paying any attention to me, but was occupied with her own reflections. But her next remark surprised me.
'Do you think Larry is a virgin?'
'My dear, he's thirty-two.'
'I'm certain he is.'
'How can you be?'
'That's the kind of thing a woman knows instinctively.'
'I knew a young man who had a very prosperous career for some years by convincing one beautiful creature after another that he's never had a woman. He said it worked like a charm.'
'I don't care what you say. I believe in my intuition.'
It was growing late, Gray and Isabel were dining with friends, and she had to dress. I had nothing to do, so I walked in the pleasant spring evening up the Boulevard Raspail. I have never believed very much in women's intuition; it fits in too neatly with what they want to believe to persuade me that it is trustworthy; and as I thought of the end of my long talk with Isabel I couldn't help but laugh.
...'"


- Somerset Maugham in The Razor's Edge



i remember quoting the following to someone in a similar context about what I could never settle for even if it was the most natural thing then:

"love is a pretty poor forecaster
passion leads to disaster
it's something else that makes me sure
our bond will last five decades more"

that was Vikram Seth and it had always stuck in my mind as being very sad. like giving up on all your dreams in a way. simply resigning. a huge compromise.
i wanted passion to sweep me away mercilessly...

am i vain or is it self appeasing. it begins with a realisation that i have very few guy friends. in every place that i'v made my home or basically wherever i have stopped in this continuously relocating life of mine, i feel that more than one guy starts falling for me. and it is difficult because these guys who i feel going soft on me, are the ones i would actually have liked to know better and get friendly with. and then soon as i like someone enough to want to be friends with, i get these strangest side glances and unasked for attention and discomfort from them.

i think its actually deeper rooted than that. theres somthing formidable in this small frame of mine that normally has ppl, esp those of the opposite sex maintain a respectful distance with me. don't ask me why. actually i think its these huge scary eyes of mine. i'm serious. they scare me in the mirror sometimes. anyway, wherever the horror appeal; the fear is real. so basically these scared guys treat me like an ice maiden. and then suddenly if i start being nice to someone, or i get revealed to someone as not actually being the snob and tyrant that i resembled; they flip once twice and (pass this off as my imagination or plain exaggeration) they are bowled over. he he he. actually its not so funny. i lose prospective friends. and as there are very few lucky people who get such prospects, eventually i have concluded with a strong belief that i will not make any more new friends in my life. girls? uff. somehow with women i am actually saturated. they just try my patience now. i mean the new ones in my life (and some of the old). thankfully there are some engaged guys i like and can afford to be nice to. and all this actually amounts to my having very few friends in fact. but thats ok i guess. because many old deleted ones i trashed myself and then emptied the recycle bin.

i have been wanting to write something more professional for quite some time. by professional i do not mean in the artistic sense but in the politico-economic sense. because that is what i am working on and have been reading and tracking even beyond work. and yet nothing gets written by me in time. i mean, when i can confidently write about something, usually by then the topic has died a natural death in everybody's minds. or if not that then there are already so many write ups available in the media that mine would look like a cut-copy-paste even if my fingers typed unknowingly. so there. an economist my age. who can't predict too many things. well actually nothing with certainty. has to wait for the journalists for what actually happened. and then i can only comment on a topic after its demise (even that i don't actually do). sometimes then i am jubilant and wistful. theres a sense of "i knew it would turn out like that. only if i had put something down in words."

how do the people who rise begin their flight. i mean how are they confident in their first few stumbling steps. how does a fresh graduate student monitor and handle people working under him/her. i could spend a lifetime without achieving anything great and i can almost prophesy that. without a forecast and without any data. how does a young economist walk through life to finally become a national security advisor? or manmohan singh for that matter. i would have liked to know the PM as a young scholar. where do these people get their conviction from. and what do the people who are not Nashes do? basically what do the 'not-geniuses' do on earth.

"Look, we don't love like flowers
with only one season behind us; when we love,
a sap older than memory rises in our arms. O girl,
it's like this: inside us we haven't loved just some one
in the future, but a fermenting tribe; not just one
child, but fathers, cradled inside us like ruins
of mountains, the dry riverbed
of former mothers, yes, and all that
soundless landscape under its clouded
or clear destiny - girl, all this came before you."




- quoted by ghosh in the hungry tide from Rilke

we have reached such a state of numbness that bomb blasts have become a joke for most of us. the day after is spent amusingly relating tales of whereabouts and how narrowly the bombs missed one. there is a sense of triumph in people who think they could have been but were not killed. there are laughs about who could have planted a bomb in a dustbin and who has an alibi.

till you are one of those still in a hospital either looking at yourself or someone you know.

his nose travels all the way up

life takes me away from my blog sometimes

today after more than a month of living in this house i finally unpacked my last carton of books and clothes (digging out my sketchbook). i don't believe i have been so busy this last month. something this house has done to me. and thankfully it hasnt been work that i can accuse. my life is just jogging faster in the personal lane. people. books and outdoors. and food. thankfully again, for once the people are those that matter.

bombay wasn't so rude to me this time. except the one day when rain and the city coupled together to laugh at me as the locals in those locals squashed my skull making me think for a minute whether it was possible to kill this way.



i felt jubilant i could still be mistaken for a 20 yr old in college and that listlessness of hanging around campus felt like these years in between never happened. and i discovered things about the city. things that were an arm's reach away on my daily mundane route when i lived there but for which i had never bothered to get time.







sometimes you suddenly realise that you have just dropped 2-3 more days into that piggybank of life called 'happy days'. and that no matter what, this is yours forever.

we won the trust vote. and i'v been jumping around the house, clapping my hands. and then they played the vande mataram in parliament. and mom reprimanded me for not knowing the lyrics beyond "vande mataram ...". anyway they are fighting now i think with the amount of noise coming into my room. long live indian politics. yipppppeeeeeeeee!!!

if either i'm rich or you are and you decide to stay with me, we will have a pond and a big bell

two days back i learnt these weren't lotuses (billi doesn't agree with the plural of the flower). but water lilies. my learning could be wrong but my world crashed at that minute. dont know why some of these things matter so much. as if my ecstasy on having seen so many lotuses at once in bloom, had been cheated. and they do seem to bloom in the night and close in again by noon (billi needs a mention here again. she was right). anyway the pink(ness) takes my breath away. especially in the night. with the dark leaves and glistening water for background. here i tried catching them early morning before getting into office. the sun is a little bright and someplaces the pink fades in its light...

I can’t put my finger on it. And i can’t describe it in words. And yet its there to calmly sadden me. Like a passing cloud blocking light. Stopping time. To slowly pour over me some little far away tragedy. Disconnected with me. Yet causing my eyes to brim over and my heart to want to weep. And then just loneliness remains. No one seems near enough. Not even the voice in the ear. And injustice is felt and hurts. and a vehement cry escapes, as silent as can be to you.

again

anticipation. creates ripples under my skin. stirs the waters of my soul. and prods lazing emotions. feelings that had reconciled to their incumbent nature. to their acceptance and to their eternity. that had lost their newness. suddenly seem green and smell of mornings. bringing with them the shiver down the spine. the smiling hug to myself.

nothing beats a nice house. a nice house with a small room all to you. and a must-have, an attached, even if little, bathroom. where the pot in the morning is just as you left it last night. the seat is exactly down or up as you prefer. and spotless and dry. so is the floor so you can amble around barefoot. with a small window that shows you the world while it cant see you crapping. and that gives you the morning light to read while doing your job. if i made bathrooms i'd install a waterproof bookshelf in each. and noone else to bathe after you and noone to bathe twice so to leave evrything dry the rest of the day. the room now, has got to have more than one large window and a small private balcony. and if there is ample distance between your nice house and the neighbours', even better. and no, the first floor is not the best. i prefer being higher, as high as possible. to feel like you are sitting on an island in the air, with your blue balcony curtain blowing and the outdoor green and grey peeping through these curtain movements. while the tirelessly talkative birds chirp on.

there's no better sunday than one in a nice house yours (for the time being). in my first few days here i had to make it rudely clear to the mynah couple that they couldnt take my bathroom window for a house. i hadn't imagined those little birds could be so fearless when it came to protecting their (under construction) home. instead of flying off at the littlest tap from the inside of the window the bird kept pecking in at the gap in the open net to figure the source of the effort at their eviction. so bold that i got goosebumps. and after the last twig and dried strand of grass had fallen, i saw them staring at the wreck in anger and disbelief. i felt so devilish and mean and guilty. now they happily and noisily reside in the (unoccupied) bathroom wondow opposite mine. even now my fight for occupation continues as a small hive outside my big window slowly usurps space as the yellow winged things weave it. and yet i smile when opening my window in the morning as the cool air touches my face, relishing it while i can.

while i'm all for not cutting trees, i go bonkers over great wood furniture. i have this fetish for deep dark wooden brown with lighter shades colouring the edges of the depths, and providing the base for those numerous veins and lines to show. contrast it with some bright yellowish cane. put everything else out of reach out of sight. and out of the dust. just let the furniture show bare and clothed in their own colour. yeah maybe with just a sheet on the bed, curtains and bright soft cushions from fabindia!

(have been reading a borrowed book: 'urdu ki behtariin shayari')

iqbal -

"gesu-e-taabdaar1 ko aur bhi taabdaar kar
hosho-khirad2 shikaar kar kalbo-nazar3 shikaar kar

ishq bhi ho hijaab4 mein, husn bhi ho hijaab mein
ya to khud aashkaar5 ho ya mujhe aashkaar kar

tu hai muhite-bekaraan6, mein hun zaraa si aabe-ju7
ya mujhe humkinaar8 kar, ya mujhe bekinaar9 kar

baage-bahisht se mujhe hukme-safar diya thha kyun
kaare-jahan10 daraaz11 hai ab mera intezaar kar

roze-hisaab12 jab mera pesh ho daftare-amal13
aap bhi sharmsaar ho mujhko bhi sharmsaar kar"

1 chamkeele kesh, 2 buddhi, 3 mann, 4 parde mein, 5 prakat, 6 athhah saagar, 7 chhoti nadi, 8 apne se mila le, 9 bekinaaraa, 10 sansaar ka kaam, 11 lambaa, 12 karmon ka pothaa, 13 judgement day

alone surrounded

i'm becoming this recluse in delhi. with none of my very few friends around and working in a place where i dont seem to fit in with the people. no wonder, when the skies suddenly cast grey outside the windows, evryone but me in office is away from their desks. max i can do is open my google reader. that is if i havent been buried under work from my boss. but i do enjoy overworking these days. except looking for data. bhagwan mil jaata hai dhoondne se but data nahin milta. anyway i wasnt intending to talk about work. i meant to talk about my daily crossing of the road from where my dad drops me every morning, with indian curious eyes following me about. while i stare at this isolated forgotten house across the road from the habitat. every day. something like the front door seems to be half open or missing. and yet there is a permanent lock on the gate. and cars and trucks not meaning to move park in front of it. even some windows show the darkness inside. you would think any house meaning to be left shut like this would be at least sealed in some manner. esp like this ideal house anyone could want. with land around it on all four sides as if real estate rates around this area have overlooked this piece. and the wilderness has taken claim. so many days i stop myself from jumping across the low boundary wall on one side and exploring the place. so often i just look at the contrast in the lawns on the two sides of the wall that seperates it from the mausam bhavan. and these days, after dalrymple's writing has made me feel like a reincarnation living in the ghost city of my last life; i wonder who lived here and when. and why is it so forgotten. to be interrupted rudely by a scream from a peacock out of sight. i strain to locate it but it chooses not to reveal. and then i'm back into present day dodging one car after another. its become a ritual to ring the bell as i enter the habitat. i push it with a practised ease, feeling the carving in the wood touching my fingers. lets forget the hours spent in front of my desk for now. they are totally alien when i read the names of the trees in chinmaya. i never noticed the little globules in the old gurudatta till i noticed it was called that and also goolar. and the board on the islamic center building with the initials of the new delhi municipal corp (or the town planning?) commission in hindi. which if read aloud just as written sounds like some raaga going na-di-na-pa-pari. its so true that when you are alone you suddenly become like this receptor. im not sure if that word explains it. what i mean is you suddenly become like this observer and receiver of the littlest words, signs, objects, gestures, manners, almost evrything that this melee of people and the world around you are upto. you overhear snippets of conversation not meant for your ears and smile or even laugh sometimes on the typical nature and predictability of people. you pick up champas fallen on the ground and wonder if its the right name or whether gulchini like your mom says is correct. i even observe people and classify them into types. and then i go to do the little ignored corner bookhouse inside eatopia a favour, by looking at its books. and i find the yellow pages almost amusing and sad at the same time. together with the discounts on them. and sometimes i sit uncomfortably alone in this crowd of loud buzzing people and try and locate others like me. before getting a secluded table where i wont be stared at for eating alone. its an obvious non practise here. and then i roam around art galleries talking to myself about how anyone could call some of these pieces art. and wondering if my life could ever have taken a course in this direction.

sometimes i just love the english language. when it lets u argue with your elders like they were your equals. it reduces them to a simple equating 'you'. no fuss. no unnecessary respect. when they talk shit. actually always. but its specially helpful when you want to gesture at them and prove them ridiculous. its a little difficult to do in hindi what with the trimmings of 'aap' and respect. an angry 'you' sounds desrespectful in some way and yet you can't be blamed for crossing the line.

what the hell is going on in this world? read this

i thought baha'is were totally harmless. what else can you say about a community that has never fretted to get attention in this communally vibrant country, other than to build another beautiful structure in the capital

climate change

its an unusual delhi this month. the old govt buildings look soaked and wet from their terraces downward. you can see their walls drinking in the water. the rain has been beating down on the Mausam Bhavan incessantly for the last day and a half. probably they saw those clouds coming from there. coz even after a whole month of rythmic rain every 2-3 days, we suddenly believe and give credit to the MET deptt's claim that monsoon would hit delhi yday; that it was now high time we let those notorious winds claim ownership of the attacks. so the MET apparently foresaw correctly for the first time, in its life(?)
and now even delhiites who aren't really used to carrying rain protection, can boast of soaked shirts in office just like the island city of our country so proud of each of its catastrophes? but here not all workplaces happily spend the first hour in the morning discussing their flood feats. notice, i say not all. the place where i worked just for a day, did exactly that. though that was much before the MET saw the homogeneity (what did they mean by that?) in the grey clouds from the terrace of Mausam Bhavan.
also, though the climate is definitely changing, its showing signs of cooling down, what with the long winter and brief sunburn we had this year. what happened to the political essays around global warming? looks like the heavens after all set an effective thermostat within the core, foreseeing the evolution of the apes. the kooking koyal that surprised us at our workdesks today seemed to agree. so did the mongoose around here today

i bumped into someone who is a native of, and is even now maybe traveling toward where i once lived. funny thought but talking to him gave me a funny feeling ... like the world that is dead for me actually survives. and thrives. people have moved forward from what i knew them to be. that part of my life which i chose to erase from memory except the beauty of the place, actually breathes and grows. and to top it, this guy seemed to remmber having met my dad when i mentioned his name. making him an unavoidable connection between - me there & the place now

there is something wrong with this world
something wrong in the anger of a human mind when just at that moment a peacock and hen call out to each other under the grey sky
something wrong in human mistrust when the cock flies toward the hen's call
something wrong in greed when the amaltas litters its yellowness so carelessly
something wrong in self pity when the world is so beautiful all around
something terribly wrong in tears when the skies threaten to pour

people suddenly sober down and apologise when they hear of someone's parents' seperation. there is sudenly an excess supply of sympathy for the person, no matter what earlier. but what about when someone's parents haven't had the audacity to declare their incompatibility. possibly one of them was naturally incompatible with any human. what about that stage of in-between when things are no better, maybe even worse, yet not obvious to the outside world, not across the line. when just because they have acquired a daily routine, they have grown banyan roots and they become a sad reality that you can't dispense with. what of those kids? what of that eight-year old praying every night for the longevity of her parents' marriage.
what you don't know doesn't hurt you. doesn't arouse any emotions in you. but what of those who live this story?

a confession

yes, i do not know how to operate a bloody electric kettle. whatever the reasons. my personal belief: i never needed to use the robotic thing. have always had lpg or/and a microwave at home and somehow in previous offices and colleges, have simply ordered tea or at least had access to free flowing hot water in which to dip dip in. now this is the first time i have been left to battle with one. that too in a pantry where there were others present.

scene yesterday: pantry in the afternoon with sleepy peons making tea for themselves and a couple of white collar workers arousing from slumber as they sip and talk about work. i enter head toward where i see cups and saucers (give me some doodh-bhaat in the whole story. its my first day here and i dont have 'friends' though i know some random ppl). i ask the peon closest if i can pick up any cup/mug (in 'the bank' ppl were possessive of their 'own' mugs) and where the sugar is. after being allowed i search for the largest then compromise n take the cleanest and wholest mug. i see THE KETTLE. think the angels (or the peons) must have done the job and kept hot water ready for me. pour it into my mug. mix my heaps of sugar and dip dip earl grey after peeping into the tetley carton and rejecting it. i have to help the tea bag to sink. it refuses to on its own and refuses to paint my water coz as i soon realise its not hot. the angel says 'aap yahan ki cheezon se naye ho?' i smile confessingly. 'aaj pehli baar aayi hoon. tabhi to pooch rahi hoon kya kahan hai.' he says 'aapki yeh chai to kharab ho gayi'. i reply as sweetly 'mujhe dikh raha hai'. he switches the kettle on and i wait. then comes again and switches the main red switch on. i was waiting for godot. then he wants to explain something about the switch. i nod dismissively to say i will manage. kettle boiling now. i switch off. upper switch not complying. i switch red off. breathe. lift the kettle wondering what if i drench myself with this. it comes off its electric stand. now i am scared. i thought it was to stay put on it. i call one of the angels (bhaiya) wondering what did i break.
5 mins later, with not a blush on my cheeks (indian brown) i leave the pantry with my tea. it was v good by the way

update:
scene today: my friend angel is making his tea when i enter the pantry at about the same time fighting off afternoon dreams that my unemployment has helped seep into my being. i ask him what the status is with the kettle while fiddling with the upper switch. i answer my own question saying 'abhi to isme garam paani hai na'. he nods then smiles at me. lifts the kettle. puts it onto the electric stand and says 'yeh button ab garam karega' (intending that in case i needed to heat which luckily i don't, and implying that i am a rural fool). i actually say 'woh to hai'. i get my good tea again anyway

a perspective to employment

its like i am sitting in the heart of a nature park. with birds twittering outside my window incessantly. pigeons gutturally walking on the ledge unaware of my presence within. and the red building of the Habitat smiling at me from across in the sun. not to forget the mass of green rounded tree tops beyond that. that make me forget this is an office complex in the heart of delhi. i have been wondering which side my window overlooked. now i think i finally figure; with the blue kite shaded courtyard a little way to my left and to my right the isolated side entrance with that strange white stone sculpture that is almost unrecognisable here from my fourth floor window.
and then to believe that just one more person in my horizon of vision (which is blocked behind by an unnatural yet wooden aspiring partition) has chosen to pull aside the drapes. who says i am bored of work. i believe this lil deviation will invigorate me, satiate me; and help ignore the pigeons by my right elbow and dig into the sly chinese policies. a chinki grin. i think there's a nest here.

Nought loves another as itself,
Nor venerates another so,
Nor is it possible to Thought
A greater than itself to know:
...

- Blake

(spoilt the final goddess' face. my version of an imitation of Botticelli's Primavera. chinese whisper outcome)

someone's crumb is someone's backload of supplies

i flicked an ant with my hand to realise that she lost her load of food in the event. i got a few crumbs from the remains of my breakfast and brushed them off my hand near the ant. she was still searching for her lost food. i took one lil dot of bread and followed the poor insect. till she climed on it, smelled it and then lifted it and proceeded as before.

enjoy the maya in life

when i write it ends up depressing even when it drives it out of my head and i end up smiling. hmm. so today when i'm happy i won't let it confuse. i recently wrote out all 10 songs of led zeppelin 3 coz the cd i bought didn't have lyrics. and i wrote them so small they fit on a folded bit of paper which i can slip into the cd cover. yes! i'm so unemployed. and im surprised iv started liking rock now.

"Friends"

Bright light almost blinding, black night still there shining,
I can't stop, keep on climbing, looking for what I knew.

Had a friend, she once told me, "You got love, you ain't lonely,"
Now she's gone and left me only looking for what I knew.

Mmm, I'm telling you now, The greatest thing you ever can do now,
Is trade a smile with someone who's blue now, It's very easy just...

Met a man on the roadside crying, without a friend, there's no denying,
You're incomplete, they'll be no finding looking for what you knew.

So anytime somebody needs you, don't let them down, although it grieves you,
Some day you'll need someone like they do, looking for what you knew.

Mmm, I'm telling you now, The greatest thing you ever can do now,
Is trade a smile with someone who's blue now, It's very easy just...

mmm i remember putting off someone in the very first 'date' (was it a date now?) because i muttered somethings drunk like theres noone for anyone in this world. and we are all alone and by ourselves, and generally something totally in contradiction with these lyrics... (there that gets depressing again!!! happy bit: we are still together. grin.)

update: the other party says that wasn't a 'date'. he just wanted a 'cute' girl to drink with. we didn't drink much though, did we 'other party'?

the little tin soldier

(from my 20+ yr old book of fairy tales)

if

if
was a dead seed
that never bore leaves
a barren womb
nohow pleased
these tiny hands did not believe
gave it cold earth
warm sun and drink to make it weep
it cracked a little
and a sapling arose
was there a minute ago
hands with axes hacked and did their job
satisfied went home to rape their wives
meanwhile if gave a sorry sigh
these shiny eyes saw dense bush in its place some day
these little hands continue the ritual
believing another 'ling on its way

this little fool of a heart
wonders frets and wails aloud
with no success
till reason calms it
the only way it knows (it could)
with the bliss of ignorance

somethings don't need titles

cupping my hands around it
to save it's last breaths from blowing out
slowing time
numbing time
so it cannot kill
waiting with a stillness unnatural
for it to revive.
it will.

When I read I usually skim through descriptions of the surroundings, enough to just get into the mood that the author intended for me. Unless may be it is a description of something catastrophic or an answer to some long building suspense of sorts. Somehow I am not interested in the beauty that the author’s eyes saw or imagined. That I’d rather see with my own eyes. Or maybe I’ve already seen so much of nature’s magic that it’s not what I thirst for. What I do crave for is drama, human emotions, normal, abnormal, exhibited, suppressed, uncontrolled, beyond reason, and yet some so mechanical. What excites me about stories is the characters, how they felt, what they did in response, someone’s knitted brow, a slight frown on someone’s face, desire, longing, lethargy, energy, scorn, words, the littlest touch and what it could lead to... These are what remain in my mind after the last page is read and the book shut for good. Sometimes I mark some of these parts that moved me, in books. Today strangely I found a description marked out in a book I had read some time back. Reading the bit again I figured why this was underlined. Its such a normal yet such a special beginning of a day. And its so small so simple yet so visual you cant help seeing and feeling the air and the dust and the morning around you. Raja Rao in Kanthapura:

“The day dawned over the Ghats, the day rose over the Blue Mountain, and churning through the grey, rapt valleys, swirled up and swam across the whole air. The day rose into the air and with it rose the dust of the morning, and the carts began to creak round the bulging rocks and the coppery peaks, and the sun fell into the river and pierced it to the pebbles, ...”

I’m sure I must have come across more such descriptions that I paused over but there haven’t been too many that didn’t bore me with their length, and that i didn't want to hurry through to get to the characters.

a sketch a day could keep my psychiatrist away

as a kid i was so scared of fire that it was quite late by the time i could successfully light a match! and some diwalis back i held a candle in my left hand and a chocolate bomb in my right and touched the wick of the right with the flame of the left before throwing the right into the air far away. only to have my right ear tingling for the next half hour. today my younger sis pointed out that i still am a loser at lighting a match

verbose randomness

The glen beckons.
Finger tapping soft rhythmic elevation. Home alone. Pum pum pumpum. Pum pum pumpum pumpum. Ting da di ting da ting da. Faster. Faster.
The busy world outside. Someone driving thankful for the invention of air conditioning. Some standing under that characteristic blue thick square stretched out on bamboos. Selling vegetables, fruits, nimboo pani. My eyes through the window. My hands drawing the green and cream curtains together. Yeah the same ones that looked so pretty some time back. Need a wash which needs someone to take the pains of pulling them down.
Hey this is beautiful. This slight guitar strumming to break the rythm of the drums. Coming back to curtains what i’v done till now is pulled them down to replace with a fresh set from sarojini but that was hostel and Bangalore whimsical austere living and much fewer curtains. Those boring old home ones then pink then yellow now orange.
The greenery outside is just shrubbery made too much of. The criminal heat leaves no trace even of guilt, hanging in the morning air. Does it also effectively weaken gravity, has anyone thought. Seems like otherwise all of us have lost weight. That reminds me of my favourite guava Tropicana nectar. Which never fails to remind me of that lingering taste of my nani’s guava murabba. No nani anymore. No guava murabba. Will all these recipes become myths by the next generation?
Grandparents made such a fuss of the slightest talent in us. Took such pride. Now no one bothers.
Those dancing monkeys and snake charmers visiting their colony. I still remember those bridge sessions. And that little room at the back with the lemon tree lending its fragrance through the little window. And all that khus in the old cooler. And that spray of cool water when you turned the speed to max. That wooden khat. Those human horses i’v ridden. And that splurge of peanut butter. Prutina.
Oh the glen beckons! Those chir pines. Those hanging streamer like slight branches with gold orange and green leaves. Those needles softened and yellowed under foot. That green vastness of cones till as far as the peak reveals. That little lane carpeted with yellow leaves. Sliding sliding till i’d fall roll gently rise holding some tree trunk for support.

Knock knock
Memories let me in
What did you do with all the pain
Where did you flush it all
No traces remain

This is golden softness
Not the yellow that hurts the eye
Its the cushiony grass pampering my feet
The perfumed air that attracts the butterfly

That sudden sighting of the mountain stream
The soothing gurgle in the dead of the night
A wild horizon of purple flowers
Little sunbirds twittering in flight

childhood's end

so will we one day just turn inhuman
may not be we
but ours to follow.
and will we be abandoned
and split into atoms, If breathing
such a discontinuity
such an imbalance
frightening overthrow of logic and reason
and of religion
the gods will grind us for their higher end
will there really be such violence
a rudeness tearing the soul with the matter
the eggs spewing monsters we fear.
that calm power of supernatural
that terrestrial insurance
all torn asunder
will the skin split
and the pulp burst through
without that regret without that sigh
will nothing care and nothing try
and all that’ll remain of our home our sun
and that dear bluish white moon
will be memories in the hearts of those dead so soon

in the same breath

he bumps into men
black white yellow
hardly notices, eyes far away...
a child by the road
glumly inspecting his soaked and tearing
lil paper boat.
he bends down to touch a tear
fumbles for paper
a 10 buck note
crisp like needed
a new boat new stories
sail down the puddle
smiles at that smile
that clap and that jump.

"the boy's a jew"
hope he doesn't learn
white from yellow
and the line through jerusalem
let his religion be the sailing
and the puddle his land.

i don't have a name for them

they've done it again. all together managed a brilliant illusory trick. the coin that started with my palm, its metal body having become warm with the contact with my skin in this weather, left no mark no feeling when it slipped off unknown to me into their exhibitive fingers. once more they prove it. i could run and pant for miles and they could simply with a fillip of their fingers, put me back still panting where i started. just a fillip, thats what it takes to turn everything ineffectual. well at least the superciliatory air is considerate and puts me two steps ahead when i stumble and can't make it. but they decide when that's to be done. they decide where i need to be. huh.

all i can do is grin and be thankful i was graced with their favours

objectivity

two different people. aquaintances. but poles apart. me: something they share.

two different versions to what should have been the same narrative. coz it was the same place. the same people. the same time. both together.

what one loved the other hated. what remain fond memories for one is what the other loathed. they each see in the other what the mirror doesnt show them. nor what is revealed to me. i am just a medium. on which both paint pictures with their words. the strokes clash. confuse. bewilder.

probably each caused the anger with which the other hand held the brush...

one positive saved from coming underfoot and picked up, infects all negatives to find pairs. those that don't, fizzle out

the magic against those demons doesn’t work like before
but something weaker supplants it.
fingertips still meet
like both effervescence and a calmness.

whats gone wasn’t the only thing out of this world
an unseen thread communicates.
smiles tears and a longing
felt intimacy, yet this heart waits.

hey angel bringing tenderness
stop will you this time.
stay put by my side
tie your wings with mine.

or should you fly fly away
time is catching on.
earth and air meet
there, your belief i don.

i know bush n israel wont listen to jimmy carter or care to talk with hamas. i'm concerned. looks like the end of the earth will not need vogons

its nearing. the gift. that someone will drop into my lap. out of pity. let me lovingly finger it for a while before taking it back. sometimes i think i'll smash it when its given to me. sometimes i just drink it back in before it turns into such imagined destruction. and sometimes out of the greyness a sudden streak of sunlight illuminates a rainbow. intangible and evanescent and loving and warm

sadness

it strikes suddenly
when u halt to think
permeates into every pore
every cell every muscle
in the voice
even the smile
sets a lethargy in
theres no antidote

its that time of the year when i throw away my chair cushions. and its that time of the night when i'm wondering whether i'll be able to run tom morning this way. and i dismiss that prospect. running is like writing for me (though i'm better at the first). it just keeps me feeling better. only that it takes more effort to jump out of bed. today i realised it wasnt me who decided if it was possible for me to jump out or not. it was just possibility itself. that clears me of the guilt of not running most days in the last 2 months (btw i ran today). and anyway all muscles that i can feel are still in that i-grip-the-bones state. so which means i can bunk some more. and my hair having crossed the first stage of intolerance successfully is cleverly preparing a second stronger attack. i even bought a hairband to just hold it all. why can't i simply gift it to that friend who is paying a trichologist some good money to get rid of what he calls a case of premature baldness in a male pattern in a female? ah well. guess wouldnt even fit in up there with her thin strands. and i wanted to go this play with tom alter in it but i didn't have company as usual. not that i am dying to see tom alter. saw him once in college long back. dont know why many of these people came there unannounced. and actually i'm a little tired of hindi plays. but could have given this a try actually the last good play i saw was in december (or november?). and i'm sure this would have been better than what i saw recently by asmita. that something by the way was a typical satire on indian corruption. i'm sick of those now. and i want my boyfriend near me. (that last sentence had more amplitude in my thoughts than those others gone by. it was almost a shout). but our stars are always in different locations. now countries. and my test score also slipped pathetically down today. and my dad has been harassing me a little about being more presentable for a girl my age (read marriageable). that reminds me that yesterday's bride was actually made to practise smiles!!! the walk smile and the jaimal smile and the general smile saved for photographs which will become topics of wonder and admiration for years to come. the process that leads to those photos meanwhile blocked the jaimal from most of our view and i heard some relatives complaining to the photographers. i'v faced that a number of times. frankly i have a lot of respect for photographers in general but not those who come to weddings. i'm almost always at war with them. especially if the wedding in question is closer home and i am banking on getting good pics myself. besides the fact that others are banking on me. there was a cousin's wedding and the final photo and video cd that came processed had scenes of valleys and mountains and flowers and rivers and birds and what not before the movie began. they actually had credits of all those involved in the movie making while those scenes floated before our eyes. and i just killed a mosquito with a deft slap on my arm. oh well. its past the time when i can afford reading my book. and on second thoughts i think i'll go for my run. will plonk off after morning chores. am jobless anyway. and did you know that the way these shaadi lehengas are draped around you these days with 'zillion pins' in the bride's words, the husband is ensured a tough time. is that the first comma i've used here. i always hated those punctuate the following paragraph exercises. full stop.

consciousness of desirability
an interest
effort (small)
response. with it smugness
excuses
lead. maybe also some apathetic ego feeding
something resembling self predicted victory
just a little sympathy
growing concern. also fully developed strong affection (maybe achronologically placed)
self blame
futility, desperation. insanity. trappedness.
an effort at disentanglement
nostalgia stabbing solitude guilt... & a sense of wrong
disarmament
desire
surrender
peace
treasure
bliss with a tinge of fear/insecurity
(my feet are big and flat. enough to trample underfoot)
(a prayer against)

honest

some people give me quite a complex. and its so from so far what would it be like if i knew them up close. they are younger than me, much better read (obviously) and clearer expressers of whats within them. and they are bongs! sorry but dschool gave me this idea of a bong which doesnt allow for such appreciation. rather envy. they make me feel my childhood was quite a waste (which it was) and that i'm slow with what i manage(d) to do with my life. slow and lagging behind and panting for no good reason. and the more i peek into them the more such people i find. its like theres this sea of brilliant clones i would have liked to model myself on. and i dont know even one of them personally...? this huge population totally hidden somewhere??? what i'm wondering about is, why dont i feel like this about people i know. and there are and have been so many many they tire me sometimes. often. is the phenomenon similar to 'an audience deserves the art thrown at it'? or is it just familiarity with those i know that makes them ghar ki murgi daal barabar.

(turning up the level of honesty, one person i know gives me a complex about living. till i think of maths. levels out then. grin)

ek billi

its pretty all around
in bloom
the ball is advancing
black
bouncing
bigger yet still
its all i can see now.
splinters pink!
blow away
random as autumn leaves
a breeze soft
playing around.
all of it is gone
i'm left alone
smiling
catching the leaf on my head
its got the answers
all settles back
awakes
for a minute the world halted just for me

(was it the dislike or the 'feeling' that came first and caused the other?)

ill let them flow for once
so what if i attract an audience
for once i'll just not care
if a pool collects
touch my hand let go
its ok i can be
its ok
i'm just me
and i know all i need is a reach
when i'm done and through
being alone
when i'm done and through
being true
oh come on give me a smile
there i laugh between tears
that'll get you by
i want to know what its like
how long it'll be
if its over when it is
who is this who cries

pigeons feeding
suddenly rising together
flying full circle
a scene pasted on my mornings
half shut eyes taking it in
confusing memory of one morn with another

idealism helps. its given me a lot out of life. unlike people who say they are 'tired running'. i never realised i was running. never looked at it that way. i juiced out every situation, every place, every phase of life hungrily, to get out of it, what could best please me. maybe i didnt direct my sails anywhichway, but i took in all the sights that my journey led me through, with equal excitement. yes, i allowed myself to be swept away with the direction of the wind after just a little bit of steering in some direction, usually. may be thats why i never ran. but i think that was happier. just going with the flow. and living where i went. sometimes by sheer luck it led to dreams. so what if they were continuously threatened with morning alarms of disappointment, disappointemnt that reeked of allegations that they were not mine to embrace but were duty to perform. that it was illegal to house my heart in them. that they were meant to simply busy my head in, in preset ways before life moved on. i am glad i got involved with life. i am glad i let it lead me to bounty. its ever since i decided to take the reins in my hands, because it looked like the journey had come to a standstill, that i seemed to have lost my way. and its not even that every direction beckons, in which case i would be more than delighted to stop by and explore, maybe never really get on. this has been a long stillness. im sure there is a purpose. and already at times i feel im growing as a person day by day. and the growth doesnt mean accumulation of bitterness, unlike some people who surprise me.
but im dying to get on board and sail again. if this break is to prepare for a longer journey ahead, i am already packing my bags well. but im dying to feel the wind caused by my motion, on my face. im yearning for speed and novelty. and weather that will throw me off balance enticing me with what it can offer if tamed. my successes have not always been what could be flaunted to the world. but that doesnt reduce the idealism in them for me

i am looking for a job but the sight of office workdesks makes me want to turn around n run for my life. fear and loathing and a job search

am i young or just small

Two kids in rabindra nagar today. See my car and start playing with it, dodging as i slowly curve in. I flash a smile at them. Both smile back. “didi aap chala lete ho”. I shoo them to get out of the way. The question is repeated, “didi aap chala leto ho?”. Then one to the other, “didi chala leti hai” (with a look that says its high time they began learning) as i bring the automobile to a hault. I am wondering at my youth, to get such incredulous looks from them about my ability to chala lena.

(even yday someone used the adjective 'small' for someone. then they rejected it coz i define the word and the person mentioned dint come close)

growing up

of friends and people falling apart. of urdu poetry and nihilism. and paradoxes and nuances. and betrayal. of photographs and wandering empty lanes. of just doing nothing with the ppl you once knew. of driving and difficulty when parking. of sunglasses and shopping. of 'sitting pretty before marriage'. of wondering if you ever got ppl right. of opinions. of changing prejudices and traditional practices. of 'never seen a haapily married couple'. of ideals and stamina wearing off. of gaining weight. of the love in his voice. of nothing else mattering.

powerprep not compatible with windows vista?

its on days like this that i realise the brilliance of the internet. when i type in a technical issue with my comp on the google searchbar and find more students who cudnt run the software on the blasted windows version. and from the various solutions listed by them, the easiest suddenly shows up on my comp and works! after hours of snapping at ppl unable to help me, and after nearly crying and then laughing at my exasperation. god bless those souls. get them 1600s.

i'm suddenly so happy i love the world. who could ask for anything more?

i got sunshine,
i got blue sky.
i got my guy,
who could ask for anything more?

tourist in my own country

god should have programmed every body's fate to deliver kicks at regular intervals. esp at the age of 25.
would it work if someone rounded up all those romeos of my life and they still worshipped me? errrr. on second thoughts i'd rather not see their faces ever again. i'v been unlucky even with the set of romeos in my life. not even material for good memories

the subject of the post below

when i sketch i dont notice time going by. its just the stub of my pencil and the bluntness of the lead that takes all the attention. theres a sadistic pleasure in dirtying the paper. in darkening the lines repeatedly. in little straight strokes that eventually take the shape of curves or are let be. i feel a surge of energy, of anxiety and a heightened concentration. sometimes zzzzzzzzzzzzing helps steady the brutality of the pencil. theres no time for the eraser. misdrawn lines are covered up with yet more bold greying of the paper. till i've spilled beyond the frame and yes then i do give in.
after its done i just keep staring at it for some time. very often for quite a lot of time. its that jubilant sense of ownership (unless its so bad i tear it up then n there in my urgency to disown). im not claiming they are so good. its just that i fall in love with what has come into being out of the pencil in my hand. though the resembalnce to the originals is what matters most in a way, its the grey strokes that im obsessive about. very often i'll trace darkness over them after months or years.

the human body is the most amazing to outline. i tried a difficult one after years - lately i'd been copying pencil strokes from a book. today this was a photograph from a mag. will post it after i stop feeling insecure about it and i can manage to click it well.

happiness was running groggy eyed and getting back into bed with my phone in my ear. reading lord of the rings on my pot unconcerned about the world. fresh flowers every weekend. stir frying capsicum onions and chicken sausages with soya sauce n fabindia italian seasoning. getting tipsy with you on wine n olives. also getting equally high on andhra chillies. standing lost with you in coorg at 4 in the morning and laughing at your fear. desmond's cheese cake melting in our mouths at the airport. coming home to you with all our food in your tummy. walking sliding tumbling on our way to the glen. fighting over the choice of movie and then abandoning it midway while watching. feeling at home in spiga. bumming around cp feeling spoilt on my birthday. waiting under a tree for the rain to stop and when it wouldnt, running drenched to nirula's. pahar ganj and narnia. flying over simla watching the mountains (and clouds) cast shadows. riding pinion at >100kms/hr on empty streets on a bandh day. sitting with you in my balcony on these cane chairs. being your saviour from stray dogs and monkeys. talking william talk

1993

2008

childhoods make you rich or poor

more questions... without answers

why do women have this craving to look nice? i mean more than men. i mean everyone wants to look nice but why is it so valuable to women that they do? and what if they dont naturally? why cant the world accept that a woman could be ok with the way she is? is all this craving to be liked, the underlying insecurity, a result of decades and centuries of male dominant societies? or is it natural and hormonal? or are the hormones conditioned to send such signals to the brain, by the attitudes of men who desire us? what has love got to do with looks? yeah it does i guess. with the way people desire what makes them drool. but is desire all there is to love? or is it simply such a large proportion that all else is conditional on it? i didn't fall in love with the faces i'v been bowled over by.

fakin' it

the ugly duckling never turned into the swan. and she met her prince. he didnt like her.

practising gre writing: any critics out there

Topic 1
“Young people frequently fall into the trap of assuming that the difficulties they face today are greater and more troublesome than those faced by previous generations. As they gain experience and maturity however, they eventually become aware of the falsity of this assumption.”

It could be a result of self pity in adolescence when the individual mind considers itself at odds with the world, most of which falls in different age groups than itself. When that unfairness of the world, strikes one, as being targeted at oneself. Or it could be thanks to the inevitable generation gap in thought and behaviour, which derails every youngster’s relationships with his/her elders. Or it could simply be the realisation of the futility of one’s dreams when suddenly faced with too much reality. As usual what is felt personally and by peers is exaggerated to the mind to be much more than what others said they faced in their days. It’s also at times an excuse to brag about successes against the big bad world that didn’t treat them so bad in the early days, that makes the success even larger; or if its failure, then a concession to justify it by.
Whether it has been the 60s, 70s, 80s, or 90s, youngsters have felt lost in, and victimised by the world. Art and literature has discussed this over the ages. Songs have been written with this feeling of being born in times, when things are the worst that the world has known, in some way or the other. Whether it was the rock ages when they felt they needed catharsis more than people before them. Or it was the Victorian era when young people felt there had never been this kind of suppression before. Or maybe present day when we feel that it was all very well for people to feel victimised in those ages, and write about it, but only if they had lived with us now they would have realised what difficult times these are compared with those trifles.
Probably its with age and maturity and wider exposure, when people realise that others both before and after their generation went through as bad or maybe worse than they themselves have, that that idea of supreme personal hardship starts to wear off. Also, when that same assumption/feeling is witnessed in people of a younger generation, people realise that the feeling is typical of human nature to exalt oneself against the world (that is easier to do by making the world seem worse than by improving oneself). And it is this that keeps travelling from generation to generation. A point worth remembering also is the fact that once this realisation sinks in and is established as better logic, these same people reduce the cribbing considerably just to make way for younger voices who feel they are the only ones who have the right to complain. This they become convinced of, taking other’s mature silence as their lack of grievances.

one grain can feed all!!!

our household help has started helping another household in the morning. so she rushes through her work in my house glancing at the clock every 2 mins. she makes some 5 rotis every morning. one day i asked her to make 2 more when she was almost done with the last. she stated that as impossible as her dough was over for the day and my demand would require her to spend more time making some afresh. and reprimanded me for not telling her earlier, cos then she could have made the 2 more from the same dough by reducing the size. her cheek amazed me and i couldnt help laughing out loud. i told her i wasnt asking for a skilful display of her reproportioning scarce food resources but simply more cooked food for more mouths!

attracted poles?

what do those intelligent people do when they get married to mindless bums. sometimes u just look at a groom and bride and you want to shout out and warn one of the two. but you daren't. its not proper. not when so much money has been spent on that lahenga and the royal chairs and the hotel/club rent. maybe some under the chair dowry. so you, quarter pityingly, quarter sadistically, quarter gleefully that its someone else and not you, and quarter curiously wish the person your best wishes.

man: yes ma'am can i help you.
me: well actually yeah. i am looking for some happiness.
man: sure. this way please. this entire floor is stacked with happiness in different sizes. there is just a small problem. you've got to buy it with happiness alone.
me: huh. do i get you?
man: oh but you must ma'am.
me: er ok. can you remember if any customer ever managed to buy any?
man: i've heard tales ma'am. of the dog next door. his great grandad when found his girlfriend, bought the whole floor of happiness. its a favourite story here. and thanks to him the floor got new stock. you know even happiness starts getting stale otherwise. humans somehow never trusted the deal. i think its the insecurity with what rare they have

A: i dont know anything about this. B: you are exactly the person we want

how has so much superficiality seeped into our reality?
everything from loving to learning to working is done so much on the surface alone.