Friday, December 19, 2008

Word-ly Unwise.

You listen to a song, you are furtively intoxicated - and it sticks to your ears, endlessly playing within, like a jammed cassette tape on a vengeance spree. You indulge into it further, and as it grows on you - you play it again and again day and night, make it a whistle and a shoutalong phrase (say for your peeing-time in the loo), become obsessed with all the subtleties and crescendos within its riffs and basses, but it still troubles you aplenty, exactly like your servile-obedient girl(boy)-friend wouldn't do.

That nasty little thing is called an Ear-Worm - a sort of phonological loop. But sometimes I also experience these unceremonious Word-worms - Words sticking onto my cerebral lobes like the conspicuous stains on glasses - words that change the momentary perspectives of the world around, and create some sort of tunnel vision for you. Imagine that word falling like snow all over the places around, wherever you try to steal a snap of things around. Imagine feeling like a slave to the mere idea steeped within that word, or it flowing in a stream both from your outward senses and from the conscience within. Imagine being hobbled with a daisy chain of a single-word-rings, as you stomp your feet out of the reclusiveness it has put you into.

One of them, quite a long earlier, used to be that unapologetic entity - 'Ultimate' or 'Ulti...' in short for the deprived ones. Well I strongly refrain from overusing any whimsically-worthy word (any i-know-what-you-didn't-mean-now-shut-up word, any word that appears as your birth-right whenever you utter it with extreme profligacy) - in any sort of parlance, be it's a business-talk, sex-talk, ruthlessly-friendly-talk, friendly tu-tu-mai-mai talk, classroom-talk, sex-talk, downmarket-bargain-talk, jealousy-talk, hopeless-talk, sex-talk, boast-talk, dream-talk, Tendulkar-praising-talk, Lalu-cribbing-talk, sex-talk, scowling-talk, pretending-talk, muted eye-to-eye-talk, self-talk, sex-talk, advice-giving-talk, swear-lying-talk...you just name it. But what could I've done. 'Ultimate' is (was) just so ultimate. You could chirp it in almost all your pranks you did in your college teen years, from your first drink, to your last crush, to your middle years of classroom renaissance (Note-I never had anyone of these). And I felt so helpless when I had to incriminate that sexy word into... say 14-year-banishment. Poor 'Ultimate' must've felt what Lord Laxman had undergone while imagining his predicament. Throwing 'Ultimate' out of my hollow colloquial, ultimately, was the least ultimate thing to do, I tell you.

And how can I slip away from shouting that silk-smooth sounding word - Slick. Oh my god this word seemed always asking for more. More like the newfound fashion in the street, the new-fangled choice of trying to sound impressive by talking something already impressive. Something that is less ordinary, less pale, less bookish. Inadvertently during the conversations it felt like a nicely conspired replacement for the ubiquitous 'Cool' or less-valued 'Awesome' (Cool as in "That's so cool..." followed by lots of exclamations !!!!...) - yes that drooling word from any of your next-door automatic-casual 20 year-olds, gasping in wonderment of his/her newfound obsession with the new high-end celebrity inner-wear making rounds in the market. The slickness in 'Slick' was like the stickiness of the spit. And then I never felt hesitant feeling it, using it. Using it effortlessly in things like "That's such a slick answer", "Wow, see all her shopping's so slick. Still useless", "I like those awfully-artless-noise-in-between-the-slick-beats in those Himesh Reshamiya's number..." For some linguistically-romanticized days slick used to rule everything - from my bathroom soap to the business ppts to my temporary-crushes-of-the-day's tight outfit. And I used to feel liberated in my expressionisms. And then it dawned on me that something's fishy. That why do I resemble the phrase "When all you've got is a hammer, everything looks like a nail." so much. I sighed.

The latest of the culprit has been 'Cynical' - Like I see some genuinely natural smiles on faces and wonder: "See...How less cynical this person is...How can (s)he be this much so...!". Like I meet a stranger on the road and would just flinch from asking him/her: "Hi! can you help me become a little less cynical!". Like I feel like in heaven when my tiny (actionable) thoughts actualize a million times less cynical that I could imagine...and wonder it can't be me who did so. Like I talk to most of my friends - close and far - new and old - hip or practical or ideal - and wonder why the F*** they sound so cynical all the time. I get to hear a lot of 'Why's and 'For What?'s in the times. I remain curious about all the deceptive impossibilities infested in everyone's thought and try to question them. I can see the sapped down fervor in any of the passions one follows, watch it passing away like a careless sugarcane being churned out of all its juice, slowly. Sorry. I just hope they were a lot less so. I hope I could sponge up that complacent, (in)toxicating, and blighted drug of cynicism from within them all...And then say "Now try your wishes for yourself." And I know that nobody is actually lazy here in sensibilities. Laziness is just such a gainful illusion that it can even make something like...the First Kiss sound insipidly boring. Thou (and me) must confess.

** Well I wanted to talk about another such fixation - Disillusioned - but don't feel like it now. Don't want to see such a thing overpowering again.

** The larger (sole) purpose of this post was to remind you that everything around couldn't be captured in the
ultimates or the cynics or any other ideation that rules your line of thought. So remain sensitized about those parasitic terms you are fixed up with promiscuously. What r they by the way?? :)

** Image: HNTAC, HJI, BELCH, PM.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Cry Thy Darling City

You doubt your writing sense could ever possibly unfold it. There's a bloody fog all around you, all over the place where you can reach or even where you can't, ever. You tend to venture your eyes out but there's absolutely nothing different to fancy. Not any newness in the malignant truth that has girded you stiff, choking you from within and out, like those childhood nightmares of lightening falling on your head as you would scrunch into your night-bed. All your life you've heard in vernacular about guns and gunshots and its distasteful silence just after being fired, but you still feel a lot stranger to it. And it fades and you try to bring back your cynic and sensibility but then you hear even more gunshots, bombs and blood. You again seek to mend those news as part of your life - no, sorry someone-else's life, forevermore - still that requires almost an obsessive extent of ignorance and helplessness. But yes don't worry you've become enough of a mundane marionette, hanging from nowhere, to shunt all your gnawing empathy's into the trash-cans of yesterdays. Otherwise, you won't be here - as this city bleeds - or in fact anywhere else.

But those yesterdays still scream with ruthless vividness, because you need some time to forget, you are human. After all. And no doubt you still involuntarily feel sticking to those minacaious moments of thenadays, those 3 days and nights of peril wielded by a handful of gun-laden twenty-something Satans, when you had wished that just everyone, every little being in this damn world could all look up together at the skies, at the sun, hands folded at heart, and ask the sun to gift in a new morning and unwind that f****** day back into nothingness.

In those moments of vulnerability, it dawned on you that everything, every thought that comes around you could be ominously holed-up into two formless partings - either that of the terrorists or of their absence. Surely no other choice you had. "Like an untamed child has been handed a real gun" - you listened an eyewitness had attributed them. And you wondered how their pensive indulgence - in pure nihilism - could ever become so mighty. The imposing irony - that they barged into the city from nothing less but almost through the Gateway of India seemed as manifested as the entrenched mistrust in humanity the terror has presented before you. And you saw a heritage glowing terror-ificly, a legacy smirched ferociously.

However, to become more mindless, you casually visited the roads and markets, and noticed the daily faces just as normal as it could ever be...and you wondered was it only you who's been deliberately made conscious by some unholy design. People in this city seem to dispense all their fears within homes and save every whit of their resilience for the outside. Anyways, you boarded the taxis and each driver had his own version to share..."I was in the Taj Area just 15 min before it all begun". Oh the Areas...you drive close to the station area and somewhere within yourself, you bleakly fear if some hiding gunmen would hurl with his AK-47 towards the milling crowd covering your taxi. Getting home early you made calls and enquired to everyone with the usual bonhomie, "Hi, how are you...", but you are often overwhelmed with the thoughts "Ok so? How the hell it really matters if (s)he is doing a little bad, when those hostages are...". And you started speaking with a drawl and pretending to listen to those everyones. Why can't you just lose yourself. You feel hollow, like a half-blown trumpet. But even that makes some noise; and you can't.

In between you tried to spend some lighter moments around but observed that you often end all your smiles and laughter half-way, as the glum and the senseless guilt would soon plunge you. You walked into the office, saw people working full-throttle - engaged in their spreadsheets and con-calls and rigor logic, subdued by deadlines - and you remained amused just damn how they could do that all when there are flames, commandos and explosions few miles away. You could infer they are so more practical, for they've so effortlessly mastered not to shift their unblinding focus away, come what may. And you felt so out-of-the-place, so less belonging there or anywhere, really. You lingered out with your mates and saw them roistering around, unfazed, saw them mocking at the whole setting, mocking at people who caused it and equally at those who haven't...but you hardly felt sick about their larks, and rather wondered at their (and maybe yours) juvenile innocence...you are overpowered.

And you looked away a week back when you and your nation were snuggling in a victorious spree, wiping England out in Cricket. And now you stood bedeviled what to do with Cricket, the wholesome idea of it...And quickly you felt it's perverse even to talk about anything cricket at the moment, let alone the discontinued series. And often the 'cricket' just seemed a stripped down ordinary common noun...like an ocean just bereaved of all its water. Many dimensions of life seemed to have blown away.

At least you were disposed to feel lucky that none of those perished were acquaintances of yours, but soon you learnt your room-mate's friend's friend's friend got a shot near Leopold and is no more...And that he was to be married in 10 days...And now you remained not sure whether to feel being same lucky or not. You felt like all your own worries and torments - yes the life-sum of them all - were so petite dust-like insignificant whiffs before what few most-sinless souls in those hotels are going through, within just a moment's worth of lifelessness. And you didn't feel like asking for help for your own troubles...they can wait, you predict. And you got applauds for things you've been struggling long, but you remained distant and unthankful to yourself.
And further soon you watched the specter taking away from this world a lot many children and brothers and wives...the tycoons and the corporate elites...the swish and the marginalized...the Rabbi and the...Faith. You could just wait for his 2-yr-old to grow up and ask his fate the right questions, he is too little now. You also listened about the champion who saved 150 lives, about the waiter and his immaculate service
...and countless more unnerving chronicles, ready to fade soon.

And what stays are the points for (often) pointless discussions, the constant hum of Fidayeens' gunshots, the new-fangled re-curses on the turgid politicians, the littered questions, the schoolyardy street-corner debates, the rants and bilges at tea-stalls, the New Normal...

But wait, you remain Sick.

* I struggled writing this at the time it was all happening. I struggled even now, wish I hadn't. Sorry if it appears too skewed.
* All Images: Boston.com. See the collection here and here. Browse in one go, please. They'll tell a story.

Saturday, November 1, 2008

...And She Smiled.

She isn't brilliant beyond normal, but loves to swoon with innocent thoughts like "Why can't landless farmers in Singur employed to same factories to be setup there?", if I can recall correctly -- from a debate we had in the session. Slim, calm, with that tenth-grader looks -- N now speaks with a deliberate care of someone who has recently realized that her voice can really matter.

But it wasn't so a certain time earlier, the way I had known N of thenadays. When she spoke there was that typical bashfulness in the way she chose her words --with which you would easily jump to stereotype any such a girl --girls of slummy dwellings, with a muted eloquence, a lot less-privileged, belonging to the lesser god, perfectly deprived of all smugness and breathing space any of your child-next-door normally has.

N carries the same frivolity, but appears quite a less shiftless now. She couldn't have matured a little --at least for the way she doesn't hide her smiles from us :) --if it not were for the efforts of her and S --her personal mentor for now. Hmm but I would prefer to talk here about certain things of more importance than say ten smarmy lines for some consummate efforts.

It's a bit indisputable, but just at the tip when you start reconciling that it's okh for you to expect a little good out of the benevolence you've caused to someone, out there everything fall off in a thud. As if you were trying to 'build up' some-thing (-body) that never imagined itself facing even a breeze. And so all the time when N has been responding keenly to some patient efforts; all the time she wouldn't not follow the surge of positive thoughts she has been exposed to; all the time she wouldn't show any gasp of indifference, any inkling of intolerance...all the time some faiths could have been restored.

...Until the time it appeared that apparently N was to be engaged (and maybe married soon) at such a tender age of hers. It wasn't anything like child marriage I must mention, instead N had a secret puppy-love affair with a neighborhood suitor for quite some time --and her drunkard dad and hapless mom saw marriage as a 'viable' way out to dispense with her. That S sussed it out all and that N couldn't stay irritatingly elusive on this any more, seemed to have happened for the good, but who knows for sure. Who knows when to succor when you have never been solicited to "intervene" in someone else's little world. Who knows it's actually not just about helping-out, if understood in the right spirits.

"Would it be okh for you if we can visit N now..." with a concerned precipitation, S called me up, the night when N "might have been" committed for engagement (the boys kins were to turn up then). In a rush we decided to visit N's slum, after having called her and her mom didn't seem to have shaken things up much. N's fuzzy innocence about all this, about all that was just about her and her only - did make her a little less trustworthy, and I could see that on S's careworn face, as we chatted on our way to the place. S has that spark and the rare simple sense of importance and that dominates her youthful demeanor, but it couldn't easily obscure the urgency in her words.

We made our way through the narrow aisles in the pale night light, taking economical steps in this a-thousand-times shrunk space, as N and her chirpy little sister escorted us. The place appeared exactly the way you, in your complete senses, would like to imagine a slummy ghetto --filling it full with all wearisome clichés you could find for such dwellers of the wretched. N's home, all in all one nicely packed room, was equally lit and dark, as if you could choose what things to sight and what to ignore. Wonder if it was big enough even to properly contain the car that drove us there.

In the middle, we were also accompanied by the social worker for 'the place'; and one of N's class teacher, R --a twenty-something girl with a curious vigor, who's accent clearly defied the kind of work she's into now, full-time --after quitting her earlier plush job, and all corporate pop.

N's Mamma made us hospitable as we settled on the 'cozy' floor-bed, while her sister quite swiftly moved our footwear to inside of the room, for it maybe stolen being out --which seemed a rather precocious sensibility by her age. Maybe she's been used to it. The Mamma, with her learned helplessness, tried well to skirt away from the whole issue and still gain some close feelings, but remained sensible enough to listen to our spurs of not to commit N for any marriage, for now.


"...N must herself decide what's best for her, but you need to provide the necessary emotional support ..." together we constantly kept exhorting Mamma, of course in Hindi.
"Hmm What do you call 'Emotional' in Hindi?" we wondered at each other for the correct version at times, while N's Mom hid her cluelessness from us :)

And then it was N's turn to be grilled from every corner; sought to speak her heart out again and again, as if you are querying some invisible wind around you whether it can stay still or will drift out soon.

S asserted: "The boy won't let you study and earn on your own. It's clear. And you don't know you are maybe the luckiest girl in this community to have all of us talking this much to you."

"Can you control yourself when the Boy continues to keep bothering you." said R.

Imagine me remarking "You really don't know boys and how most of them think like. And what they are upto...at this age. Trust me." Ufff. Sigh.


N's dad, completely sozzled up outside, occasionally kept howling in public at his fate, for having a girl like N. The scene might seem like a soap-opera type melodrama in the language here. Hmm no dissociate any romanticism visible here...It was all so silent and normal there. Don't know why. Maybe some-things (-people) around can make you feel calm...just by the close affinity.

Still a little restless, we then also summoned the Boy and his Mamma...to peep into things from the otherside of the window. No offense meant, but to my surprise, it was quite funny to see an 'ardent lover' pretending as a servile momma-boy. "I'll ask Ma if N can study while with me or not." If I am not overplaying my thoughts, is somebody supposed to enact like that in love...You tell me. I am inexperienced :) Boy's Mom, nonetheless, turned out most sensible and forthright of the lot there, and we made sure she won't consent to the words of N's dad on everything.

Moving out I wondered --what S had rightly acknowledged --whether we've done some disservice in being so vehement in N's affair...maybe the Boy was Mr Perfect for N...maybe N's parents are the best provident for her future, in all of theirs gnawingly cocooned world, just as our parents remain correct for us most of the times...maybe we should leave alone - all the Ns (we deal with) and their idiosyncrasies and their fate --with themselves, and become ideal smug fatalists. Maybe.

Hmm but N herself might want to contend this now, willingly. "Don't hide it, you look equally beautiful." --we realized her when she spoke, in her most girlish smile --as we all sat and sipped at the Barista, far from the slum outskirts. 11 at night.

Image: stock.xchng

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

Association Syndrome...What?

Imagining against reason. Sure call it an 'Association Syndrome', but often when I encounter someone/thing, and if right then there's some tunes playing in the background, I quickly tend to identify that person/thing right in the music. And vice-versa too! And whenever either of the strange affinities reoccur to me, I keep wondering how the music is so nicely entrenched with the idiosyncrasies of that entity...it just freaks me out!

So Imagine the old man walking across the street, with the cap and the supporting stick - slim like himself; and without those artificial teeth...and then you listen to the recurring echoes from a Joshua Bell's Violin - Hmm remember that tender tune from the vintage Titan Watch Ad? (For the unawares, the Grammy Award-winning Bell is the one of the finest violinist of all times). Is it just a worn-out surreal correlation, sprung out of my (dis)belief - that the old man has got something to do with the obsessive smugness of that tune.


Or Imagine reading in a book about that girl with a curious mirror, primping her short red gown and drifting her lissome legs - and just then the tango music plays in your background...Like the one in that scene from the Scent of a Woman - when the blind-but-most-dreamful Al Pachino makes Gabrielle Anwar dance, full to her last surprise. And you wonder.

Or Imagine ringing up your pal and the caller tune plays the mischievous Malgudi Days soundtrack "Taanna Nana...", and just then you glance upon a tiny frisky-frolicking squirrel hopping across the wall-side in a scurry. And for a moment's worth of clueless-ness, you rush to theorize why do they seem soooo effortlessly related. Am I being insane here?

Or Imagine getting a hair-cut in the little barber's shop next street - small and rickety, with the only thing clean and shiny there being his mirror. A defunct radio and its dust-full of speakers rests in one corner. And there in the mirror you see two flirtatious faces, conspiring gleefully, riding on the same bicycle on the street behind your seat...And just then out of its whim, that radio plays this chirpy old Kishore melody for the occasion: "Aaj unse pahli mulaakat hogi!..." [This is the first meeting with my date, today!]... What else.

Or Imagine
you huddle across the pedestrian, unmindful, and your IPod plays these lines from the sensuous hit Iris, just as you watch some urchins fighting each other on the roadside rubble, for a little of money, for the more of ignorance. The bottled up emotions, the luminous faces still harbouring some dream nevertheless...

...And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming / Or the moment of truth in your lies;
When everything seems like the movies / Yeah you bleed just to know your alive...

So do you domesticate any musical (blond) moments?...or is it just me.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

The One Where I Was Tagged.

So I've been tagged and am required to furnish some answers on the podium. There it goes...

What do you do when...


- You see a man (or woman) making a pass (trying to woo/flirt/impress) on a woman (or man) you like?
I'll successfully cajole him not to commit the mistake that I did :) ...And that is yet to happen. Ha ha.

- Someone you like, is not attracted to you?
What's the big deal. Is that something new among we naïve blokes! Go get a life there's so much (and many!) to it, I would say!

- You are attracted to some one, but both of you are in two different cities?
Poor Boy (Girl): Here goes four line from this overly popular strangely sensuous ballad, for you:

"So close no matter how far,
Couldn't be much more from the Heart
Forever trusting who you are...
And Nothing Else Matters..."

With 'Repeat' till they meet and redeem out of the separation :)

- You are reading a book, and your best friend wants to borrow it and can’t wait for you to finish reading, ‘coz he/she has been looking for it for all their life?
Give it to him/her but with unbreakable promise that (s)he would have to narrate the best out of it back to me at full length...And If it is "she" it would be more fulfilling than reading itself :) And anyway I can't read much :)

- You help plan his / her career, and then, they go on to achieve it, leaving you behind, alone...
That's a harsh, but why to keep high expectations at the first place...Of Course I know it's impossible to have none, but better keep it to bare minimum...Isn't it? Just be cautious :) No one is reponsible for what you 'decide' to feel and react. And let that person fully Know it. And if it's a girl...I kind of always knew that :)

- Who am I...
Now that's the toughest one, after many trials. Let me try out another way. In fact that's all I can do...Is it...
I am a part time worker...and maybe full time thinker. Not living the twenty-something dream but making sure hard to figure out and what is it all I've got that I could give back around and what would just Click for me. And yes I love the speed of light, the freshness of old times with good people, the smell of the green grass, the smiles on a daring face...and maybe more.

- Insert (and add) a new question(s) / statement(s)...
Question to the Tag Maker...and to the tagged fellows:
~ Frequently, or for once - What is the One thing that brings-in-smile-to-your-face/or pisses-you-off quite
unexpectedly !?!

And I Tag: Cyzak.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

A Stolen Incident

Last few weeks has been a little less than a writing spin for me...(at least by my lazy standards), but I can hardly bring them all here, for it'll appear nearly kitschy given the austere and bordering-to-no-nonsensical taste of this blog...:) Err I mean those content will appear honestly pompous. As if our own Rabbi Shergill - full of him, of his folky sufi tones, is made to sing out loud among the gospel prayer choir nuns. Lol.

Anyway I wanted to (really) bring in some of those essays...So here it is, although a bit stripped down and more narrative. The Essay prompt asked me to discuss something I...I *Like* to do, some Incident of an achievement's worth, something unfathomable, unrelated to classrooms or corporate meeting-rooms but yet swashbuckling-ly valuable in someone's eye...Great they didn't ask me to 'Show' what's in it all...Otherwise they would kill these words...Or me. Sigh. Not really :-)
"You all need intensive rehearsal this much won't do..." announced the choreographer in a clinical monotone, and not after we could breathe ourselves into a stupor for the time-out, he exhorted "I may cancel your item I can't compromise with the standard of MY Show! Better Scrap your thing from it." It felt like hot winds has blown over the desert. We all stood there obscured in night - we careworn moonlighting dancers, full of a day’s worth of work. At least then we sensed we were much more than sum of ourselves - homogenously motivated, committed to capture a piece of timeless art on the stage.

Our troop was, well to say the least - an eclectic, weird and steeped bunch of idiosyncrasies - living in a collective bender for the moment, detached all from their professional identities. Sales people, Radio Programmers, I-Bankers, IT Programmers, Arts students, Bank Managers, Home-makers, Actors - everyone with a story to tell, everyone living in a collective bender for the moment...Wonder doesn't that resemble typical study groups of the BSchools. We all belong to varying age groups and that matters the least. I have observed that there remains a lot to be learnt from the team itself, from really everyone of it, leave alone one's own enactments - adept colleagues display how to remain unassuming and composed however tough the sequences are and whether they trip or succeed; while more importantly, the less confident or dim ones make you want to be more accountable and enterprising for the co-acts you are performing.

We used to practice in a rickety school hall...just big enough to fit the widest of the formations, one troop at a time. And if the space still remained hostile, other troops would move to open air quads outisde :) Nights were more pleasant than weekend daylights in those roofless hallway, when dust and sun could really get the last sweat out of ours. It was hard for me to tell whether we were traivailing more or were our Instructors in keeping us onto the toe. It isn't the best of the job I tell you, but maybe has it's own rewards. They store the best of the motions we could hardly contend in all its subtleties, and they store it for the best.

The show day approached quicker than we could really sense, sense all what we've been doing (read: conspiring). The final stage rehearsals went bad and good and bad. But we did manage to keep our Instructors and Choreographer complacent for brief moments during our acts...and that was enough :) "There's no Style?" "Do your steps in full and clear" "Where's the Attitude!" "Can't see Any waist moment...it's No filmy number." "Identify with the beats" "Lead your partneers Guys..." No more of it our face...For sometime at least!

Show went ok.


Sometimes I wonder Is every piece of art (a big word, if qualified to be considered that) normally driven by some muse, some inspiration, some magical rainmaker that can shake things up for you...or is it just what it is, without a reason...?

I had written more on this, just prior to the Show.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

On Awards, Probably.

Cheers Time!
Probably (No, Really!) somewhere a faithful friend felt my blog
deserved to be among her list of "Brilliante Weblog Premio 2008" felicitation. Yay!

Probably not that I wanted it to be a surprise, but it came as a smug surprise yes, hmm like you've been looking at a glossy mirror for something in front of you, and probably suddenly it shines at that nice acute angle, for a moment, that shows the best smiles of yours :)
Oops.


Probably I should flinch from being that much metaphorical. No probably I don't want to make it appear isolated and abstract.

But Probably few days back while dozing in the office I thought of deleting this blog, blog which feels passive and not a darling. Probably because I realized I m not doing justice to it, not attending to it when it deserved all those moments of communion and intimacy and oneness. Probably moments of momentary stardom, of confection of rich little joys of near two year's worth, of the sorrow slushes that kept me trapped behind. Probably in denial of those extreme feelings that makes you want to sense the electric spark in the wires...or crush the stones to meaningless faint powders.
But Probably I wasn't not trying to be so...

On one side trying to make it less of a ho-hum monologue and Probably more of a informative and salutary and Relevant - yes that Relevant with a capital R - to whoever who came here. Probably it was good and bad, Probably I don't (want to) know.
And on the other side Probably it was a struggle to...


It has stayed with me in all these times of my disillusionment for a whole lot
of things, but Probably I still lamely ignored it. Probably I don't want to know the future of it where I'll go with this, hmm Probably I can't keep up with it.

But Probably I can't not write also... But thank you, Blogger, you have been intoxicating in all consummate ways. Probably.

And Thanks AG for your honor! No, no Probably here. Cut it down :)


Now Probably I have to felicitate my fellows...Haven't had many
blog friends in all these times, though follow quite a few, and others don't have presence here on the web to be commended, Probably :(. But these two have to be there, any which way:

Cyzak: For his continued interest in reading out the every little meaningful part in all my meaningless posts. Trust me your blog posts make much more 'real' sense. True :)

F @ The Solitary Reaper: Got onto his blog lately. What to say....there's so much more to him than his this blog. Sorry unintroduced ppl :)


**You both need to felicitate another set of co-blogs with this Cachet, and intimate them...don't forget!
**Swear won't use Probably again, hmm for maybe next couple of months. Probably ;)

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

On Flames Staying Alive.

Hey Lady...
You are so much of something.
Hey Lady...Don't you wonder
You've never been down so low.

Didn't the morning sun...once
Used to stare at your glow.

Oh Lady...you were to be
Dancing full in this spring.


Hey just lift your eyes around,
And look at little joys floating.
And think about those of them,
That you had created Lady
.
About the longing loves
Still lying for you awaited.

Didn't you always like Swerving

Swifter and Higher in these winds.

The inconclusive ignorance,
In Souls the painful voidness;
And crazy sparks within smoke,
Flinging right across the numbness

The closing storm, And those
Wider Skies - A little less higher.

Lady they all await your healing
Or kissing, with same old tender
.

But look where you are now lady,
You broke, moke; you stormful Stoic.
With those hush-hush doubts,
Those tin cans of disbelief
.
You swooned before the acme;
And fell before sensing your wings

And Lady you never wondered that
Even Fires within can be so Cathartic...


A tiny hole in the closed window,
Or gliff of dusts unsettling...

Whatever costs you lady
Your own old smile,
Or those set of beady eyes,
I saw once illuminating...
Go win them back it's
Been such a long while.
Go have a look there's so much
Of Life and Spur and Stimulus,
Even in those lissome Flames
Holding on in the Wind - Confronting.


**I am homogeneously clueless why I've written this all, leave alone for whom :) Maybe Someone arbitrary (Is it). Somewhere needful. Someday timeless.
Image: Flickr

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

F For Fear...

A few days back I got to listen to and then broach upon some thoughts on F.e.a.r. It happened that we gave the task of anonymously scribbling on a chit "What do you Fear most in Life?..." to a bunch of teenagers, and then mix all the chits--only to be picked up by someone (chosen to do so) randomly. So this conduct allowed the kids to disclose their fears without being mousey about it, since the namelessness is maintained as no-one would get to know who's fear was what, hence killing the shyness.
And soon with each anonymous chit being picked up and read out loud, the mood of the entire group harmonized into a collective affection--as one fear after another were divulged...like unfurling petals of a shy flower. Along came some concealed smiles, some unstoppable blushes, some worried faces. Everyone opened up! That's hard to do not just with kids but any person I tell you!  

And as a reaction to the anonymous fears, amazingly all the kids poured in their suggestions themselves for their peers--to overcome that particular fear of someone amongst them. And since you listen most to your own age-group than any other teacher/mentor--this was the most amazing part.

Quite useful the exercise was, for it particularly made every young blood present there to come open and feel little less insecure. Objective achieved!

However, later this got me thinking...What is it that I Fear most? No it's not about that fear of falling, or of being shooed away by the goosebumps in the moonlit nights, or any vicarious practical thoughts when you or your friend loses his/her job, but...

  • I Fear, of becoming too rich to feel lazy picking up a fallen coin. No way that I could ever be ...But STILL.
  • I Fear, of being SO slushily cloyingly happy all the time - about the whole bunch of blissful things marshaled around for me, by the fate's design, THAT it makes me ignore about the finer little details of life... glum or gleeful... low or high... black or white. I fear of being just happy, rather than being happy with a meaning to life. 
  • I Fear, of feeling dull and sloth in the morning sun, when a whole bright day grins at me with the red carpet rolled out in full anticipation.
  • I Fear, of my changing point-of-views, twittering as if they would render me groundless on the soil, like a helpless puppet with strings tangled up on a performance floor. Becoming absolutely disillusioned from a whole lotta of beautiful things. There's very few more worse things in this world than the sight of a MAN struggling with his own point-of-view. I don't want to become that MAN.
  • I Fear, running out of things to talk to an intimate friend/love, while (s)he still can have some time close to me, and that too after a long time. It feels like a mute stupid coldfish, I tell you.
  • I Fear, of my elders not reproving me at wrongdoings--for they remaining snugly secured with the thought that this bloke is a bit grown-up 'now'.
  • I Fear, of thinking too much all day and night; and yet feeling sick being deprived of thoughts when my eyes are hunting for one...whacking me off to remind that I am nothing but remain a question in itself.
  • I Fear, looking out of the window, lost in following some unknown streaks of light, when the music close-by would be playing my favorite tunes, that I would miss later for sure. Don't we miss much of things because of this.
  • I Fear, of being unable to convince, enlighten, empower someone about the veritable virtuosity of certain great things in this world, of the intrinsic beauty--irrespective of whether (s)he would love it or not. Love is a choice that comes later many a times Ignorance is bliss, but only ephemerally. Most of the beautiful human creations (not just Art) in this world need to be felt, rather than just seen. Most of them need your good time to earn your appreciation.
  • I Fear, from the sheer fragility of the words "I have to tell you something..." and the way it lands on heart sometimes, like an airplane lands on the terra firma, cutting through the cushion of air all around.
  • I Fear, of writing to someone now, for (s)he may not reply. It happens and I ain't priggish about it. All of my thoughts then make me feel uselessly helpless, like an over burnt cigarette stub, lying sopped in spit for always.
  • I Fear, (even) of my ephemeral indulgences and binges, for they might obscure me from the silent smiles awaiting, the novel simplicities that could just spark all my nerves, the one snapped flash that makes one want to be smarter, the smell of the green grasses, the dappled monsoon sky...
  • I Fear...
Why did I stop so early in the list. Perhaps I Fear, that...
What all do you fear of, really?

PS: That day when I did the activity on fear, I also chanced to meet and know an amazing person in life ever, as she came there for the first time -- S.
:)

Image: Flickr

Monday, June 2, 2008

Shall We Dan...?

Isn't it a wonder that some really good people inherently despise some really good things. Its so much interesting then to hear some slick words of hatred emanating out from those hearts...They seem to be so appealing :P Here's a piece of gem from Stephen Fry, that I am talking about:
I hate dancing more than I can possibly explain. I hate doing it myself, which I can’t anyway, but I loathe and resent the necessity to try. I hate watching other people do it. I hate the way it breaks up conversation. I hate the slovenly mixture of sexual exhibitionism, strutting contempt and repellent narcissism that it involves. I hate it when it is formless, meaningless bopping and I hate it (if anything even more) when it is formal and choreographed into genres like ballroom or schooled disco. Those cavortings are so embarrassing and dreadful as to force my hand to my mouth...

Wow that's something mouthful. For the unintroduced, Stephen Fry is an English comedian, actor, filmmaker, humorist, writer, novelist, poet, columnist, television personality and a technophile. And a good hater (shouldn't we add?) When someone mentions things like 'necessity to try' or 'hate doing it myself, which I can't anyway'...it appears so sickly, depressing and hopeless you won't even like to sympathize for...like those pale eyes of a starving black cat just about to die.

However what I like about the excerpt is that it questions the basic idea of loving and detesting everything around us...isn't it? It's very modish for the irrational self within us to crush any piece of Art down onto plain matter-of-factness, to enslave it as a puppet of our whimsical afterthoughts. And again it's very easy to label some opus as 'remarkable', with a tittering acceptance, while still being stupidly ignorant about its beauty.
But then I wonder again: 'Do we need an occasional rational lens to look through everything...and is that all, is that the end of the
story.' Of course not.


Lets try to hate something, probably with an Alien's eye, and then see. What is it that they call as Soccer - a bunch of hooligans running so mindlessly behind a round rolling useless object, kicking out of their mundane frustration and shouting the shit out of themselves, just to defend a pretentious flagpost and invade that of the enemy?...What a waste of aggression and creative energy...Huh.

Lets rip Cricket for that matter. 22 men trying strangely hard to both love and punish the round little thing, turn by turn...for no real reason. Catch it, throw it, smash it, aim with it...it's still round, tough and silent. Why so much fuss and drama happening at the pitch...Why these maddening acts of self -flagellation on the green grasses. What are they really trying to prove with those flings - that they have better eyesight for the little thing...or that their 11 men can torment any milita with those wooden cudgels?

I'll pause to be ridiculously cynical and cheesy about the above things...I haven't had that bad day today. There are no
extremes of loving and hating something actually.

Lets come back to the Dance again then - a performance art we humans started probably even before we had the name for it. If you allow me talk lofty then I would probably say, with a sophisticated smile: That those rhythmic movements of the body, those alignment to the recurring beats, those consummately controlled movements...all help to connect with the inner self, to the natural design, to our subconscious expressions...Stop thats enough!

Sincerely speaking, any good piece of Art - as someone has rightly said - offers more than it admits...and it shines on its own. Dance, with its umpteen performance styles, evokes feelings possibly inexpressible in the language. It showcases abstract movement dynamics, and connects to the viewer with its own encrypted alphabets and refined vocabulary. It is governed by the same Physics of the Worlds as is any other motion.

From the melting tenderness of Viennese Waltz, to the fabulous stamping of Argentinian Tango, to the characteristic formations of American Square, to the supple torsos and entwining waist movements of Latin Salsa, to the articulate thumps and perfect-angle jerks of Break Dance, to the evocative ground movements of Kathak/BharatNatayam, to the lifted windmilling legs of Italian Ballet... Dance stimulates innumerable potent images of human expression. Those frozen moves, those mesmerizing body flows and impulses - steal every possible representational figure our body can exude. The overwhelming soundscape and the instinctive beats make the legs fluid.

Dance has a liberating effect. We see a spinning lady and her subtle expressions, and we quickly feel affiliated to her silent control over the sheer fear of executing just a superficial bodily ostentation; over appearing staid and restless; over the vulnerability of nervousness; over her unfailing trust on the supporting partner...

I would never doubt that Dance brings in a different dimension of self-realization, as I've observed the class acts closely now. Outside, it appears downright chic, heavily entertaining, flashy glamorous and melodic... but on-stage, to the performer, it's again a delicate balance in the midst of his/her ego and attitude, her composure, her hidden unsettled anger, her love for freedom, her fear of appearing flimsy and detached to the onlooker, her creative quotient, her...
Much of our life remains a delicate balance...isn't it.


** I love Soccer and Cricket as much as Dance, but mostly I can play the former two in my mind only.
** I have a Group Stage Performance in the next couple of days,
courtesy RSDC...it's pretty big Show actually. Hope my body allows me. Wish me Luck...

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

Seven WEIRDest Things About...Me.

It's very easy to bump onto something around the net, that you can't not think less about, and that just stipples across your freaky self libido. There is this "7 Weird Things About Me..." meme that stuck me and mercilessly stole away my sleep last night - Yeah even my slumber fingers are feeling dreadful now as it continues with this incessant key-tapping.
Anyway at last the weird self within me has been gracefully weird enough to recall these weird set of things that relates to me, unfailingly:

+ I spend most of the times formatting any soft document than reading inside it - maybe close to nineties in percent. Because I can't get whats cribbed IN there! Those ugly creepy words.
Last week I had to finish up this Excel sheet which hardly contained more than 400 words - A ten-something list of some software rules that would closely resemble, in its contextual simplicity - the DO's and DONT'S of public toilet system. I spent seven sober days religiously staring 'around' that Excel. But yeah at last it turned out very colorful, with all non-flashy color grids that could settle any artist's aesthetic urge...
Other than this, I also tend to scream inside me when I see something like...sspeling miss-takes, or a space between a comma and its preceding word - that's blasphemy! - a comma must follow the word immediately and urgently.


+ If there's something for me that's just slightly less tougher and quirky to understand than the Theory of Relativity, then it would be my Salary Structure - all its bits and components and exactly why I am getting what. I should admit I'm grossly promiscuous about money and probably among the most generous taxpayer to our Fin Min. And did I miss anything about Credit Cards? If my lender has only 1000 loose canon customers just like me then it would've made fortunes out of the magnanimous interests I pay to them. I've decided I'll soon tore my cards away into nothingness.

+ I like Spywares when they hunt my system, just because of their innocuous begging to seek my attention, and I feeling dignified enough in ignoring them. Yes it's that pride you would feel being a playboy ignoring all the flirting chicks around you - Nah! none of them are good. I like spywares, because of the inherent weakness in their spiteful design. I like the flashiness in their evil stare at me and the same intensity of indifference I return to them. Few of them ran into my system sometime back. I did nothing, I didn't panic. They have disappeard by now, and I don't know how...there's no cruel Anti-Virus sentinel on my system, I'm too lazy to install one.

+ There's something called 'changing directions' people remain unsure about, then the 'lonely directions' one has to toil in darkness, and then this 'sense of direction' - which I've been deprived of all (since birth?). Like they say: "A man loses his sense of direction after four drinks; a woman loses hers after four kisses...” Where did I lost mine!
A terrible Example: During my past commute to the workplace, I used to get lost On The Way to office & back home, more too often - all through the six months I existed there. Heck! there were too many mindless criss-cross fucking streets I can't just catch hold of. A faithful friend made me remember the simplest path all through the maze...By the way, would you believe, I also get confused of the 'Left' and 'Right', the 'East' and 'West' etc around me, and pretty often have to think few moments to correct things.

+ For quite sometime now I've been in pursuit of mentoring few young guns, who more often come out to be more mature and sensible than me :) Result is: You remain surrounded by novelty of thoughts which closely test every bit of assumptions you've weaved of the world around you. It tempts you to start things all over again from the first baby step on the ground you took in life, but again you realize in a moment vulnerability - that you are now big brother to somebody, who inadvertently would look up to you.
And as for these 'somebody' (kids), they seem to construct, out of their sizzling imagination, a spunky world thousand miles away from the 'real' one that we have weakly assumed to exist around us - the world so infirm, jaded and impaired.


+ I always thought of people half-hanging in the Mumbai local trains as of Daredevil stunt-men. I mean, for the novice, can there be less hand-clutching heart-pounding moment than to ride at 85-100 Kmph with half his (her) body mass out into the screeching airs. Do they had such a bad time at home last night? 'Hang' and feel fucking free isn't it?...You know people 'Fight' to get a place at the edge. Living on the edge - exactly. Anyway the weird part here is, now I also feel comfortable doing the same. Standing IN there. (Why? Ask My Maker.)

+ I've a habit of getting admits for higher studies abroad from good places, And of not going finally :). Because it's exactly after all the fire fighting and getting a coveted call, that I come to realize I'm not at all suited for further studies. Perhaps the point of return is a guiding intution that remain a bit lazy in its job. 1, 2, 3...And counting. And yes I don't seek pleasure in boasting about them. I'll pause to let you construct your own sensible joke out of this.

That's all...I don't have anyone to tag to on this post...:( what about you?

Image Courtesy: Flickr, stock.xchng & everystockphoto. ]
No Exaggeration PUKED, Anywhere. You see, I Love Facts. ]