Random Walks

What is this place?

2011-04-06T21:33:00.000-07:00

Do you have this feeling...this distant, fond, amused, unbelieving, forgotten, and most importantly, disruptive feeling...? This feeling when fragments of what you once were, or thought you were, now floating like space debris on the web, have collided with your present self resulting in a rude awakening into a dream that was? It's like bits and pieces of you were swept away in the wind of time, and trying to gather them all into one heap that you can take with you seems hopeless if not vain. Who was that guy anyway? Time for a template change. Old wine in a new bottle... that you expect has matured over the course of one precious full year and some months of loose change. Not even close. All this time, what was remembered as a promise of a blossoming bouquet realized itself into a stale, cheap odor that can only be attained by a constant neglect. The rawness around the edges, which was once explained away as that of something tasted a few moments before being cooked, led way to a woody dullness. And let's not even get started about the after taste. There is none.

This cannot be a revival. And it won't be. Instead, it is more like the old bones that some people stumble upon when digging for the foundation of a shopping mall. Now, the relatively curious bystander will want to guess - are they the bones of a previous land owner? A prehistoric human, perhaps? Someone who has experienced what it was like to go through all this and who probably has answers to your questions today... could it be? All these are highly exciting but missing the obvious - that bloke's now gone. Gone.For good. All that remains is a bag of old bones, and someone who looks at them, if at all, with the interest of a person browsing yet another consumer catalog at the dentist's waiting room.

The Angry Young Man

2009-11-23T19:33:00.000-08:00

In the modern history of the Indian daydreamer's psyche, there was a time when blatant heroism buttressed by uncontrolled wrath toward injustice was considered a worthy quality in a protagonist. The hero of that era was often from a middle-class or poor financial background without much hope of making it big because of what was considered an epidemic of corruption. Perhaps the anger in the hero was, if not in greater measure, a part of the common man's irrefutable reality. Many, many movies made during that time reflect this theme in various settings. I know of one such person, who was a hero to me when I was but a little kid of 10.

It was just after the summer of 1989. The entire city of Hyderabad was still swaying to the tunes of Mani Ratnam/Ilaiyaraja's melodious Geetanjali. My elder cousin sisters were still in awe of Aamani paadave and Om namaha. Heck, even we learnt Jagada Jagada and Nandikonda so completely that our parents wished we were as precocious in our school lessons (incidentally, nandikonda song displays sheer genius in nonsensical lyric writing set to brilliant score - show me one song of this genre of recent times that can compare!). Nagarjuna, who was a sad chocolate boy or at best a hebetudinous vestige of his father's acting legacy till then had just started making his niche in movies with Geetanjali. If Geetanjali took Nag to his first massive success, Shiva simply catapulted him into the Stars. It was this movie that made knuckle dusters and cycle chains so popular in fight scenes and pop culture that every kid of age knew how to use their plastic counterparts for destructive purposes. It was around this time, the hero of this post, my eldest cousin MD was of an age when a boy metamorphoses into an angry young man and a champion in the eyes of kids and peers.

MD was a tall, lanky guy with a great warmth in his smile. He was unpredictable, as in one day he went to the local barber to shave his head completely to the utter dismay of our family's rather wide gamut of conservative attitudes, and at the same time, super knowledgeable in matters that amused us no end, as in where to buy those orange leather trousers like Chiranjeevi wore in that movie. He could sport an electric blue or a Rorschach blot shirt and still carry it off with elan. To us, he was what Winnie Cooper's brother Brian was to Kevin Arnold from Wonder Years - cool. Now, while MD never knew this, we kids knew that he was at least interested in Ms. V from the ground floor of their apartment complex (if memory serves right). We used to wonder when we would be of an age to have a girl friend and shave our head not in Tirupathi, where our parents would force it on us, but through our own volition in the sanctum sanctorum of the style of the youth, the barbershop.

Now, every hero must have his villain. I have no memory of the poor guy's name, but let's call him Govindrao. Govindrao was a small, compactly built man with languid features. Govindrao was so bald that it was joked about that his wife did her make up using the reflected light from his shiny round pate. What Govindrao lacked in features he certainly made up for it in character. He may not have been a real villain, but to us kids he was no less. He was the arch nemesis for an evening cricket game or the morning water fetching operation (this was the time when everybody had to get up early in the morning to fetch water from the municipal tap downstairs). It was also rumored among us kids that he wasn't very popular among the grown ups either.

This place where my cousins lived was called IB towers, I pretty much spent my entire free time there, where the ground floor overlooked a huge mud courtyard leading up to a concrete alley running to the main road. The municipal water sump was just around the place where the mud courtyard met the concrete alley way. We kids used to play in the long and numerous corridors of the different floors of the apartment complex or in the mud courtyard/concrete alleyway.

It was a late summer morning, one of those days when we had no school to worry about. We kids were running about and playing in the first floor corridor with plastic clubs and Rambow (a fantastic amalgamation of Stallone's signature machismo bow with the ultra-traditional weapon of Lord Ram). We did not know how it all started, but the kids who were closer said that they heard of some argument between Govindrao and one of our aunts who was trying to get some water. All we youngsters knew was that Govindrao said something bad to her and she couldn't control her tears and she left the place.

As if what was about to happen was portended by the weather, there was a dust storm brewing up swirling sand from the courtyard. MD must have come down so quickly none of us saw him coming. From here on what happened can only be expressed as a montage of snapshots. Govindrao in his brown shirt and checked lungi trying to face MD who stood a good foot and a half above his bald pate. MD chasing Govindrao through the dusty alleyway and back into the courtyard. Govindrao tripping and falling and trying desperately to run but forgetting how to regain balance like a little kid. Govindrao squirming to let go off MD's vice like grip on his collar. And, a blur of action without any suggestive background music, except for the silence fused into the air along with by our bated breath. The end result: Govindrao with a cut on his lip groveling in the mud courtyard and MD with a wrath so great, we were both completely mesmerized and utterly scared. With that one glorious act, MD established himself as one not to be messed with. One who would not condone anyone who mongered ill will or heaped unjustified slander. He was the quintessential angry young man, the last of the kind we would ever know in real life.

It is true that MD calmed down so much in later years that it was unbelievable he was the same guy who whacked sense into Govindrao. MD has since married Ms. V and they have a beautiful daughter. He has taken an extraordinary interest in spirituality and is by all means a very knowledgeable person who understands the value of tradition. They live in New Jersey devoted to a life of peace and happiness.

P-P-P

2009-11-20T19:39:00.001-08:00

I don't even have to say it. Of course, this will be an inconsequential fart of a post in a galaxy of blogger supernovae which changes the gas concentration of the universe at the 10^38th place after the decimal. I would not even talk about such things normally. But, that is exactly why I can write about it. Had it been more "important", I wouldn't have taken the time to sit at night to punch these keys! Who in their right mind would do that after an entire day's (I mean lifetimes') work of a few zillion mouse clicks and key strokes punctuated by curses hurled at Microsoft Word for just reasons or otherwise? All those key strokes have to matter. They are supposed to provide intelligent insights. Too much pressure to matter and be something. Damn.

Let's gossip! My Bengali friends call this P-P-P: Para ninda, Para charcha, Para stree (I hope I got the last one right!). In other words, gossip of the lowest kind which is highly entertaining to us humans.

Para-stree:

My boss, let's call her UGH, is an overweight, overworked, under-social creature suffering from carpal-tunnel syndrome who works till 5:30 pm on a day she is supposed to have taken an off on. The rest of the days she is there before I get in and she is there after I get out. She is there. UGH has several issues: early in the morning, during the one-on-one meeting detailing the day's work, she would suddenly be at a loss for words, not because of my "sterling" work, but because the poor thing cannot breathe. She suffers, struggles, pants, gasps, and swims over the edge of her desk as I look on helplessly. She reaches for her asthma inhaler in a bag the size that can hold a small bulldog and shoots twice while her iced-coke from Wendy's looks coldly upon us from the table. I sit rooted to the spot lest I should be flattened in the confusion.

Sometimes, she has a brace on her left hand that puts Terminator's to shame for its technological modernity, and she cannot use her thumb to do anything evolution allows humans to do; for example, exactly what I use to twiddle because I cannot understand much of what's going on. To her, I must look like a Neanderthal who's just figured that thumbs (and brains) are actually functioning parts of the body. She has a controlled impatience with programmers and newbies which, coming from her corporeally enormous frame, looks like a ruddy, rumbling volcano which decides every time that it is not time to explode... yet. I do feel sorry for her sometimes when she is desperately gasping for breath during an asthma attack but will not get out of the office to get fresh air (although I wonder if that does her any good during an asthma attack) or when she has a brace on her hand and she is punching those keys with extra vengeance on a holiday.

Para-charcha:

My roommate, let's call him OW, is a balding, young American guy with a goatee that he trims in the kitchen, and a rather large frame that he carries around in a tomboyishly-feminine way. I cannot determine exactly what is effeminate about him, but masculinity certainly comes out the wrong way for this gentle giant. He is studying to be an audio engineer and keeps out of the way most of the times. Of the few occasions when I can sense his presence in my waking hours, it is his dramatic and unsettling entry into the house characterized by a high-pitched yelp which he thinks is a song of some kind, that certainly deserves first mention in a series of idiosyncratic oddities. He is also some sort of a budding musician who is "trying", which role he assumes exactly after a half past one at night. I wake up from some pleasant dream, where I am romantically involved with my sweet yet geographically distant wife, to twangs and pangs of pain of an electric guitar that he is transmogrifying into an acoustic guitar. Being in a semi-stupor and a semi-shock of being rudely awakened, I can neither move nor cry for help. I swallow the courage to act and give away to yet another beautiful, hypersomniac rendezvous. In the morning, I find the remains of a disembodied guitar spreadeagled on the couch with a broken neck and spewing veins (I'm not kidding, the strings sprout from it from all sides).

Sometimes, if I am at home during the day time, I hear what can only be described as a continuous wail of a cat with its tail stuck in a low-current power outlet. Upon inquiry I gather that he was praying. It is also interesting to note that he immediately follows this cacophonous act of worship with some serious online video gaming. For some weird reason, he would then want me to disconnect and reconnect the modem every few minutes. This particular ritual of killing the modem can drive a man crazy since there is no problem with accessing the internet. And, he can keep at this video game for particularly long hours, the kind of determination I wish I had to finish that damn thesis. I would have gladly given him the modem to keep in his room, if there was a cable outlet to connect from there. Alas, there is none.

Between yelps, wails, and strumming, he sometimes finds time to cook Indian food which he loves. The result of that cooking spree can only be described as a series of cruel and torturous murders of meats and vegetables sometimes cooked for over 3 to 4 hours! The evidence is overwhelming to ignore. The kitchen becomes a live experimental station to genetically alter not only the contents of the feast but the dormant insects in unfathomed crevices of the house which run for dear life while considering if the Earth's atmosphere has finally given up buffering human blunders.

Para-ninda:

This category, I am not a big fan of. But it will surely come into play when the people concerned with this post will vilify and maliciously heap slander upon my good name. From their point of view, it will then be para-ninda. Also, it is frickin' 2 o clock at night/in the morning! Time to say bye-bye.

Bye-bye.

Resistance is futile: the Borg song

2009-09-12T08:10:00.000-07:00

Peel the layers and look within

don't you see your inner machine?

Give in willingly, and we'll be gentle

'cuz you ought to know, resistance is futile.

All for one and one for none,

we face no fear under the gun;

we look down upon the loaded barrel

'cuz we certainly know, resistance is futile

They say "you've bottled emotions",

and have other odd notions;

we make'em wince for their taunts puerile

'cuz they better know by now, resistance is futile.

Self and Me

2009-08-12T22:06:00.000-07:00

There is happiness

in a space called me,

how spacious am I?

There is sorrow

in an emptiness called me,

how empty am I?

There is space and

emptiness, happiness and sorrow

in a space I call myself

and an emptiness

I call Me.

Personal geology

2009-04-20T21:35:00.000-07:00

In the end, I am a rock

that knows how to breathe,

with the core of a volcano

of emotions, and a crust skin deep.

My face is wrinkled or young;

impressions left by a world

all governed by tectonics

of internal pyschology.

I'm an engine for building

mountains of hope that crumble

under the weight of time, the folds

and faults are left for all to see.

I hold oceans of tears under

a frosting cold exterior;

my summers are just blinks,

my winters last the Pleistocene.

My character is sculpted

by tides of time chipping and

dusting out the glaring outcrops,

balancing inherent energy.

I gaze at each moment

as if it were eternity,

it gazes back at me as if

I were a moment in its story.

In the end, I'm a rock

that knows how to breathe,

I'm a piece of the earth

and the earth a piece of me.

Unbelonging

2009-04-19T17:38:00.000-07:00

not a whim of yours

not a mould of clay

not your wishes poured into a body

not your thoughts filled in a mind

not your soul to claim ownership

not your pet spirit chained

I am ... not yours today...

Blue asylum

2009-04-18T16:55:00.000-07:00

Now there, don't eclipse my vision

don't walk in to the picture

don't silhouette my world

with this light I don't want to see.

I hung the planets just so, the stars look just fine,

scratched the night's dark canvas with my thumbnail

and carved the crescent moon just so.

Now don't tell me my painting's tilted.

Don't say there is happiness around the corner,

beyond this well-lit road of contentment, I'll only walk

till the corner, only to return to my dark house.

Now don't tell me to light my house with hope.

Don't silhouette my world,

with this light I don't want to see.

The audacious madman...

2009-04-15T19:13:00.000-07:00

Didn't take them long,

to see that gaping hole

in the middle of their empty lives.

Didn't take them time,

to feel the clock

ticking away years of their frozen lives.

Didn't take them far

being stupefied

by their hopelessness.

Didn't take them by surprise,

when life offered itself

and they lived upto their helplessness.

How many men are brave enough,

to know this hopeless emptiness?

How many?

Religious Tolerance

2009-03-04T16:04:00.000-08:00

Only as a half-hearted pursuit of the rather elusive vagaries of the mind, I was trying to find something funny about religious tolerance. To be more precise, a funny image that diffuses the rather grey clouds that often hang around such chronically heavy topics. Well, for one, I couldn't find anything even remotely funny. I surely wanted to feel disappointed once again, now that it is almost becoming a habit. But, as my boss would want me to believe, no result is sometimes more insightful than a positive result in research. For once, may be, I found the perfect guinea pig topic to use this vaguely supportive assurance from my supervisor.

So, may be it is quite difficult to find a funny image about religious tolerance since everyone is so damn serious about it. But then what is religious tolerance? That's a question that is surely bound to come up. And, what is religion? That one is bound to come up too. I know of people who want me to define and refine my notion of religion along with specific examples of how I apply it when running through this cockroach race track called life. This is like the question, "would a cockroach survive a nuclear bomb?" and voila! to get an answer we test the nuclear bomb... and hopefully there are instruments that will survive the blast, cuz we won't. So, why subject such an atrociously difficult and potentially harmful question to an answer that can't be tailored to everybody? Well, what the heck! I can snap up one adapted memory strung through a series of random sounds/images from a distant past that may provide a better answer than I can hope to put in words.

The morning sounds in a city like Hyderabad are myriad; the swish-swashing of brooms in the street, the namaaz in the morning blaring in the background, the bell ring of the milkwala, barking dogs, mooing buffaloes (if mooing is the word I want), the vegetable seller invigorated with a new pavarotti-ish voice for a new day, M.S. Subbulaxmi waking lord Venkateswara up, dad's flipping through the newspaper which always resulted in grunts and sighs (curses?), and simultaneous coffee sipping which can only be described as the most perceptibly thorough audible satisfaction of having settled in life, the maid servant's tinkering with the vessels, mom's cooking sizzling in a chorus of rice cookers going off while the fresh drinking water falling into the pots and pans adds a timpani drumline -metal spoons clanging together incessantly like cymbals... in short kumbhakarna couldn't have asked for a better alarm in the world that can compare to this confluent dissonance.

Then, when I get out of my house either while going to the bus stop or driving to college, there are inevitably perceptible temple bells, a cow-cart bellowing devotion through loudspeakers of Sai Baba's songs, political rallies with agendas being propounded on bullhorns, sometimes congregations of telugu christians singing hymns of the Lord, Son of God, waste-paper wala shouting at the top of his voice, children running to schools with pitter-pattering feet, bus horns, auto rickshaws' unique horn that reminds us of an orgasmic elephant, traffic buzz... even today when I call my friends while they are commuting to work in their company cabs, I hear all these sounds --when they ask me what I am doing...I reply, confounded by a rather silent background noise on my end, that I am commuting back from work.

Around lunch time, along with all the above noises, a new call for prayer from a nearby mosque, people cheering for India in a cricket match, sounds of crackling dosas, sizzling vadas, steaming biryani, lunch boxes clamoring for those morsels of aural space, and this continues in the evening only shattered by a devstatingly loud ayyappa bhajan somewhere in the apartment complex. If it is a festival of some kind, ganesha's songs do duets with either a nasal male voice or a chorus of Lord's songs -- in short, this is the religion/country/city/life/experiences I was exposed to. The tolerance came from accepting all the noises from various sectors or showing equal disdain to the city's borborygmic sounds. To come back to the questions, religion and tolerance of other religions to us was in that we didn't ask that delightful combo of Osmania biscoot and Irani chai what its ethnic origins are? Or that fantastic veg roll what its geographical roots are and if it has place in our diet as compared to our historical and spiritual truth? Or that hot jalebi and mirchi bajji? In fact we discuss this stuff eating one of these tasty comestibles. And, I don't ask the people who got all this stuff for me to enjoy if they deserve to live in this country based on religious roots .. If it is a matter of picking my faith absolutely clearly that conforms to some accepted labeling scheme, I would fall somewhere between a veg roll and Andaa biryani who votes for reheated frozen pulihora and ranch dressing as a terrific combo.

This time from the memory was also a time when I was beginning to read everything under the sun on what I thought was spirituality (since, obviously, I wasn't much of a "religious" person) - Vivekananda, J Krishnamurthi, UG Krishnamurti, Richard Bach, Ramakrishna, a little later The king James Bible, Yogananda, Upanishads... I thought it would be funny to write what I think some of these sources would say about religious tolerance if we were ever to catch them at moment when the enjoy the lighter vein (since I couldn't find a funny picture that says a thousand words, I wrote a thousand words which I hope will be funny).

Vivekananda " I already spoke at the parliament of world religions, when I said Brothers and Sisters and everybody clapped I realized how long this whole religious tolerance thing will take -- I didn't live to see it"

J krishnamurti "What is religious tolerance? Let us inquire into the meaning of it. Is it beyond thought or is it a thought that we want to investigate? Is it a concept in our mind or is it an existing reality...a fact? If it is a thought then does it have any reality outside our mind? Wait... I am confused..."

UG Krishnamurti "What nonsense is this hullabaloo about religious tolerance? There is no religion, there is no tolerance...There has been no qualitative change in man's thinking; we feel about our neighbours just as the frightened caveman felt towards his. The only thing that has changed is our ability to destroy our neighbor and his property.It is terror, not love, not brotherhood that will help us to live together. Until this message percolates to the level of human consciousness, I don't think there is any hope.and this whole religion business is bullshit."

Richard Bach "I hate organized religion. I think religious tolerance itself is a religion... what I said here could be wrong"

Sri Ramakrishna "All roads lead to Calcutta. You should ask Narendra or Yogananda for directions. Or I can give you a "kick" start - I don't need to know where you come from"

Eckhart Tolle - "Is there something called as religious intolerance or tolerance in THIS MOMENT? Out of the stillness of our presence will arise what can be termed as tolerance".

King James Bible First line: "In the beginning God created heaven and earth." Last line " Amen". The rest are details.

p.s. Deep respects for all the channels of infinite knowledge. All of them love a little fun.

Kalidasa's Verse

2009-02-17T00:28:00.000-08:00

Vaagardhaviva samprikthau
Vaagardha pratipatthaye
Jagadahpitarau vande
PaarvathiParameswarau

I first came across this verse in a musical form in the movie Saagara Sangamam. Roughly translated,
it means (Source):

in order for my words and their meaning to have close affinity,
I pray for the blessings of Parvati and Parameswara who are
the parents of the world (jagatahpitarau) and who are also
entwined as closely as words "vak" and meaning "artha"

There are, most likely, more involved explanations of this verse and its various interpretations.
As I ponder on the meaning of this verse, it strikes me that we grow learning to equate a
word and its meaning. The word Mother is equated with the person who brought us into this world.
It was a very effective way to name things so that we could talk about them. As we grow older, and as
we begin to name more unquantifiable things (Nature,emotions, experiences, even "Mother" and
people for that matter) it only becomes more obvious that the words and their meanings seem to be
diverging ever so imperceptibly. Sometimes it does seem like words are somewhat chained and limited,
in the end incapable of conveying the totality of experience that we hope to associate with them.
No wonder it takes a spiritually evolved and humble poet to acknowledge the difficulty of conveying
one's intent/thoughts through words!

On a different level of understanding, I want to say/believe that the divine presence in everything,
That or Tat (in Sanskrit), is beyond words and their meanings . Because, even Parameshwara is an
aspect of this divine essence no matter how high up He is on the list. This probably points to us
that the spiritual pathway may be found beyond words (spoken or written).

A rebuff to "Slumdog: 'Poverty porn at its worst' "

2009-02-16T12:58:00.000-08:00

On the eve of the 81st Oscars, Rediff has published an opinion article by a former diplomat (a cheap journalistic ploy in pitting against the author of the novel Q&A), Mr. T.P. Sreenivasan, which in essence accuses the now mass-favorite Slumdog Millionaire of being exploitative and hence the paraphrase "porn at its worst". While Mr. Sreenivasan's credentials may be outstanding as a diplomat, his opinions expressed in the article about this movie miss the point: the movie is not about India; a part of India forms the backdrop for a fictional story of Hope (albeit heavily masalafied). The movie is more believable because of India and not the other way round. And, to date, I haven't really met anyone who thought this was a real story. Had the article been one dissecting the plot of the movie (like another Rediff article ) I wouldn't have had too many issues.

The article claims "... the film is exploitation of the novel, of Dharavi, of poverty, of Rahman, of India itself to titillate foreign audiences. It is the exploitation of the new curiosity about India's success. The curiosity today is not about maharajas and snake charmers, magic or rope trick, but about the market and the malls, the computers and the cell phones. " Well, the movie is about hope - for popcorn lovers; if the plot was set in a poorer country which has no access to the riches floating in front of the poor and a Who Wants to be a Millionaire show, would it be even as convincing as a movie ? (given that the plot is wafer thin already) The novel and the movie take the existing realities of India and spin a fictional tale. Leaving aside these purely cinematic liberties, the article accuses the filmmakers of exploiting everthing portrayed in the movie as everything-India. Why so touchy? Come on! the western world is not as naive as the author makes it out to be - people know that it is a movie...and yes, many visitors (NRIs included) do direct a lot of focus on the dirt and filth in India, but they also know that there are terrific cultural aspects and and a deep history that really are why they are interested (if they aren't interested in these, then is it really India's fault?). And, just because AR Rahman won international acclaim through this film neither makes him the only symbol of India's success based on a story of a slum boy nor should portrayal of Dharavi and poverty be the only image of India that stays in world audience's minds. Rahman didn't have to do the movie, he did it because he wanted to do it not because he would be exploited what would we call Lord of the Rings Play, Warriors of Heaven and Earth then? exploitation would be when he accepts a Karan Johar movie). Think of it more like a culmination of events which finally showcase ARR as a true world class composer that he is. (BTW the music is only so-so for this movie --- it just works well as a part of the movie, not as an album).

And the theme of equating everything in a movie with India continues... " The police officer mentions Amnesty as the disaster, not the possible death of the victim of torture. The police man appears to enjoy torturing and even insulting the victim. He provokes Jamal by referring to Latika as the 'bitch of the slum.' The torture scenes do not add much to the story, but denigrates India even more than the slums do." Oh oh.. 'cops beat youth to death' is probably an oft repeated headline... where's the reality check? We were proud and not so proud about India inspite of all the crap we had to go through growing up. The slums are no more denigrative to India than our superefficient court/police system...(which by the way sentenced an old man for a few years for accepting a bribe for an absolutely paltry sum, some 20 or so years ago and lets our ministers roam freely). But then is that all there is to India?

And it goes on through the entire article "

It was not necessary to rake up the dirt in India to create a film to bring Oscars to India. India rejoiced at the Gandhi Oscars, but Slumdog Oscars, if any, will only highlight how India became a victim of exploitation. (poor Danny Boyle didn't even think it would be widely successul. If Oscars pick this movie is it the film's fault?)

But the celebrated song at the end of the movie sounds like a parody of the national anthem with the use of the phrase, Jai ho! (Please, give me a break!!! )

The fact remains, however, that the novelist and the makers of the movie have brought to light the horrors of Dharavi. If the passion it has aroused could be directed towards a mass movement to combat the evils of the slum and to eliminate the slums altogether in stages, that would be an appropriate response to the movie. ( had I read it in any other context I would have appreciated this call for support)

The fact is, we are really touchy people when it comes to (or not) anything remotely Indian.... and what do we do about it all? You won't have to guess if you read this article in Yahoo...and certainly not if you watch a news channel in India (which by the way is far more denigrative to India than an innocuous masala Indie film). Oh well, like someone said, I need to find more bugs in my numerical code...

Reflections

2009-02-12T23:28:00.000-08:00

Whose face is this you are wearing?
Behind what facade are you now hiding ?

I knew you well once, long ago,
when you wouldn't have thought twice to let go
this fogged veil, this opaque veneer,
behind which you now seem to disappear.

Is it my folly I let drops of time grow into this ocean between us?
Why is it that I walk miles, when just feet separate us?

This silence, once our understanding through words uttered not,
is now between us clamoring for expressions you forgot.
Your feigned taut smiles are decidedly plastic,
the unpretended awkwardness too caustic.

I peel these layers, one by one, hoping for a spark of recognition,
you present me yet another form unreal, yet another apparition.
While disbelief slowly creeps into my mind,
you watch my desperation, being unkind.

Tired, I beg to see the face behind the mask,
"Is that what you really want?", you finally ask.

Like a magician divulging his ruse, you uncover layer by layer
revealing first an artist's muse, then a lover's betrayer;
then, a bard's final idyll before an audience fiend,
a devotee's unrelenting idol, and a long lost friend.

As you draw even nearer, an image is reflected,
growing ever clearer,bearing a face unsuspected;
in solitude's mirror, I only find myself
staring back at the void between me and my Self.

The genius of Sirivennela Seetaramashastri

2008-11-10T21:29:00.000-08:00

Eppudu oppukovaddu raaa.. Ootami...
Eppudu vadulukovaddu raaa ..oorimi..
Vishraminchavoddu e kshanam..
Vismarinchavoddu nirnayam..
appude nee jayam nischayam raaa

Ningi enta peddadina rivvumanna guvvapilla rekka mundu takkuvenu raaa..
Sandramenta goppadina eedutunna chepa pilla moppa mundu chinnadenu raa...
Paschimana ponchi undi ravini mingu asura sandhya okka naadu neggaledhu raa..
Gutaka padani aggi gunda sagarana eedukuntu toorupinta teluthundi raa...
Nisha vilasamentasepu raa...ushodayanni evvadapu raa...
Ragulutunna gunde kooda surya goola mantidenu ra...

Neppi leni nimushamedi jananamina maranamina jeevithana adugu adugunaaa
Neerasinchi nilichipote nimishimina needi kaadu ..brathuku ante nitya gharshana.
Dehamundi pranamundi netturundi sattuvunti ..inthaakanna sainaymundunaa??
Aasa neeku astram avnu..swasa neeku sastramounu....aasayammu saaradhaunu raa
Nirantaram prayatnamundaga nirasa ke nirasa puttada..
Aayuvantu unna varaku chavu kooda neggaleka savamu paine gelupu chatu raa....

An attempt at translation

Never accept defeat, my friend,
never relinquish your patience,
never rest for a moment,
never forget your conviction,
then victory is certain, my friend!

The vast sky is small before a soaring fledgling's wing,
the great ocean is diminutive for the gill of a swimming parr.
Hiding in the west, the devilish twilight has never won by swallowing the sun, my friend,
the ungulped fire-ball swims across the ocean to float in the eastern threshold!
How long can the night make merry?
Who can forestall the sunrise?
The inflamed heart is a fiery sun, my friend!

Is there a moment bereft of pain between life or death at any step in our life?
A debilitated spirit cannot seize this moment.
Life is an incessant war;
our body, our life, our blood, our strength - is there a better legion to fight with?
Hope is your weapon, breath is your armament, the goal is your charioteer;
when we ceaselessly endeavor thus, wouldn't hopelessness itself be hopeless?
As long as life prevails within, the pusillanimous death can declare its victory only on a corpse!

Never accept defeat, my friend,
never relinquish your endurance,
never rest for a moment,
never forget your conviction,
then victory is certain, my friend!

Verses

2008-11-05T21:20:00.000-08:00

The Perfect Lover

Five minutes of your day,
a perfunctory phone call,
a filler when you drive,
a prize you can flaunt

An emotional punching bag
a willing venting board
a nonreactive listener
a nonverbal talker

A vocal supporter of your wild ideas
a silent critic of your bad ones
an unending provider of dough
an unyielding pillar of strength

an expert mind-reader
an imitator of your thoughts
an attention showerer
never an attention seeker

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I've questions I will not ask
You have answers you will not give
We used to pretend normalcy
now we normally pretend

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thoughts of a 21 yr old

2008-07-18T08:13:00.000-07:00

~Destiny is not a stranger popping out at the turns of your paths or around corners you took, it was walking beside you all the time - you were only too busy walking and turning to take notice of it.

~What if you found that life has a purpose greater than pursuing "the truth"? That of no purpose at all

~The world doesn't make sense, it is you who try make sense of the world and complain that you cannot.

~Our universe could be a (bad) try at a (wonderful) dream...there may be others!

~A blink of your eye could be the lifetime of a thought. Remember that.

~Do you know what it takes for a moment's understanding? A moment... and understanding...

~Solitude has a peculiar quality; it shows you in the mirror of silence

~ A poem is an expression which surrounds the freedom of an emotion with no boundaries

~Time is a hurrying guide in this world's fair; he never lets you get on the merry-go-round

2008-07-14T17:27:00.000-07:00

I am what I am. You are what you are. Any conceptualization of who/what I am and what you are is a limitation of thought. Even if I define myself within the narrow confines of words and thoughts. Can we grow beyond thought? Can we really be?

2008-07-11T10:06:00.000-07:00

I am not a static frozen thought. I am ever-renewing and ever-moving.

2008-07-11T09:54:00.000-07:00

Regret is the mind's past echoing in this moment
Anxiety is the mind's future reflected in the present

What is in this moment? What is now?

Who?

2008-07-05T10:01:00.000-07:00

They are meditaters in an ever consuming battle with their thoughts. The crisp clean white, their their battleground and also their chance for peace. They understand their thoughts only by constantly indulging them, lest they should lose sight of their enemies. It is a funny world they live in - the uninterrupted flow of sword slashes in their key strokes delights them in unexpected ways. Their hands feel the urgency to move thoughts onto a more visible canvas; strange that they let their enemies win in the end!
Their's is a relentless pursuit of unimperfection, for there is no perfection in what they do and, the good ones, they know this. But that does not necessarily mean that their work is imperfect. While they begin seeking life in seemingly dead lives, including their's, they follow it to escape into the worlds that lurk beneath the surface of what we barely notice. They never let their minds dictate what is to be given life. They let only their hands decide their fate.
This is what they learn in their meditations - the biggest enemy had always been the voice in their head. Yet, they let it win so that others may notice their thoughts turned to words to be perceived again as thoughts...

2008-06-07T14:14:00.000-07:00

I still have questions which are redundant,
You still have answers which are inconsequential...
They sought to escape from our introspective pursuits...
Now we pursue moments to escape from them!

Sigur Ros

2008-06-02T20:43:00.000-07:00

"Music expresses that which cannot be said on which it is impossible to be silent" - Victor Hugo

I used to say (and still do) "how would a person in Iceland react?" to understand a universal human basis for happenings in my life. We don't hear so much about Iceland normally. I used to think that Iceland was inhabited by some variants of wild people still wearing animal skins. Don't know why. What a pleasure to be utterly wrong! It is apparently one of the most egalitarian and well-developed societies. Reading about it I pictured a near-utopian society and could not help but yearn to learn more about the culture and the music.

That's how I came across Sigur-ros. It is an Icelandic music band which has truly original compositions that are beautifully picturized in the videos below. I do not understand a word of their music... but when did it ever require a word to grasp an emotion?

Hoppipolla

Glosoli

Saeglopur

Svefn-g-englar

The first patient

2008-06-02T17:47:00.000-07:00

"Malcolm, do you know why you are here?"

"Yes, I do."

"Could you please tell me in as many words then?"

"I do not feel like I, this neuro-biological-conscious-entity, am living life first-hand anymore. I do not have control on any aspect of my existence. I am a third party observer seeing my body and mind being used."

"Used by what, Malcolm?"

"Something I don't identify myself with."

"You don't think you have control on anything - how come you brought yourself to see me then?"

"I told you that I don't control anything. You can choose to believe it or not."

"Can you tell me what this ' something-I-don't-identify-myself-with' is?"

"I thought I have made myself very clear about that. I don't feel connected to anything I do or say. I do not feel in sync with my life. I can hardly feel motivated to get out of bed or even get ready to go to work. I only made myself believe that I can keep doing this and I was wrong. I really feel that my patients, most precisely, my most seriously mentally ill patients, have recognized this absurdity long ago. It is this missing the beat of life when I try to play along that is frustrating. I have become a mere observer while my life passes me by changing me every moment, extracting so many layers of my personality - some I do not want to deal with. This is something I don't identify myself with. I was a confident, up to the task individual, who loved his work and family. I have no feeling for all that anymore. In fact, I do not have any feeling inside me when I tell you this."

"How are you able to carry yourself in a job like your's, with all of this going on in your mind, Malcolm? Does anyone know how you are feeling? Did you talk to anyone else?"

"If I could, I wouldn't be here would I?"

"You have told me previously that you love your wife and kids. You have a large group of friends and colleagues who are close to you. Why is it that you couldn't talk to them?"

"You see, I have done all my duties respectfully. I provided for my family. I have been a good father and a good husband. I have been an active listener to their problems. I didn't judge them. My friends and colleagues come to me to talk about their issues. I have only been a person who listens...for all of them. And you see, so much goes on in the mind of a person, it does not become evident to others that they may not really know them even after extended association. They do not ever take me as seriously as they take themselves."

"Do you see yourself as being able to solv..."

Knock knock.

"Dr. Leary, your first appointment is here."

"Are you sure Lisa? I am just getting done with one right now."

"Dr. Malcolm Leary, you are really funny. You always number me as your first patient. Shall I show Ms. Ramsey in?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*******~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dan in Real Life

2008-03-19T16:38:00.000-07:00

When you are struck with flu and spent three days in bed without much of a conversation with anybody, hallucinatory self delusion notwithstanding, Dan in Real Life is a terrific movie to watch. Now, this is a terrible way of introducing a really good movie... but like life some of the interesting things come only in vague unrecognizable ironic shapes. That's what makes Dan in Real Life really wonderful. Steve Carrell is Dan, the advice-giving columnist dad of three girls at different evolutionary stages of womanhood (which never seem to have an end really!) who is suddenly struck with the inevitable thing - not death- but love. Just know that there's Juliet Binoche (that should do it for most guys), the guy who plays frasier's dad (tv), and other faces you will recognize and bond with almost immediately. Dan's family is quite charming and predictable in a nice way. The plot details are so complicated that any attempt at telling you that would be waste of everybody's time. But the story is really really simple. The set-up is that Dan finds himself in an extremely complicated situation during a family vacation in his parents' house. How different themes of parenthood, adulthood, kidhood, love, family, passion, obsession, luck, fun and all of these things come together in an American sort of way but thoroughly resonating with almost every person who wants to have a family or has a family is the quintessential sales pitch. I had terrific fun watching this movie partly because I could see a part of all the people I knew in each of the characters. Steve Carrell does a really good job carrying off a comic yet sensitive role. You got to take it that the story is sort of predictable at times and surely so in the end, but I had fun in the little moments and that was enough. Don't expect too much, then may be you will enjoy it too.

Now go watch it. But stay away from the flu.

Loukyam

2008-03-11T00:11:00.000-07:00

One of my best friends is having trouble at the home front for no reason - we tell him "sardukupovali" (adjust). Another is having to pay for his internet service that he did not have - and - the customer service, if it can be called that, does not respond - we say have patience. My girl had been stopped by the traffic cop for not having the correct window tint on her car, which, let me refresh you, was neither specified in the safety inspection report nor any piece of paper they give you when you get your car registered. Of course the law will say ignorance of the law is no reason for not having the correct window tint - sure! you make up these teenie weenie laws that no one is allowed to know and then fine them for it... must be one of the biggest scams I have heard of. Of course everyone told her to go to court and pay the fine, including me. No point in going to jail.

We call this sort of survival sense in an irrational world loukyam.

We never solve problems - we only know ways to avoid it. And more intelligently than the previous generation.

2007-10-19T14:41:00.000-07:00

J.S. Bach (21 March 1685 - 28 July 1750)
Mozart (27 January 1756 - 5 December 1791)
Shyama Shastri (26 April 1762 - 6 February 1827)
Thyagaraja (4 May 1767 - 6 January, 1847)
Beethoven (17 December 1770 - 26 March 1827)
Mutthuswami Dikshitar (24 March 1775 - 21 October, 1835)

6 composers of unparalleled genius in a time frame of about 100 years.

2007-08-06T10:08:00.000-07:00

"Whilst in no sense, I hope, either a religious or a political fanatic, I have for some time felt convinced that the crisis in which we are all involved is one calling for a thorough reexamination of our whole scheme of values and of loyalties. In the past it has sometimes been possible for men to “coast along” without posing to themselves too many searching questions about the way they are accustomed to think and to act — but it is reasonably clear that our age is not one of these. On the contrary, I believe that we are rapidly approaching a situation in which we shall be compelled to reexamine our willingness to surrender responsibility for our thoughts and our actions to some social institution such as the political party, trade union, church or State. None of these institutions are adequately equipped to offer infallible advice on moral issues and their claim to offer such advice needs therefore to be challenged"
- Claude Eatherly, weather reconnaissance pilot for US Airforce in the Hiroshima Mission

Other Interests

2007-06-27T18:50:00.000-07:00

Read my post on the music mavericks for a sample analysis of IlaiyaRaja's music.

Desi Ads

2007-06-21T20:53:00.000-07:00

2007-06-20T15:46:00.000-07:00

I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea, and at last wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the Stern Fact, the Sad Self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Woody Allen and the subconscious

2007-06-20T10:42:00.000-07:00

This coffee table is different. It has a porcelain top with cast iron legs. The top is sprinkled with pieces of broken glass pressed and smoothened into the texture. It all seems like one table top. Not broken glass and porcelain. But one fabric. If the table ever fell, only the top is vulnerable, the legs will never break. He ran his fingers over this seemingly unified thing made up of fragments. I vicariously felt the smooth glazed texture gliding by my fingers. Two steaming teas accompanied an old chess board with pieces strewn in a mid-game position on this very table top.
“I have a mortal fear of snakes, you know” he said, not looking away from his fingers that slightly gripped the table.
“I know” she said without shifting her gaze from the black cardinal. The huge French window overlooking the table was blurred by a silent rain, dulling her striking features.
“It’s not just a fear; there are these constant and incessant dreams on snakes. Not just once in a while but almost every week now”.
“Mm hmm”
“I mean imagine this, all my life, from my childhood, I have been brainwashed by people surrounding me, by TV and movies, that snakes are these vicious creatures, vengeful and perseveringly cunning - it has been drilled into me by all those snake revenge movies. Remember that movie Nagina? Or the slew of snake movies? Or how Darryl Hannah reads the power of a black Mamba’s venom to a person bit by one? And there was this novel that was even translated by P.V.Narasimha Rao into Hindi, A Thousand Hoods? Remember how Rowling describes Voldemort as having snake-like features...slits for nose? It is all around us, a negative connotation to the image of snake. Doesn’t do anything to curb my fear. It only adds to it and compounds it subconsciously.”
“Yeah, but snakes are animals like the rest. Some tear you up, some bite. Everything has a defense mechanism.” She shifted in her chair slightly uncomfortably.
“But in these dreams I don’t ever harm any of them. They still try to bite. They still hiss. Ahh.. that hiss... it drives me insane”
“Look, just because they hiss you don’t need to be afraid ok? They hiss because your sheer presence makes them afraid. They are confused and their only instinct is to strike to avoid hurt to themselves. And besides this is all just in the dreams, what are you worried about. Check”. She deftly moved that white rook into a black square in line with the cardinal. I can tell she doesn’t like attacking much.
“Don’t you see how it relates to us? Don’t you see that every time you say you want to take a vacation by yourself, without me around, it triggers the emotions I feel about my last two marriages? I let them go by themselves and they betrayed me. For some reason, I associate your personal time with a fear that you’ll leave me too. Although consciously I know you won’t I can’t help feeling it. Then you call me from your holiday and tell me the great time you are having. I just can’t handle it.”
“We’ve been over this a hundred times. I just need some time. Sometimes you are so impossible, whatever I do you’ll get ticked off. For no apparent reason. If you have come to terms with the fact that I won’t leave you, then you won’t be afraid. And I keep listening to your fears over and over again. I know it all.”
“Well if you knew it you wouldn’t be doing this to me. I understand you need time by yourself every now and then. But not now, not when I am having my snake dreams. Not when I fear this much.”
“Look if I left you, what would happen? If we belong together we’d naturally come together again. And you have to make the move by the way.” She turned a shade redder. In that murky darkness, I could sense that something was about to happen.
“Remember that time when you were all lost and afraid. Remember how I was by your side all the time? Remember that night, how you cried and sobbed? Did I ever say anything that I wanted to take my personal time off then? You don’t leave people when they need you most.” He moved the black knight to defend his cardinal and king, thwarting the rook.
“Well you don’t put it subtly either. You assume some thing and never even bother to check if it is true. How I wish you knew a little more subtlety!” She pulled her knees to her chin this time, tightly hugging them.
“You know what this table reminds me of?” I said now, “ ... You two. All your little fragmented fears, and insecurities, tightly bound and pressed into your relationship, like pieces of broken glass. I’ve always liked this one so much. It seems so smooth, so unlikely that these fragments could have ever had distinct individualities of their own. Yet they all gel”. They didn't seem to have heard what I said. No one moved.
About this time, my uncanny premonition that something was about to happen had entered the tangible domain. The floor began to shake; a few tiny cracks appeared on the tabletop, slithering into the center and the sides. A few glass fragments began to chip off from the porcelain, rattling behind the quaking room. But the chess pieces didn’t budge. Not one of them. Not the rook or the king or the cardinal. The cups of tea vanished first. The two people in the room were clutching their chairs. Not one word. Then the table became pure porcelain. And then it vanished too. Suddenly all that was left were the two of them, hanging in mid-air clutching invisible armrests, with a chess board, game intact, floating between them. It seemed like they were all frozen in a white radiant light. I heard bird chirps as the whole scene was flashing. Then silence. A few chirps. Then silence.

Then the alarm clock beeped.

A Country Song

2007-06-17T13:47:00.000-07:00

Well I've been thinkin' quite a bit
'bout you more than I show or admit
and it's time I thought you knew
that there's no one like you

So...

I'm drivin' to you in my brand new car
I know your place, and it's far
it is home after home
but it was home before home

The road's full of miles I can't feel
told you I'm comin', no big deal
and you said you'd believe when it's real...
when you hear the sound of my automobile

So...

here I am waitin' by your door
with flowers I never got you before
It's time that I said to you
dear GrandMa' - I love you...

- your's truly

Grace

2007-06-14T14:56:00.000-07:00

That moment when I should have been graceful I wasn't. That moment when I was required to understand I didn't make the effort to look over my own issues and mind-squalor. Growing is not easy... it takes every bit of the last molecule of consciousness and awareness to be a better person.

Forgive me for not being the best I could be. I'll keep trying.

Dil Chahta Thha

2007-06-10T14:04:00.000-07:00

This is a story you have heard many times before. But it always feels as if you can learn the story's point by reading or watching a movie or something. Not true. Neither is this an attempt to do that. You've heard the story of Sid, Sam and Aakash before. It happens quite a bit in our lives as well... except for the endings of course. There is no conceivable ending to these lives. Except of course that grand finale called death. Our real life Sid has found love. Aakash denies love with vengeance, Sam has decided to marry. The pursuit was always happiness... and it just barely eludes the three of them... they feel the wisp of the invisible satin that love is and associate it with happiness... but we know that is not true... where love is happiness has a chance of surviving...the survival rate is never 100%

There is a curious dialogue in "The Bridge Across Forever"..."Either the woman is a balloon and the man a weight or the man is a balloon and the woman is a weight or they are both weights. How many couples you know are balloons? One, Two, any?" And Leslie replies "Two. One".

Sid is currently contemplating that... he wants to know if he is the weight for her. If he is pulling her down... he understands that even with the right person there needs to be a frame of mind where two people really see each other. He knows now that when he closes his eyes, he never sees a No in his mind when he thinks about her. Never. The sad part is he is not sure if she sees the same... for some reason he thinks she has to think of him the way he thinks of her. Now that is not fair is it? In deep introspection he meets his insecurities and his doubts about himself. He even goes as far to think she deserves better. Even after her mentioning the contrary. He feels if she thinks now that she is compromising - he really doesnt want her to. What do we say to Sid? He makes his own world, he faces his imperfections very harshly -- he just wants to see her happy. Is it too much to ask?

Sam is ready. He is going to tie the knot. He says he is happy. Sam feels he had to take the leap of faith -- but with some caution. Somehow it always worked for him. He takes a strange looking step but he ends up happy. But at this slice of time life is strange. Every person's way is his own. Being told that your way is right or wrong is probably the worst thing one could do. Is it possible to be happy living the way Sam does? It's his way... as long as he is happy... we say. Life is full of possibilities for him.

Aakash drives love away. Only because he wants it so badly. He doesnt ever want to say that, but he needs it more. He built invisible walls all around him and called them qualities that "the one" should possess... which if he is allowed to look at make quite impressive structures which are almost impregnable. He wants that person who will cross all these walls and come to him to take care of him. But he wont scale any walls. He wont even budge. In fact, even with people who approach him as friends, not lovers, are driven away because he thinks he deserves it. What makes him feel so wounded?

Everyone knows that life can only be understood backwards but lived only in the present and the future. The heart that once ached for the desire of the loved one is trembling in the presence of one... what does it take to be accepting without feeling the compromise? what does it take to take a leap of faith? what does it take to live?

what does it take to love?

2007-06-02T16:14:00.001-07:00

Happiness is an imaginary condition, formerly attributed by the living to the dead, now usually attributed by adults to children, and by children to adults.
- Thomas Szasz

Now that's funny...

Chasing coincidences...

2007-05-17T07:06:00.000-07:00

So I was in a flight from north east to south east. Shabby hair, a yellow shirt, torn jeans, the usual reluctance to dress up for the airline community which nearly makes you feel naked everytime you go through the security. They even make you take off your slippers which are almost like those gel soles in your shoes - really! there isn't enough shoe in it to make a shoe bomb. Or a slipper bomb. And, since I was sort of late for the flight they didn't let me check-in. Fair enough. But I wasn't expecting it. So this resulted in more mental trauma of losing a five-year old shaving gel that had been the only accessory that travelled with me from India to this country. Now that I recall, the gel was a present from my Dad on his boy's journey across two oceans. The other was a chinese massage spray whose uses are better not expounded here. But I digress, so I was in this flight.

One of the things I love about flights (and there are few) is how I can forget all the buzzing of the plane and my head and immerse myself in a book. Which was what I forgot to pack. I took a deep breath and plunged into the seat-back cover in front of me, pulled out the first magazine that was large and pored through it. There wasn't much except ads for expensive golf clubs or resorts or cruises. All the things that made me suddenly grope for my purse to see if it was in the right place. It was. But my fingers also touched papery material. I knew I had nothing papery anywhere near my purse. Not even those green ones. The man two seats from my side had a bald head, hairy hands, and a pile of papers he was writing remarks on. The sheets encompassed his seat, the empty seat between us, and encroached upon the space where I rested my derriere. This wasn't helping. I needed a book. Reluctantly I put the magazine back in the ammunition of ads where it belonged. Where my hands chanced upon a smooth spine. Could it be? It definitely was. Be careful for what you ask for, I can make up that my grandma said that, it might come true. Mine was not a wish...it was more of a whine...still. So I pulled out a book.. a true book..not ad smeared sky mall mags. A real book which had a palm showing six fingers and a title of Possible Side Effects. Augusten Burroughs. It couldn't be bad. Not with such a title. Must have been left by a previous passenger or may be long ago and nobody bothered to look. I felt like I returned from a successful military reconnoissance. Enemy lying in deep trenches of flying machines. Possible snipers. Good work Rob! Let's get'em!

The book was a funny, sad, shocking, and always interesting collection of memoirs of an alcoholic junkie gay man - the author. What was endearing was that he never imparts a sense of self-importance to his character even though he talks about himself most of the time. And they are not all sad either. He led a life that I wished never to have gone through myself but would want to learn from. So there was this one memoir that will be helpful to continue our writing here. It's about John Updike. I didn't know who he was. But apparently Burroughs starts buying signed first edition copies of John Updike the author on the insistence of a female friend...so that when John Updike dies they would make a lot of money. The story ends in more of a funny self introspection on the author's values but however no action is taken to curb the greed. He is human... I liked that. But John Updike is a name that somehow got etched in my head, possibly in gold and lined with red paint. Up and dike. Something about the name I guess.

Two days later, back at school, working on research, I found my head buzzing again. A slew of problems confounded me - really you dont want to know. On an impulse I wanted to get some coffee. I chose a Border's to get that at. To accompany my coffee I searched for books cursorily. Not too much later, I walked back to the table with an almond latte and John Updike's early short stories. I have tremendous respect for short story writers. They convey so many little insights in just a few pages and you can always choose to skip a story and read another one. O. Henry, Roald Dahl feature among my favorites. Now a new addition would be John Updike. His unifying theme for every story was that life never lets you give yourself up completely ...always holds something back. And Mr. Updike's language is very unlike any other short story writer I have read. At once american and strongly valuing the humanness of the subjects. I had to get the book....but didnt want to buy it. Libraries make it possible. School libraries definitely so. So I headed home with an armful of John Updike's books for my night time reading for the next few weeks to come.

It simply amazes me. If I had missed that flight I wouldn't have known about John Updike. Or Augusten Burroughs. I have become the person chasing these little secret messages crypticly sent to me. They leave me with a sense of wonder as if the chain of life's links is getting clearer...as if a pattern is emerging of a higher intelligence capable of moving through life with lesser fear, and more acceptance. May be the chase is more revealing than the destination.

May be I am writing this instead of my dissertation. May be I should head back to that.

2007-05-11T11:04:00.000-07:00

Our dreams are unlimited. They are what we aspire to be and what we are at the core. Don't blame them. Blame our choices... those limit not just our dreams.

2007-04-02T13:42:00.001-07:00

DO NOT THINK. DO. NOT THINK.

2007-03-08T15:36:00.000-08:00

There was a time when I read books like an exploring wanderer... every sentence carefully marinated and enjoyed. Now-a-days I run through a book as if I'm driving on the interstate - no contact with the external world - no presence of self - just mindless driving. I wanted to read something which will slow the whole process of motion and probably even give me an illusion of relative rest. So on an impulse I go to the nearest Borders. Within five minutes I come out with zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance - an inquiry into values. I have avoided this book for way too long now... reading only a few pages at randomly different stages of my earthly existence. The first few pages have totally revealed a sense of zen being... can't imagine how I kept postponing to read this book.

Iruvar

2007-01-25T10:29:00.000-08:00

Iruvar (Iddaru in Telugu) is one of those movies that definitely bomb at the box office. I remember it must have played, rather theater-trotted, for about a week before it was replaced by commercial entertainers. But that is the only non-unique thing about the movie. Infact it is unlike any other Mani Ratnam movie . What was so interesting to Mani about the lives of MGR and Karunanidhi that he made a movie about it still remains a mystery (despite the "this is not a true story" that begins the movie)... but his perspective of their relationship with each other is a true example of "beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder" concept.

The team was the same: Suresh Urs (editing), Santosh Sivan (cinematography), AR Rahman, Samir Chanda (Art) etc., as some of his other ventures. But Mani and his team achieve walking that perfect non-melodramatic tightrope film-making...the best part being - it is totally Indian in its conception! One might as well say this is one of the few true Indian movies. I don't intend to talk about the whole movie here but just wanted to illustrate my point with a single song (BTW this could be ARR's extremely researched as well as diverse score). Every facet of the movie is used to support the story and this is clearly established in the song Narumugaye (Sasivadane in Telugu):

Through this song Mani establishes parallel themes of on-screen and off-screen Mohan Lal. On-screen as a to-be-successful-hero, and off-screen - the hero to his wife. One of the most intriguing things about Iruvar is that, partly, it is a movie about movies. And this concept is fascinatingly captured in Narumugaye song. Beyond the obvious observations of usage of black and white for the "movie", and color for reality in Iruvar, the establishing shots of Madhubala for this song (acting probably as Shakuntala)are the marks of deep insight of one of the real heroes of the movie: Santosh Sivan (the other being editor Suresh Urs). Madhubala is potrayed as if she is being viewed by Dushyanta (Mohan Lal onscreen). A couplet of beautiful shots of shakuntala are followed by a single shot of Aishwarya (Suresh Urs has a clear sense of purpose in establishing the kind of romance akin to Shakuntala and Dushyanta during their courtship - so he edits the song as a montage of parallel themes). The editing for the "movie" in the song (in B/W) is jerky like in old movies and most shots are intelligently and deliberately shot as if it were an old movie... like pan and still.. or pan and zoom or just still being the primary tools for shotmaking. Of course Santy (our nickname to Santosh Sivan), has the additional job of using the same cinematographic design in some of the shots as the rest of movie.. so he uses a -45 degree angle shot with respect to the +ve Z direction (vectors!!) in the song every now and then - which is a typical angle used in the film's shot design.

Mani's conception is brilliant in the sense that Shakuntala is pictured to be around a lake ...titillatingly wet and on the other hand he portrays Aishwarya with the connecting element being water. Suresh Urs does a magnificent job of utilizing frame opening cuts, spiralling-in cuts etc., to clearly demarcate the "movie" song from reality. It is just awe-inspiring to watch Mohan Lal... he is almost regal and nearly serious in his portayal of Dushyanta on-screen, where as he is somewhat boyish and even playful off-screen in the song. At one point in the movie he conveys about four layers of emotions - that of friendship, chivalry for heroine, political motive, and a growing sense of power. The team uses fabulous blending techniques for scene transitions between on-screen and off-screen shots.... for e.g., Santy does his job of scene intro and cut, whereas Suresh Urs uses that transition as a means to edit... clearly forethought.

Scenes during the second interlude of music (the peacock scene)are depictions of symmetry and continuity in shot making and direction... when carefully observed they are shot and cut in such a way that each motion in one shot leads into the other...

Personally I think this movie is Mani's best work in terms of conception and execution... even Aishwarya Rai seems like she's perfectly cast in Iruvar which cannot be said for any other movie of her's. Mohan Lal and Prakash Raj perform exceptionally well... me, Aakarsh, and Ragz still get amazed at how aging of characters is potrayed easily by change in specs/glasses of the main characters or how Mani's trademark rotating-around-the-characters-shot is used so many times in this movie... this is a movie not for movie buffs... but for pure connoisseurs... a rare and exquisite wine served in an aesthetically delightful bottle.

Miracles are real...

2007-01-19T13:56:00.001-08:00

2006-11-17T22:29:00.000-08:00

The mind's lake is still. It's the calm after a cathartic experience. Or before a storm. Depends on how you take it. It seems like one could almost dissolve into the night and become one with the living moment but for the thought bent just a little inward. The undercurrent of thought beneath mind's placid lake...

I live my life in seemingly obsessive extremes. Too passionate, some tell me, for my own good.

When did contradictions become rarities? Instead of being the governing facts of life.
When was passion undermined by the mundane? When was a steadfast heart branded impractical? When did affection become conscious of its boundaries?

I warned you it is the storm... can you weather it?

Cynicism

2006-11-08T12:31:00.000-08:00

We live in times that place trust in distrust. It is very much justified to be cynical. We seem to act in self-interest most of the time. And that is how the world seems to be running. An act of kindness from a friend is necessarily seen as having an ulterior motive. With this frame of mind is there a chance for any "good" to survive? Or am I being cynical? Is there "good" at all? I don't know... it is so contextual that I don't know what to say. I hear somethings on the TV or the radio and I believe that somewhere in a remote Asian community somebody is doing "good". I get excited and the excitement dies equally excitedly- how do we know if it is true? Anything is truth in the media. Or is this conflict within me? I am not in the act of "helping". I am not doing the act. I am thinking. Being cynical. Does it "help"? Do I do this to satisfy my ego and say "I did good" or "I" did "good"? Does any of this thinking help an underprivileged community? How do I know if the money will be managed right even if I donate some? What should I do? Let's face it - these people need money. Even the little that trickles down to them. My being cynical will never help them.

Two words -- Trust, Action. The most cherished elements of humanity are never static. Love, Action, Trust, Faith. Always dynamic. Always need a constant will behind them. Always need action. Ego is what happens when none of these are. Cynicism is when there is no trust or faith and hence no love. I hope I will have the courage to not pretend lovelessness or faithlessness. I hope I will be hopeful.

Where to now brother?

2006-09-30T14:54:00.000-07:00

Laziness and OCD don't form a good team of traits. The room is in a state of disarray. I can't bear it and I don't want to do anything about it. May be I have an obsessive compulsive laziness disorder... this is the sort of thing that makes psychologists thrive. That makes me want to live like a person afflicted with a daily short term memory... and think that my life begins and ends with every passing day. In a way it is like being reborn in the morning to die in sleep, which sort of seems like a premonitary corollary to the reincarnation theory. I'm in no mood to stick to a topic actually. I'm one of those guys who likes to put paneer in upma... because it adds a textural dimension to the palate. I'm curious why Mohd. Rafi and Lata were singing in the background when Joel and Clementine from Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind were engaged in their conversation. A whole lot of people ever since I can remember have told me I just think too much. I ought to ask one of these days, what is the apt level of thinking oh! ye who have learnt that art? And why is it apt? There you go, aren't you already thinking that I think too much?

Intellectualization is just a seed for eliminating thought from the mind. It is like a necessary precondition. You first fill your mind with unimaginable crap and then begin decontamination. OK I'm bored now I am going to sleep.

A delightful alternative for the "always-quitting-meat-eaters"

2006-09-21T10:44:00.000-07:00

Let's call it "that dish"

You need:
Meal starters veggie crumbles - 1 pkt (beef look alike, made of soy/wheat. Usually available in the organic frozen section)
chopped onions - 2 (white preferably)
frozen cut spinach (don't use fresh spinach for a while (e.coli).. you can also substitute with methi or another leafy veggie)
Green chillies
ginger
garlic
garam masala
chilli powder
salt (each of these ingredients in a nearly 1:1:1:1:1) ratio..
chopped Cilantro (I usually put a whole cilantro farm into anything I make)
lemon juice

mix ginger, garlic, chilly powder, salt, garam masala (I've used curry powder with equally good results).
Heat oil in a sauce pan and get the onions, green chillies to sizzle.
Add meal starters.
Cook till the crumbles are soft and chewy (about 2 mins)
Add the spice mixture paste (ginger garlic etc) to the pan so as to evenly coat the ingredients
After 2-3 mins add spinach and mix till it thaws and looks cooked. Add some water (about 1/2 a cup should be good) and simmer for anoter 5 mins or till done.
Garnish with chopped cilantro and add lemon juice.

I totally love it!

Desdemona said..

2006-08-30T20:13:00.000-07:00

Is this air fragrant with poison I wilfully breathe?
Or is it my breath reeking with love you unsheathe?
Neither by sword nor by word, shall it die you said
but kill me you did, neither blood nor soul did I shed

Lady in the Water

2006-08-07T13:02:00.000-07:00

(Warning: Spoilers)
An interesting review of the movie--
source: http://www.rottentomatoes.com/vine/journal_view.php?journalid=333386&entryid=348597&view=public

"The Parable of the Lady in the Water
Lady in the Water (2006) The Parable: An earthly story with a heavenly meaning.
First, in order to understand the Truth behind Lady in the Water, we must understand the semiology of the characters and elements involved in the story. Each character in this narrative represents a part in all of us that either enables or hinders us from carrying out our ordained purpose.
Character Representation:

Cleveland Heap- Cleveland represents the average person who is living an idle mundane life. He represents the individual as a whole who is not fulfilling their purpose. This individual avoids their calling by preoccupying themselves with mundane labor that “anybody can do.” But, eventually their mind sees a glimpse of light and they come to the turning point in their life, which is why he is aptly named Cleveland, “Land of Cliffs”. He can either jump or stay on the land to make the difference God intended for him. We all have an ebenezer, something that is holding us back from acting upon our purpose. Cleveland’s crutch was his prolonged mourning and suffering over his family’s death, causing him to live a futile life. Only when Cleveland submitted his burdens before God did he become revitalized because his purpose became clear.

Story- Story represents faith and purity and Christ. Faith comes to us through Christ to make us pure in the eyes of God. Faith is difficult to understand and isn’t always clear. Faith becomes stronger when others believe, like having the guild and witnesses present during the resurrection. By accepting faith alone we can be redeemed and our eyes will see our purpose in this world.

Mr. Farber- Mr. Farber represents one of the devil’s greatest tools; he is the cynic, the empiricist and the pragmatist in us all. He is the devil on our left shoulder telling us that there is no purpose for us and that “everything has been done, originality doesn’t exist.” Mr. Farber allows history to be his guide instead of faith. Mr. Farber is that reclusive pessimist that will not allow us to take the risk of believing and in turn hides behind intellectual security. Mr. Farber is the person who was standing in between Cleveland and his pure heart (the pool) when he awoke after his encounter with the scrunt.

Vick Ran- Vick represents that ambition or passion in us all that knows our purpose but gets stymied by petty environmental distractions (laundry, light out). Vick has a powerful purpose, but he will not be able to witness his impact on this world directly. His influence will captivate another who will go on to captivate millions. Many people give up when empirical results are not achieved on the first attempt, but the impact of one person’s life can only be measured by the legacy that he or she transfers to others. The message in this bedtime story is: as long as you are carrying out your purpose you will feel complete. Even if your purpose seems insignificant in a worldly sense at the moment, it is contributing to a greater design.

Young Sun- “Young” represents the childlike faith in us all. We are told that we must have a childlike faith when we first believe; we have to deflect the influence of the degrading society, scientific theories, and have a strong desire to pursue faith and wisdom.

Mr. Dury- Mr. Dury (crossword-puzzler) represents the technical part of our mind that can only take us so far. Technical wisdom reaches a dead end when confronted with interpretative/analytical thought and leaves no room for faith. Technical intelligence can only satisfy a portion of our purpose, without faith we are empty, which is the feeling Mr. Dury got when he could not contribute any further to the cause.

Reggie- Reggie, the man who works out only one half of his body represents our physical strengths and weaknesses. There is a dichotomy in us all physically. We all have physical strengths and weaknesses that make us unique. That uniqueness enables us to fulfill our ultimate ordained purpose. However, humans tend to focus more on their weakness, which can ultimately blind them from their strengths.

Smoking Hippy crew- The smoking crew represents the phlegmatic part of us all that hinders the manifestation of our true purpose. If the phlegmatic part of us prevails, we become stagnant and end up clouding our finds and filling the voids with sinful acts and ideas. Idle bodies do not fulfill their purpose; therefore, they are not propelling the advancement of themselves or society.

Mr. Leeds- Mr. Leeds represents the voice of God in us all. His first statement after years of silence is “does man deserve to be saved?” Just as God, Our Father sought wrath on the sinful man, he has redeemed us through his Son. God wants to see the child-like faith in us all, just as Mr. Leeds said during Story’s resurrection. Cleveland’s answer of “Yes” to the question is wrong because man is undeserving and he needs to submit himself to the higher power and allow himself/herself to be used for His purpose. Mr. Leeds also exhibits omniscience as the only one who knows that the death of his family is what’s keeping Cleveland from living his purpose. Which is why Mr. Leeds constantly refers to Cleveland as “son.” Mr. Leeds represents our Leader.

Mrs. Bell- Mrs. Bell (old lady) represents the comforting maternal side of us all, the caretaker. She represents the comfort level that we all seek after. Where Mr. Leeds is representative of the comfort we get from our Father, Mrs. Bell reminds of that comfort which we received from our mother.

Mr. Bubchik- “The man with no secrets” represents our abilities to confess our sins. Although Mrs. Bubchik did all of the confessing for him, all of us have the ability to take the sins in our lives and offer them up to God and ask them to no longer hinder us from accomplishing our purpose. In Mr. Bubchik’s case, his ability to confess will take him out of reclusive bathroom and face the world. This is precisely why he must be present when we hand over our life to God; we must lay down those hindrances just as Cleveland did.

Joey Drury- Joey Drury (cereal box reader) represents that child-like faith in us all that can see the signs of God without being tainted by evils of society. They are that part in all of us that is pure and innocent. Joey is that part in us that sees God’s majesty all around us: in nature, in interdependence, in love, and most of all in each of our purposes.

The Sisters- The Latino sisters and Anna Ran represent our support system. They also represent our strong desire to be a part of a community, a family, the Body.

The Cove- (definition: a safe harbor or inlet) The Cove represents the place where we feel comfortable. The layout of the cove is like a person. The center of a person is the heart. Like in other Shyamalan movies, the water represents purity. The Cove’s pool is located at the center of the complex and is shaped like a human heart. Our body is made up of different parts that are assimilated into one unit that can carry out tremendous acts that the individual parts (tenants) cannot do alone. In an even more broad and Biblical sense we all represent the body of Christ that can do tremendous things as long as we are working together by fulfilling each of our purposes.

The Scrunts: The Scrunts represent the devil. The devil can camouflage as any façade so that we will not fulfill God’s purpose in our life. Just as the Scrunts could camouflage in the grass, the devil can camouflage in the form of money, fame, power, etc. We can only truly see that it is the devil if we hold up a mirror to ourselves and see us for who we are and see the devil as a separate entity (the leering red eyes). So many times the devil’s façade becomes who we are that we can not distinguish ourselves from the devil’s games.

Other Biblical Analogies:-The monkeys=The Holy trinity protecting us from the devil.-The Narf/Story=Jesus sent by his father to be the only pure being on earth, blameless of sin. The Savior was sent with a purpose to help us understand faith and take away our burdens that have hindered us. These burdens are lifted up through Christ just as he was resurrected, we can start our new life living in the Truth, living by faith.

-Rain=rain during the death of Christ, the pure and holy cleansing coming down from heaven.
-Eagle=represents God taking us home to Heaven. The eagle was shown through water because that is how God sees us now. Through Christ’s sacrifice and our submission we are made pure.

M. Night Shymalan’s ordained purpose is to encourage all of us to actively seek out our purpose. Just as his character Vick Ran claimed that people will not get it, (and from the many misleading reviews of this movie, people obviously did not get it) but if that one person gets it and fulfills their purpose then he will have fulfilled his purpose. All of Night’s previous movies have pushed us to find our reasons for living, our purpose here on earth. Joshua Beal in Wide Awake, was desperately seeking God’s purpose and he found it when he saved his best friend from a fatal seizure. Cole in the Sixth Sense had a special ability that could save lives and bring spiritual justice into a broken world, even though he saw it as a curse at first. David Dunn in Unbreakable realized he wasn’t a mistake and realized he was given his physical gifts for God’s purpose. Unbreakable, like Lady in the Water, attempted to bring a little light into that age-old nihilistic saying “If there is a God, how can there be so much evil in the world.” The answer to that is we are not God so we don’t know. But Night offers another explanation that some of the tragedies in this world like Elijah Price’s terrorist acts and Cleveland Heap’s family being murdered can bring a greater purpose to this world by strengthening individuals through tragedy. This could be God’s method to break that stagnation and bring out that ambitious drive that is in us all to fulfill our purpose. In Signs, God spoke to Rev. Graham Hess through his dream so that he will, like Cleveland, stop living an idle life by mourning the death of his wife and instead use that to strengthen him to fulfill his ultimate purpose which is to preach the Truth. In the Village’s allegory to 9/11 we all discovered that we cannot remain in a static place in time because of fear. We have to go on living and fulfill our purpose as individuals and as a community. This story is personal to Shyamalan, much like it is personal to all of us. Shyamalan is fulfilling his purpose even when the world around him, namely film critics (personified well by Mr. Farber), do not understand his message. Many have heard the truth, but not all of them believe it. Much like Jesus’ parables, Lady in the Water will be used to help people understand the Truth by applying the Truth to our everyday life. In this case, Shyamalan invites us to enter into this “Bedtime story” parable with that child-like faith so that we can understand God’s truth and apply it to our life’s purpose. Thank M. Night Shyamalan for fulfilling your purpose: In the great final words of Elijah Price, in Unbreakable, “Now that you know who you are, I know who I am!” "

Inside me...

2006-07-11T22:25:00.000-07:00

It is a constant annoyer. Never lets me rest. The mind is.. I mean... not unlike a summer swarm of Japanese beetles. You see, for ages I've held and sculpted this image in my head. Every chip in the wrong direction disfigured it - I thought... but only on standing back and looking at it doI realize that it wasn't about 'right' or 'wrong', but about perspective. I've held that image in my head for a long time... I grew so attached to it.. sometimes it was the receptor of my agony and also my exuberance. It was a phenomenal feeling to watch it everyday and talk to it. The trouble - I mean my mind's churning - started when the image got flesh and blood... when it became her...and started talking to me... and really understanding me. The thing is I'm cautious and honestly a little scared. Not that the image will bite me.. you know.. but that I might end up shattering the most beautiful thing I've beheld because of my doubts. How is it that my every thought, including syntactic structure, is laid bare before my own disbelieving eyes? How is it that there is no expectation from my image about me?How is it that I feel I expect somethings from her? How unconditional is my love for her? Should it be? I feel like I'm in an Escher painting where the floor becomes ceiling and viceversa... should one doubt the most beautiful thing they've beheld? Could someone be fooled for such a long time? Is this just the receding wave of my shattered defense mechanism? Do I love the rock-silent image more than the living person it transformed into?

How will I ever know?

An answer to Tree Fairy

2006-07-04T22:38:00.000-07:00

Tree Fairy asked me quite uncasually, "So what do you think about it? what good is quoting something without telling us what you think about it?". Of course she was talking about the post "Leslie to Richard". The Magus, however knew instantly, 'cuz even though he did not know why I wrote it, he saw lessons he thought he might have overlooked in that letter Leslie wrote. Lessons that reveal themselves in the various hues of perspectives evolving with experience and adventure.

Any other time I would have refrained from answering. Any other time I would have... but your question is not the reason that I choose to answer. It is rather your very true observation, "I know you'd want us to think you're arty and mysterious... but I wanna know what you are".

Today is when I take that garb off. Today is when I let the inner child free. Today is when I will answer. Not for you, but only to help me find bits and pieces of myself tucked away in the folds of that garb.

I've read Bridge across forever atleast half a dozen times (and that wasn't self flattering btw). The first time I read it I was too young and too giddy with my imagination to understand it. I liked it nevertheless. For it had beautiful strings of lines. I knew that the letter had more to it. I wanted to experience what it felt like to feel Leslie's words - for Richard was a dumbass without a doubt - No! my answers had to come from Leslie. So I did what Richard did. Be a dumbass and let Leslie find him. Every time the promise of Leslie appeared I tucked myself deeper inside my fortress. I knew that it was a sure way of isolating myself against fake Leslies...but it was also isolating the true Leslie from me. The wall works both ways - that was my first lesson. But why should I go through the way that I know did not work for Richard? Cuz, that was the only way I knew. And, back then in the place I lived, this was no easy feat.

I tried harder with each new adventure. Each new meeting. The harder I tried the harder it got. Why should it be so damn difficult? May be I hadn't learned enough yet. I read the letter every time to understand what it had to say to me. Each time it changed the lessons it had to offer. If it was on isolation the first time, it was the notion of lack of open dialogue in another. Then, on shedding hypocrisy. Then, on letting someone enter beyond the walls. The more I learned the more I appreciated the lessons. I still had doubts. Many. The help that the Magus offered in long talks and late night discussions allayed them to some extent. It stilled my mind for he did not offer answers... he listened to my silences. And he remembered echoes of those silences. He and you, Tree Fairy, have been the ground my Leslie stood on. I just had to learn how to put my fears down and stand on it. I must confess I haven't learnt it all.

But now, for the first time, I see the glimpse of that vista getting clearer from pulling down several veils. For the first time, I am on the edge of seeing vividly what lays beyond that last veil. I only have to reach for it and pull it down. I know I can see the landscape even without pullin it down. But I now KNOW that viewing that beautiful landscape is only the beginning of a new adventure. That it still needs exploration in order to learn more forever. Only now, I know that the map or guide will appear when I feel the need. That I will now have a co-adventurer who seeks to explore this same landscape. But I cannot explain to others what I have learnt. For as you can see it is not manifest because you imagine it. It is manifest because you imagine yourself in it.

So I copied what I had begun my lessons with in that post. Not put another veil induced by my interpretation. Each of us have that interpretation, it need not be spoken out always. Because if it makes it any better for one Richard to find his Leslie, the post had done its job. It is like a seed being spread on a fertile soil. The seed of an idea in the soil of imagination. My personal interpretation is a flood of unnecessary details clogging that soil. I have no intentions of doing that.

I hope you understand now.

Peace and love.
RW

2006-07-04T20:42:00.000-07:00

This ... is what it feels like to be alive

Leslie to Richard

2006-06-26T23:30:00.000-07:00

Courtesy - Bridge across forever

"
Dearest Richard,

It's so difficult to know how and where to begin. I've been thinking long and hard through many ideas trying to find a way...
I finally struck one little thought, a musical metaphor, through which I have been able to think clearly and find understanding, if not satisfaction, and I want to share it with you. So please bear with me while we have yet another music lesson.
The most commonly used form for large classical works is sonata form. It is the basis of almost all symphonies and concertos. It consists of three main sections: the exposition or opening, in which little ideas, themes, bits and pieces are set forth and introduced to each other; the develpoment, in which these tiny ideas and motifs are explored to their fullest, expanded, often go from major (happy) to minor (unhappy) and back again, and are developed and woven together in greater complexity until at last there is: the recapitulation, in which there is a restatement, a glorious expression of the full, rich maturity to which the tiny ideas have grown through the development process.

How does this apply to us, you may ask, if you haven't already guessed.

I see us stuck in a never-ending opening. At first, it was the real thing, and sheer delight. It is the part of a relationship in which you are at your best: fun, charming, excited, exciting, interesting, interested. It is a time when you're most comfortable and most lovable because you do not feel the need to mobilize your defenses, so your partner gets to cuddle a warm human being instead of a giant cactus. It is a time of delight for both, and it's no wonder you like openings so much you strive to make your life a series of them.

But beginnings cannot be prolongedendlessly; they cannot simply state and restate and restate themselves. They must move on and develop - or die of boredom. Not so, you say. You must get away, have changes, other people, other places so you can come back to a relationship as if it were new, and have constant beginnings.

We moved on to a protracted series of reopenings. Some were caused by business separations that were necessary, but unnecessarily harsh and severe for two so close as we.
Some were manufactured by you in order to provide still more opportunities to return to the newness you so desire.

Obviously, the development section is anathema to you. For it is where you may discover that akk you have is a collection of severely limited ideas that won't work no matter how much creativity you bring to them or - even worse for you - that you have the makings of something glorious, a symphony, in which case there is work to be done: depths must be plumbed, and separate entities carefully woven together, the better to glorify themselves and each other. I suppose it is analogoous to that moment in writing when a book idea must be/ cannot be run from.

We have undoubtedly gone further than you ever intended to go. And we have stopped far short of what I saw as our next logical and lovely steps. I have seen development with you continually arrested, and have come to believe that we will never make more than sporadic attempts at all our learning potential, our amazing similarities of interest, no matter how many years we may have - because we will never have unbroken time together. So the growth we prize so highly and know is possible becomes impossible.

We have both had a vision of something wonderful that awaits us. Yet we cannot get there from here. I am faced with a solid wall of defenses and you have the need to build more and still more. I long for richness and fullness of further development, and you will search for ways to avoid it as long as we are together. Both of us are frustrated; you unable to go back, I unable to go forward, in a constant state of struggle, with clouds and dark shadows over the limited time you allow us.

To feel your constant resistance to me, to the growth of this something wonderful, as if I and it were something horrible - to experience the various forms the resistance takes, some of them cruel - ofen causes me on one level or another.

I have a record of our time together, and have taken a long and honest look at it. It has saddened me , and even shocked me, but it has been helpful in facing the truth. I look back to the days in early July, and the seven weeks that followed, as our only truly happy period. That was the opening, and it was beautiful. Then there were the separations with their fierce and, to me, inexplicable cutoffs - and the equally fierce avoidance-resistance on your returns.

Away and apart or together and apart, it is too unhappy. I am watching me become a creature who cries a lot, a creature who even must cry a lot, for it almost seems that pity is necessary before kindness is possible. And I know I have not come this far in life to become pitiful.

To be told that canceling your date to help me when I was in a state of crisis "wouldn't work for you" brought the truth crushing down on me with the force of an avalanche. Facing the facts as honestly as I can, I know I cannot continue, no matter how much I might wish to do so; I cannot bend further.

I hope you will not see this as the breaking of an agreement, but rather the continuation of the many, many endings you have begun. I think it is something we both know must be. I must accept that I have failed in my effort to let you know the joys of caring.

Richard, my precious friend, this is said softly, even tenderly and lovingly. And the soft tones do not camouflage the underlying anger: they are real. There are no accusations, no blames or faults. I am simply trying to understand, and stop the pain. I am stating what I have been forced to accept: that you and I are never going to have a development, much less the glorious climactic expression of a relationship grown to full blossom.

I have felt if anything in my life deserved departure from previously established patterns, going beyond all known limitations, this relationship did. I suppose I might be justified in feeling humiliated about the lengths to which I have gone to make it work. Instead, I feel proud of myself and glad to know I recognized the rare and lovely opportunity we had while we had it, gave all I could, in the purest and highest sense, to preserve it. I am comforted by this now. In this awful moment of ending, I can honestly say I do not know of one other thing I might do to get us to that beautiful future we could have had.

Despite the pain, I'm happy to have known you in this special way, and will always treasure the time we've had together. I have grown with you, and learned much from you, and I know I have made major positive contributions to you. We are both better people for having touched one another.

At this juncture, it occurs to me that a chess metaphor might also be useful. Chess is a game in which each party has its own singular objective even as it engages the other; a mid-game in which a struggle develops and intensifies and bits and pieces of each side are lost, both sides diminished; an end-game in which one traps and paralyzses the other.

I think you see life as a chess game; I see it as a sonata. And because of these differences, both the king and queen are lost, and the song is silenced.

I am still you friend, as I know you are mine. I send this with a heart full of the deep and tender love and high regard you know I have for you, as well as profound sorrow that an opportunity so filled with promise, so rare and so beautiful, had to go unfulfilled.

-Leslie"

Murphy between dashes

2006-06-20T14:11:00.000-07:00

So. The devil has a new name. Don't believe me?

Event 1:
Take lunch to school - spill it on the floor - curse - be hungry - clean - spend money - eat good food - be not happy cuz spent money - be happy cuz food good.

Event 2:
Prof. calls - meeting - about another meeting - postponed - solid waste of one hour

Event 3:
Come home - prepare instant dinner - need ketchup - get ketchup - squeeze tube - squirt it on self - curse self - curse ketchup - atleast eat dinner at home.

Event 4:
Play tennis - suck - suck bigtime - back to home.

Event 5:
Friend call - miss many times - cuz cell fone discharged - friend angry - self angry - fone fight - no winner - apologies from both sides - i'm ok you're ok.

Event 6:
Good news - new plan from cellfone company - save 10 more dollars per month - happy - very happy;
Bad news- check customer webpage - see bill for 300 dollars - get mini heart attack - call customer care - they say everything ok - slight problem with computer - everything fixed;
Good news - self still breathing - able to move fingers.

Event 7:
Event 1 through Event 6 - time elapsed = 24 hours. Germany 3 - Ecuador 0; England 2 - Sweden 2. The ball is round. The game is 90 mins. But Murphy wins.

Pai Mei's Dragon recipe

2006-05-17T13:43:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: If you die after eating this recipe I have absolutely no part in your demise. You made the choice of making it.

Legendary Pai Mei is suspected to have been the originator of this uncommon noodle recipe. Of course this was part of his infamous lunch before he made mince meat of the monks - well known as the massacre at shaolin temple. The author, in his mid-day reverie, was visited by the calmer demon spirit of Pai Mei in the form of a dragon and was revealed this ancient yet savory recipe.

Ingredients:
- Hakka noodles (or any other noodle like thing you are fermenting dry in that kitchen closet)
- Onions (optional)
- Green Peas ( green peace!?)
- Carrots sliced long and thin
- Green chillies
- Soy Sauce
- White Vinegar
- Cajun seasoning
- Burger King's Zesty sauce (very little)
- Tomato Ketchup
- Black pepper
- Sesame seeds (optional)
- Fresh chopped ginger and garlic
- Anything I might have forgotten and you might want to add (like salt)

Preparation
Cook noodles in boiling water (notice lack of measures - this is only for the expert cooks who don't measure everything ;) )
Add butter to a hot frying pan along with chillies, and chopped ginger/garlic.
Add peas and carrots.
Let them rot on the pan for a few mins.
After the rot is rotten enough, offer soy sauce and vinegar to the sacrifice.
Sprinkle generous amounts of ground black pepper and cajun seasoning to calibrate to your or your guest's ability to ingest highly toxic food.
At this point empty the contents of a small sachet or packet of zesty sauce from burger king (these are free).
Toss hakka noodles (presumably cooked) into this gooey material on the pan.
Toss and mix to your heart's fill. Add salt to taste.

That's it.
If you are not satisfied, good luck. If you are still alive, your good fortune. Pai Mei will only take off your head while your hands still search for your chin.

Unknown Event. Bleeping coincidence?

2006-04-30T22:13:00.000-07:00

Prologue:

The movie "Magnolia" begins with a series of apparently coincidental anecdotes and the song "One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do... two is as bad as one - it's the loneliest number since the number one". After 3 hours into the movie, it rains frogs. Literally. And one question echoes: is it as simple as calling it a coincidence? Do our everyday events mean anything?

Part II: Consequence

Act-II:

It was far into the afternoon that I realized I had bathroom slippers on my feet. At work. Red straps. Hard foam sole.

Redox processes at sites contaminated with chlorinated organics.... gave way to a trance - the afternoon one. Then a face. No reason why this face should pop into the unconscious mind after so many years. But it did.

Act-I:

11:30 p.m. Previous day. Phone. Friend.
"everything .. every little thing we do counts...it has an effect...we work for one second a day, it counts...so does not working for the rest of the day...a coincidence is a poor characterization of what we have been blind to till now, even though it was right infront of us all along...we haven't looked hard enough". No goodbye. No goodnight.

Final Act:

It rained enough in the afternoon that I was glad I had the slippers on. Which I wouldn't have noticed if it hadn't rained. The little joy of saving your good shoes. But I forget, the good shoes can't be used anymore.

The face I remembered popped up with a nametag. I know not to rely on names suggested by daydreams in the middle of an afternoon trance. But I gave reliability a finger. The middle one. Like most nametags it only had the first name. That of an only friend I can remember from kindergarten. We doodled on the same page in English class. Doodling was till grade I. I haven't seen her since. So I googled.

Intermission:

The blood was spattered over the rug where my shoes lay. I always wear shoes to work. I couldn't wear them anymore. Not with it's blood on them.

The view from the kitchen window revealed that it might rain. Perhaps it would wash off. Perhaps not.

Part I: Antecedent

Act Four:

"What if something happens when you are not here?" she yelled at him.
He brushed something in the air with a wave, "nothing's gonna happen".
"Well how would you know? What will I do when you go on your trip tomorrow and something happens? I can't deal with that with the baby in my hands. What if something happens?"
He just looked back...the smile leaving its home just for a moment and returning briefly, accompanied with "You could go out of the house through the back door and give the neighbors a holler. And you could call me too. Ok?"

There was a brief moment of silence between the couple. I thought I'd better leave them to it this time.

Act One:

I do not know why I accept lunch or dinner invitations from couples. Is it self-retribution to remind me of the fact that my significant other is currently absent in the spatial co-ordinate next to me? For whatever screwed up reason I end up accepting. It's interesting how my dietary habits depend on other people's love lives. When they weren't a couple I used to go out to lunch with them. When they did startgoing out together I got my own lunch box. A little privacy for myself if you know what I mean. But now, after all this while, I don't know why I said I'd go to dinner to their house.It was supposedly to see their ten-month old baby.

Act Two:

But one has to accept...these free dinners are worth it. For the food. Even if you just have to watch them play with their kid all through. Of course when you get to hold the baby it inevitably cries. Many people just feel a little embarrassed. I feel happy to give it back to the parents (and still hide my embarrassment). After sufficient attempts marked with sheer determination not to let the baby cry are overcome by the baby’s only form of communication, I decide it is time to go. However there is always a catch. The leftovers. For some weird reason, my taking leftovers home after a dinner is a highly random event not governed by any known psychological mechanism. With some people I fear giving a loose compliment to any of the dishes because at the end of the dinner I might have to take it home with me. With some, I fear giving a genuine compliment because they might feel I want to take the dish home after dinner. That depends on the people under consideration too. Including me. To cut a long story short, after a deliberate deliberation I was awarded a pickle for my visit and I walked on their soft white carpet to the patio door where I left my shoes. I knew there was something eerie with the whole picture of a strip of carbon-black rubber in a perfect sine-wave shape just a few inches in front of my shoes and a foot away from my feet.

Act Three:

The popping of a cork from a wine bottle would be an accurate description of my reflex as I watched the sine-wave move. Jitters ran their elevator service up and down my spine. With this reptile…and this close…I do what the Prince of Persia does when confronted with Dahaka the beast unleashed by time – run. I hissed…"snake" after climbing on their leather Italian sofa balancing on one leg. The next thing I know is that my host got a shovel. The hostess ran to a different room with the baby. I said something like we needn’t kill it… but the words apparently vaporized before they hit my host’s ears. I heard a couple of hard slams. He asked for help. I went there expecting to see a raised hood and the hissing curses of the snake. Instead what I saw crushed me to the bone.

While the shovel rested on a blood-spattered body tearing the black leather with red gashes, the snake’s mouth was wide open in what must have only been a shriek of pain beyond human comprehension (in the truest sense of the word). The snake didn’t attack me when I went to my shoes. Neither did it show any act of aggression when I bolted back. It was for the first time I, a self-confessed reptile hater, felt pangs of pity for the creature. A thud of a stone mortar, my host dusting his hands, and an echo of silence followed. But the body was still moving. Slowly. He put the snake in a plastic bag and handing it over he said, “Could you drop it off in the trash when you leave? But first... please sit down for a while”. I heard the hostess tiptoeing in the kitchen.

Epilogue: Now you'd say - What the f*&%$ is this all about? - if you haven't said that already...

A long time ago, when memory was still unblemished reality, this happened. I tell you the story as my memory coughs it up. I trust it as much as I trust my car mechanic. My doodle friend and I used to travel from school to home in a rickshaw along with other kids. On a particular rainy day I vaguely remember she had these red shoes on. If you ask me how it is possible that I can remember something in this detail about things that happened twenty years ago, I have no answer to give. I do not have any rational explanation. But I hope it might suggest itself as these events unfold. On our way home when it looked like it would definitely rain, it wasn't uncommon for our rickshaw-wallah to stop by a shade and wait till the rain died. However when we pulled off the road, we could see a group of people surrounding something. As we moved closer to the object of attention, we could see that it was a dead snake. It was shiny blue in color and had painful red cuts on its body. It was a shocking image for us young kids. We could see that the snake's fate was decided by a man resting his hand on the shovel not too far away from the scene of the crime. I only remember my friend's face contorted with horror. How this event was tucked into oblivion in the folds of memory, I cannot say. Why and how it should suggest the face of my friend after all these years is beyond my comprehension. I tend to think the red shoes, the snake and the rain had to do something about it. My mind wants me to believe it as a rational explanation.

I did find her on google. Just by her first name. There was an e-mail id too. I just know it must be her's. My mind wants to believe this too.

hot condiments: with warm compliments

2006-04-18T17:59:00.000-07:00

This is the end

2006-04-11T10:32:00.000-07:00

This is the end Beautiful friend
This is the end My only friend,
the end Of our elaborate plans,
the end Of everything that stands, the end
No safety or surprise, the end
I’ll never look into your eyes...again
Can you picture what will be
So limitless and free
Desperately in need...of some...stranger’s hand
In a...desperate land
Lost in a roman...wilderness of pain
And all the children are insane
All the children are insane

~Doors

... ?

2006-04-10T00:29:00.000-07:00

Rationalize oh twisted mind!

2006-04-05T18:54:00.000-07:00

"Adaptation was great when we started walking on two feet. It was powerful when we put our hands to use. It was phenomenal when the brain developed. The only problem is: we started adapting ... to everything. 'Everything' is a weird word - it is one of those words we don't have a feeling for. But in general we agree that it covers almost anything we can think of and more. 'Everything' includes: sorrow, dejection, coca-cola, marriage, love, happiness, women, men, mosquitoes, and so on. Our well developed brain created the glued-up concept of mind and heart - called indivi-duality. And this duality, rationalizes our adaptation to anything. The sad part is everything said above is also a rationalization of this duality. But that's what he have... and it is through this rationalizing duality that we interpret our world. But is it that bad after all? or is it good? we probably will never know cuz again... good and bad are glued-up concepts rationalized to be so by this duality". Addison Ohm belched all of this while he munched on his gruber which would turn into a meso-gluonic-goo of elementary particles that would become a honey mustard cheese burger in a few billion years. All this at the restaurant at the beginning of the universe while he was looking at a would be bag of fries as if it were a crystal ball.

Chad Charrib's eyes twinkled. "You said love too right"

- incoherent spluttering of chewed up gruber bits

Chad continued, "You included love in the rationalization too. Do we adapt to love as well? Falling in love and breaking up ad infinitum?"

"We rationalize all of that for sure, including the rationalization your last girlfriend has used to dump you without any understandable reason in the circles of men." Ohm answered.

"What does that even mean? How do you know all that? I get so mad at that episode of dumping" Chad said, a bit chagrined.

"Don't worry you will find a woman named Resilla Perish. You will meet her in an elevator. You will live happily with her and then in your eightieth year you will dump her"

"I like the sound of this one - Resilla Perish. Will I rationalize that dumping too?"

"of course you will. But that will not be acceptable to your readers"

"I will have readers?? When will I start writing??"

" Now now... lets not get carried away. They would think exactly like you think about your last girlfriend's dumping. They will find it hard to accept your words "everything said could be wrong" and they will erase you from their minds saying you have no concept of love"

"They will do all that?"

"Come come I was just rationalizing. Here we go pop"

Suddenly, a parallel brane collided with the brane holding the restaurant. Soon there was darkness. Soon there was light. A few billion years later - a tiny book lies on the bedside table. It has a queer blue feather whirling in the cosmos for its cover photo. By its side he dreams that the blue feather has taken off into the depths of the night following the light. He wakes up and picks up the book. The last words in it say "Everything said above could be wrong"

He sighs..."I'm just rationalizing."

Kitaabein...

2006-03-29T07:49:00.000-08:00

This is clear Violation...that i am posting something unusual on Ravi's blog... unusual because he never posted anything like this before, on his blog. Hindi Poetry (in english font). Why here and why this poetry, in particular?? Ravi knows better.

I just found this piece of poetry, written by Gulzar.

Kitaabein jhaankti hain bandh almaari ke sheeshon se
badi hasrat se takti hain...
mahino ab mulakaatein nahin hoti
jo shaamein inki sohbat mein kataa karti thi
ab aksar guzar jaati hai computer ke parde par...

badii bechain rehti hain yeh kitaabein
inhein ab neend mein chalne ki aadat ho gayee hai
badi hasrat se takti hain...

Jo kadrein woh sunaati thee
ki jin ke Cell kabhi marte nahin the
woh kadrein ab nazar aati nahin ghar mein
jo rishte sunaathi thee
woh saare udhade udhade hain..

koi safhaa palat-ta hoon to is siski nikalti hai
kai lafzon ke maane gir pade hain
bina patton ke sookhe tund lagte hain woh sab alfaaz..

jin par ab koi maane nahin ugte
bahut si istalaahein hain
jo mitti ki sikoron ki tarah bikhri padee hain
gilaason ne unhein matrook kar daala...

zubaan par jaaika aata tha jo safhe palatane ka
ab unglee click karne se bas ik
jhapkee guzarthi hai
bahut kuchh tah-b-tah khulta chala jaata hai parde par...

Kitaabon se jo jaati raabta tha, kat gaya hai
kabhi seene pe rakh ke let jaate the
kabhi godhee mein le lete
kabhi ghutno ko apne rihal ki surat bana kar
neem sajde mein padha karte the, chhote the zabeen se
woh saara ilm to milta rahega baad mein bhi
magar wo jo kitaabo mein mila karte the sookhe phool
aur mahke hue rookhe
kitaabe mangne, girne, uthane ke bahaane rishte bante the
unka kya hoga
woh shayad ab nahin honge...

Vacation

2006-03-03T14:41:00.000-08:00

The next one week is going to be tooo much fun... :)

Chill's Merry Melodies: English Note (I mean note da english)

2006-02-20T21:14:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: The incidents, characters, and dialogues in this post are purely fictitious. Any resemblance to anything related to any person living or dead is purely your head messing with you.

" You should marry Shilpa Throleti". Hellos were not part of his ammunition of greetings.

"Dude, it's 1:35 A.M. "

"It's 2:35 here, but I still think you should marry Shilpa Throleti"

"And who would this Miss. Throleti be?" - it would be wise to know before he marries me off to her don't you think?

"What is your height?"

Zonked - "Bordering 5'7"; why?"

"Don't 'mistake' me.. but if you do, it will be 'miss not taken'; do you like girls who are bordering 5"

"WHAT the !#@$?"

That's Chill for you. A masterful cupid, who's cherubic face is well over six feet from the ground, could probably hold a whole football in his palms, play a convincing which-hand-has-the-ball - and manage to win over a crying kid. My first inclination was to believe that if you put a girl within five feet from him he's gonna be lovestruck with her. Although not entirely true, this inclination still has value in certain academic circles wholly devoted to his antics. These days, incessant news of our friends tying the knots has bombarded his rather cheer-filled neural nuclei resulting in trying anomalies such as the ongoing call. He remains thickest of my co-conspirators. If you'd rather want your own Chill, the perfect recipe would be - two ladles of Vince Vaughn (preferably from one of his comedy works), a generous helping of Robert (from Raymond), a dash of Calvin (with no Hobbes), and if you prefer a sprinkle of Chevy Chase.

"Chill, this is borderline insane"

"Look Pal, all I want is to see you married and 'settled'. After all, one has to go through certain important phases in life at the right times. What use is getting married when you are fifty and there is certain loss of functionality? Besides your alacrity in this issue will improve my chances"

"Ahem...why is it that I don't see you following your sacred trail?"

" Dude you know I suffer from the '1722' syndrome..."

"???"

"I mean, ek saath do do - I'm always stuck with two females whom I can't see a future with."

"Chill! this is cooler than your '2121' syndrome man! 'ek kiss ek kiss' - now you are gonna get two kisses from the two females... awesome dude. How do you !@#$ ing come up with these?"

"It's akin to the baldhead boolean logic. Either you have it or you don't."

"I don't. But I thought you wrote that awesome email to that female. What happened?"

"I don't understand it man. Seems she has a problem with my 'vocabulary'. woh kya bolri yar ? - says she has to use dictionary or google to decode it"

Stifling a volcanic laugh, "you know it's the general female politics with innovatively new ways of saying 'no'. You are the Bond on such subjects"

"I know. The poly-tricks. May be they should make a movie just out of my many stints and call it 'Bond'ranga Mahatyam (ala Panduranga Mahatyam). So what do you say about Shilpa Throleti?"

There you have it. After my apparent efforts to ward the topic off , I remained unsuccessful. Time to get sticky.

"Chill you know it too well. The previous dudette sample set included a would-be female monk, an insecure colleger, and an anti-democracy campaigner. I'm done for a while."

"Pal, man. You should have listened to my advice. The first one needed de-monkification. The second one, well... I told you insecurity was actually ... in security. You never listened. The third one, what is all this demon-crazy stuff? I'm telling you all this because it's my cause."

"Chill! Dump Throleti!! This word play is fantastic man. Gotta get this onto that random guy's blog. Pronto!"

"Pal, are you !@#$ing out of your mind? The situation is so sticky that the pant-ass-stick dude. And you say you wanna send it to some bullshit blog?"

"It's gonna go!! hehe"

"No!"

"Going!"

"Noooo"

"Going"

"Aarrrrghhh.. I will report abuse"

"Gone".

2006-02-19T21:19:00.000-08:00

No I have not seen her in person.
Yes I wanna marry her.

Truth - Part V: The Truth

2005-12-06T13:43:00.000-08:00

A quick statement of facts:
1) Two people survived when a ferry was blown up by Knut and his friends based on intelligence from the British.
2) The Germans had put minimum security for the ferry
3) Reports of minimum security from Knut and his friends made the British suspect if the barrels had anything of consequence.
4) The Germans combed the place for the perpetrators - they could sense the resistance. But the loss of the ferry wasnt on their top priority list.
5) How is this all related to the A bomb?

Prologue:
It is (unfortunately) well known today that the power of the atom was infact unleashed for a purpose least benign. But not by the Germans. The leading researchers in nuclear physics and radioactive chemistry were Germans. They had Werner Heisenberg, Ottohahn... why did the Germans never succeed in building the A-bomb?

On a sunny day sometime in the 21st century...

A small rover extended its arms to gently hold a barrel stuck in the lake bed. The rover's master - Mark stalled his boat at the dead center of the lake. As a war-time researcher he was confident he would find atleast one barrel on the lake bed - hopefully intact. The old records of German shipments showed that there were about forty of them that were shipped and lost. After sonar scanning he knew exactly where the barrels were. The rover had already tried its luck with three barrels before. But they were badly damaged... there was no hope of extracting what he wanted to see from them. But this one showed promise. It still had its paint visible -- after fifty years inside a lake bed. The barrel surfaced within no time. With a crude test he found what he was looking for, although he would send it to a lab for analysis.

The barrel did contain water as he expected. Not ordinary water -- but 'heavy' water. He knew enough. Heavy water is used in nuclear facilities. He now had supporting evidence that the Germans were trying to build an A-bomb. But he also knew that the facility the Germans built could never develop or sustain a fission reaction. So what is the Truth? Were the Germans ever serious about the A-bomb? With physicists like Heisenberg working for the Reich how were they not successful?

Some facts:
-Heisenberg revealed the A-bomb program to Neils Bohr ending their life-long friendship and making Bohr join the Manhattan Project.
-Heisenberg's calculation for the critical mass to sustain a fission reaction was so large it was impossible to distill that much of Uranium. So some Germans had not much faith that an A-bomb could be built.
-However other Germans had rival scientists working in small groups to test these predictions.
- Therefore the small facilities and the individual atempts at experimentation required small quantities of heavy water.
- Hence minimum security at the ferries supplying barrels of heavy water of various purification levels.
- So the Germans were never actually fully dedicated to building an A-bomb unlike the Manhattan Project's members because of Heisenberg's miscalculations (some argue they were intentional although no solid evidence exists).

Epilogue:

War upheaves the tree of human life from its roots. From individuals to groups to nations to the world. A tumor in humanity's unified body.

The actual truth that the Germans were never capable of, and dedicated to building an A-bomb is only known now.

- Part 1: The couple had actually united. The woman survived the lake by holding on to a wooden block from the ferry. They found each other after a few months. But they remain shocked whenever they talk about the fear of losing each other. They had nothing to do with the war. Like butterflies caught in a whirlwind.

-Part2, 3: Knut now knows that the Germans could not build an A-bomb. He still lives in a small town Norway. There is not a day that goes by when he or his friends do not think about that day when the ferry was bombed. Their operation was unimportant. The people on the ferry, the people in his town... Knut still finds it hard to believe it was all a waste.

- Part 4: Germans, and the Allied forces were tangled in a constant spy game. As far as the Germans were concerned an A-bomb would be nice to have... may give them a comprehensive victory... but the world's most leading authorities were saying it would be nearly impossible to maintain a fission reaction for long times... they pinned their hopes on winning the war before the A-bomb would ever be built. The British employed groups of local people (like Knut) and tried their best to stop every possible attempt by the Germans... everything unimportant.

The bomb was built and used. Heisenberg was supposedly unbelieving of the fact when he heard of the Hiroshima bombings.

Two cities vanished.

-Part5: Mark knows the Truth. But he does not know how each strata of life was impacted by it.

At every level there was information that was never comprehended completely.

Knowing the Truth was important... but no one could ever understand it or believe it... and the realization dawned half a century later... but it is not clear if we understand it better this time.

Look around ... does it look like we understood?

Truth - Part IV: Swastika

2005-12-06T13:42:00.000-08:00

The British intelligence thought the lack of security was the key to understand the German plan. Could there be more of these ferries that they were not informed about? Did the Germans actually transport 'those' barrels?

The Germans could sense it.
There is resistance in the little scandinavian town by an unknown group of citizens.
A ferry was bombed. The commodity on the ferry cannot be reclaimed.

There was a reason for minimum security at the ferry. It was covert but not a top priority project. And, the War was underway - the German juggernaut could not be stopped now.

Not unless... the power of the atom is unleashed.

Truth - Part III: Doubt

2005-12-06T12:18:00.000-08:00

The initial jubilation of successful execution had slumped in Knut's mind. Upon the slump was now cast a dark shadow. That of uncertainty. He could not figure out the lack of security. Apparently, neither could the British contact who helped them in procuring the necessary information. The anticipated result of the operation hung on the edge of truth like an unsure diver - a wisp of information may plunge it into the fathomless pit of truths that never were. They could not count on German retaliation to this act of Knut and his people to reflect the gravity of their action - the Germans did not need a reason to attack, and this was a planned and executed operation - they were sure to comb the place for the perpetrators.

The Nazis did the expected ruthlessly.
Knut did not know if his people were dying for no reason.

And that devoured his conscience - like a ravaging fire.

Truth - Part II: The operation

2005-11-14T21:48:00.000-08:00

The constant chattering from the telegraph woke Knut up. The operation was to be carried out, and was of vital importance, the chatter confirmed. Knut fetched the others. The shipment would be leaving within a few days. There was no time to plan it perfectly. His knitted brows reflected his desperate search for the perfect place. He knew it could only be one place. The lake. That is where they would not be able to lay hands on it. He told his explosives expert to improvise one that could be timed.

Everything was perfect. It was the dead of the night. Knut slipped into the ferry like a cold breeze. He found the perfect spot. Right below the shipment's level. Just when he put the lid on the drain, he heard a voice. "What are you doing?", it demanded. Pointing the revolver at his heart. "Das spiel ist aus" (The game is over).

A flick of a second later, the german soldier was clutching his garroted throat at the feet of Knut's friend.

A few hours later, an explosion filled the lake with debris from the ferry. The operation was a success.

But there was one hitch he could not understand. Considering what the ferry was carrying, there was just one soldier for security?

Truth - Part I

2005-11-08T23:04:00.000-08:00

(Based on a documentary on NPT)

Sometime during World War II

Bang

The lake mirrored itself in her deep blue eyes. Placid - unlike herself standing on the deck with the sky for a roof, and a ferry for a shifting land. She clasped his hand and whispered, "you do it first, I'll follow you". He kissed her tear-streaked cheek and took a deep breath. A splash of water caressed her tears.

He saw the ferry sink with her. The lake lapped his tears. She couldn't swim.

The ferry had 16 passengers. Only 2 survived.

Every-year Visitors

2005-10-07T20:50:00.000-07:00

It used to visit him every year...even now it does..Infact, today it did...but my friend doesnt really bother much. Philosophically, his muse says that except for number addition, it doesnt really add any significance. Perhaps...i dont wish to cross-check the theories (though ever-changing) which germinate & ventilate from the corridors of his mind, because i myself am very convinced, whenever it visted me.

I know he would shoot one( or all) of the following :

1. one more year goes down the drain, with me not doing anything worthwhile.
2. One year chopped from the bank-balance of age.
3. After-all every day is the same.
4. Blah Blah..
5. Blah Blah Blah..
6. BLah Blah Blah and also Blah Blah.

But man, wait!! when it visits you why dont you make it different ! by you adding something to it, instead of letting it add just numbers to your age. & chillax dude! U r moving 1yr closer, to Enlightenment. so, atleast celebrate that.

Today Ravi Chandra turns 26. My heartiest Wishes/condolences.

btw, i dont know if something like Enlightenment really exists(especially for the already enlightened people), if it doesnt..still, u better enjoy, the journey...and your birthday too.

Why dja like it?

2005-10-04T22:34:00.000-07:00

The movie: X-Files

Scully (of course). During end credits I bet with my friends I'd ask the secret of the redhead's hair. I went upto her and asked "What shampoo do you use?". She replied "I'm not that kind of girl" and whisked off. I came back and said "Pantene-ProV -- now where's my fifty bucks?"

~~~

The movie: American Beauty

For the words "In a way... I'm dead already"
For the shock that I laughed when Annette Benning cries.
Rose petals. And their revelations. And the music.
That feeling of perfect harmony with the entire universe for the next one week -- and the pine for it ever after.

~~~

The movie: CTHD aka crouching tiger hidden dragon

Besides taking an unwilling dost (and finding fifty others there) -- that movie is an addiction. The search for the comb in the desert (and kharaharapriya in the background)
Fight in the bamboo trees.
Zhang Ziyi.
Her again.

Prayopavesam

2005-09-17T17:56:00.000-07:00

I do things I preach against.

I preach even if you do not want to listen.

I listen to you only to assess where I stand.

If my stance is wrong and I know it, I still hold on to my view.

I do not have the courage to accept the stupidity of my view.

I'm stupid enough to believe I'm not selfish.

I'm so selfish, even while writing this I think about what you'll think about me.

Only my first drop of tear was ever genuine I thought. The ones later, were just to mollify my conscience.

But my conscience knows. Even that first drop was no different.

I know I won't be a different person.

If I were I would never have written this.

Inscrutable Americans: Ajay's commentary

2005-09-13T22:41:00.000-07:00

Ajay Palvayanteeswaran (if you do not know who he is you should dig here ) is confused. He looks at the blurring timeline with a dazzled look on his face. He had heard that time travel is an extremely strainful event even in the space-time he last remembers. After a few days of acclimatization, however, he is more confused by the americans than by his anachronous displacement into a new incongruence. One may sympathize with him after I tell you what he told random walker of his observations of the daily american life through the plain old desi perspective.

~" Why do you need the mirror on the entire wall if all you have to do is see where your teeth are?
~ That mirror being big actually makes all the toothpaste foam get sprinkled on it.
~ Choice -- from toothpaste to shoelace you have twenty thousand things to choose from; by the time one's done shopping for socks there is a bill for two hundred dollars (which ofcourse is on a credit card)
~ Which gets us to speculate how come americans are wealthier than a lot of others? They put so much on their credit card that there is no physically possible explanation for why the whole country isn't in debt to itself. (ofcourse his not paying his credit card bills is conveniently overlooked)
~ The only ads on tv are of food, cars and more food and more cars. All costly.
~ Money matters bring up other issues. Let's start with the sinks for finance. The primary sink: Women (not chauvinistic--the fact that it coincides with a gender reference is purely coincidental) first of all to get to meet them is costly. Dating service--switch that tv after 9 every nite and on every channel you are bound to see an ad for a dating service making any single person feel that Jodie Foster is only a call away (man she can spin a basketball and sing in french at the same time). It only costs a few dollars a min. Why not!!! For the more adventurous, the local bar or club (again costly), or for the very very timid- the university (where everybody is so timid, just to get them to talk one needs to take them out -- costly again). After all that let's say your compatibility is matched ( on 29 dimensions -- to match it is costly obviously cuz you need that eharmony expert to tell you that the person you are with is the right one) you are ready to take that next step and get married. Very very expensive. Once you get married the probability that you will get divorced is about fifty percent. Again very expensive. Not to mention how lawyers are part of the rich strata (who hire other lawyers for their divorces who hire still other lawyers till the chain vanishes into thin air) . Then you have to bring up kids separately which means that you not only have to bring up your own kids (which loses meaning really "own"?) but the kids out of your new marriage as well. This is best summarized in the classic statement from the movie "You've Got Mail" -- She is my grandfather's daughter (she is 6) he is my father's son. We are an American Family. And with the system it is quite possible that the son or daughter can sue for emotional damage becuase of parent's divorce (or not getting a divorce too). So to conclude the point, the whole thing is economically doomed from the beginning. Sorry guys gotta call a spade queen a spade.

~ Why does all of this happen you might ask. Why -- see they made Bush the President (those annoying "W -the president" bumper stickers written in black and white as if its not clear in live color that it's a pretty stupid idea) not once, but twice--that should clearup things for you. "

Ajay went a clear-headed man leaving random walker confused who sat up to write if other compatriots (from the land of like-mindedness) would offer their thoughts about the inscrutable americans.

Two Scientists

2005-09-13T10:28:00.000-07:00

In the words of one, here is a “wise” question accompanied by a wink – “it’s an interesting question; who owns the water? Should that question be answered from a historical point of view, or need point of view, or the ethical perspective or the economical perspective or something else that we haven’t captured in words yet?” Coming from a celebrated scientist the wise question becomes thought-wrenching as well. That is not because he’s celebrated, but because it is through questions like these that he has become one. “Once I met a Chinese (American Chinese I mean) BBC documentary moviemaker. His idea is very interesting. He teams up with a group of scientists doing environmental work in rural China. He makes movies of the whole process of how these hi-tech-educated scientists use absolute basic stuff to treat waste or waste water. He then broadcasts them to villages which have similar problems”. Of course, he adds “at the time I didn’t know that he was the most famous Chinese documentary maker”. “That gave us the idea for something else. There is this friend of mine who is a publisher. But he uses a very interesting idea. He uses pictures to tell a story through most of the book. Only a quarter of the book really has any words. He uses pictures to capture more readers than what a normal book can. These books they are called visual readers. These days he publishes books with an environmental outlook and awareness this way”. A reflection of memorable experiences.

Interaction with scientists is definitely such an experience. The other day there was this lecture by the earth and environmental science titled “Opportunities on Earth”. Talks with such a title (and a required attendance) usually end up stating a lot of obvious things that I was almost reluctant to go. And as if it’s an apparent justification of my feelings, the talk was slow and had an obvious beginning. But by the end I was glad I was there. Not many people have the confidence, the knowledge and the experience to say that “Indeed greenhouse gas emission is a reality. And even though there is no direct conclusive evidence for how elevated carbon-dioxide exactly contributes to rising earth temperature, we know for sure that the earth is warming up and by 2050 we expect it to be on an average 2 to 5 degree Celsius warmer. Even if you don’t believe polar ice cap melting, simple thermal expansion of water should suggest that the volume it would occupy would be greater. That means that there would be more severe tropical storms, and greater threat of submersion for coastal cities. Secondly, most urbanized cities in the world are either in the path of hurricanes, or are on faulty ground or in areas of elevated seismic activity. Response to a slow event might be achievable in these cities, but in case of an abrupt change in the climatic or any other environmental systems, it will be ... lets say it’s not looking good” Pessimistic you might say. “But thinking about such problems and adjusting our development so as to be sustainable does not exist in practice today (other than in academic or scientific forums in UN). Longer-term thinking and accommodating a short-term loss to incorporate sustainable development is a key factor that will influence our society in the next few decades”. The opportunities exist to think in new ways about our problems. These give a deeper meaning to our place on this planet. “I say the treatment and environmental engineers save more lives than doctors today and it will become increasingly so in the next few decades” –

This gives me a reason to do what I am doing. May be this is all worth it. May be I will learn that life is not about getting a job and doing mindless work. May be I will learn to hope to make a difference.

Sports writing at its best

2005-09-08T11:30:00.000-07:00

A New York symphony Agassi, Blake compose a 5-set masterpiece

(Article by Bruce Jenkins, from SanFrancisco Chronicle)

New York -- Jimmy Connors' name came up at the U.S. Open in this morning's early hours, along with John McEnroe's, and many other legends of tennis. The question was whether Andre Agassi's 3-6, 3-6, 6-3, 6-3, 7-6 (6) victory over James Blake was the finest match ever witnessed in this tournament.
The point is highly debatable, especially in terms of consequence (it was merely a quarterfinal) and the sheer caliber of play, but in a larger sense, it all comes back to Connors -- because this match stole the heart. For tennis matches that truly stirred the soul, putting both players in heavenly light, this was one for the ages.
Back in 1991, the 39-year-old Connors made a spirited run through the draw, an aging icon back from obscurity. He had come from the very fringes of the scene, injured and dismissed and written off. He didn't win that tournament, but he staged a display of such rich emotional content, it stays with us to this day.
That's where Agassi and Blake made their marks Wednesday night, and right up until 1:09 this morning EDT. Pound your chest as you remember this one. It gets you right there.
There is so much to be learned from James Blake, they should make him a university. Anyone can attend; anyone with belief. He entered this tournament as a wild-card, with a comeback story powerful in nature but surely irrelevant to the tournament's unfolding. No one realized that Blake was returning as a new man, physically and spiritually. He had found belief and perspective to accompany the pure, magnificent athleticism of an NBA performer. He charged through his matches, right through to Agassi -- and after two sets, he was dominating.
Throughout the match, there was a sense of sportsmanship rarely seen in tennis, sports or life. Neither man raised protest over the inevitable debatable line calls. There was no bathroom break, stalling or gamesmanship. As opposed to the contentious, mean-spirited players we remember so vividly in tennis -- Connors and McEnroe come quickly to mind -- Agassi and Blake treated each other as brothers, there for a higher purpose.
The 35-year-old Agassi was downright hilarious in his haste, moving with his customary mincing steps in a manner suggesting Charlie Chaplin in the silent films. He didn't slow down for one second over five epic sets. Blake was right there with him, too. There wasn't a hint of acrimony, controversy or even self-congratulatory celebration until the end, when Agassi allowed himself a little hop-step and a theatrical four-cornered bow.
The place was going absolutely nuts, as it had all night. The fifth-set tiebreaker began at a crisp 1 a.m. and some 20,000 people were as fresh as a man emerging from the shower after a good night's sleep. This is the legacy of the U.S. Open and the only city in which it could be played. So often the whole nocturnal circus seems ridiculous, with the stadium half-full and too many tennis fans missing out. This atmosphere was raucous, festive and -- most of all -- respectful, start to finish.
The only question was how the partisanship would fall. That turned out to be easy -- root for whoever's behind. The people wanted neon, fireworks and memories, all of which they got, three times over. Many points were immediately preceded by thunderous standing ovations. There were so many astonishing shots, from both men, they could not possibly be recounted here.
Somewhere, Robby Ginepri was watching, undoubtedly awestruck like the rest of us. Ginepri had carved out a tremendous five-set victory earlier in the day, 4-6, 6-1, 7-5, 3-6, 7-5 over Guillermo Coria, to earn his own unlikely spot in the semifinals. Now before him was a transcendent tennis event, rising above mere competition. Blake wrote a novel, all by himself, complete with an unlikely comeback from the doomed. Agassi was so far down after the first two sets, you wondered if he might announce his retirement by year's end.
One can only imagine the depths from which Agassi summoned his greatness. For so long in this match, he looked like Harpo Marx going against Michael Jordan. There has to be some fairy dust in those tiny little steps he takes. In one of the most unforgettable sights a sports fan could hope to witness, Agassi energetically jogged out to the baseline at 4-5 in the fifth, a seasoned prizefighter awaiting the next round, needing to break this wondrous athlete's serve or go home. And he did just that. His image transformed from a bald, beaten-looking man to a Hall of Famer dreaming of one last title -- Roger Federer be damned.
All of that can wait, Agassi figured. He left the National Tennis Center knowing he'd been part of something that touched many hearts. "People always ask, 'What does the U.S. Open mean to you?' " he said later. "It's what you just saw. One-fifteen in the morning, 20,000 people still there. Tennis won tonight."
And into the history books went not a single man, but two. "

paternal eternities

2005-08-26T16:14:00.000-07:00

An unbroken chain of battles has passed down the generations of mankind. Those between fathers and sons (no chauvinism intended - one could easily substitute daughters for sons in applicable situations if it pleases you). With mothers there is no battle. Even if there is, it would be the last attempt at proving you have a mind and that it is capable of doing some bioelectrodynamic connections between its various nerve cells. A misplaced, underestimated attempt under any circumstance. Oh but I'm digressing ( am I really? ' paternal eternities' have another manifestation in the world that schroedinger's cat died - i mean you could rearrange to get 'parental entireties' without loss of generality).

Dads. They are like advisors who have forgotten what it's like to be graduate students. Before the sons come of age (or so they think) at sixteen, dads are pretty much the sole authorities on various topics including hair (from any exposed part of the body) to your high school grades. As the male species overgrows the age of sixteen, there are visible currents of power upheaval. Signs of which include a brewing battle on the aforementioned topics and everything unrelated. The end results usually include either the sons leaving the house in the stalinistic (or was it lenin?) "comrades - this-has-been-going-on-for-ages" mode (if possible by shutting the door behind with a definitely perceivable thud), or going into their rooms (the door-thud-thingy again-amplified due to proximity). Later when the ruling government is not in session, grievances are tearfully (and sometimes quite artfully) presented to the ever listening home department. International peace talks negotiators must learn that keeping men involved in the peace process will only delay it (it's obvious men like to fight for no reason at all). The result-- as sixteen flips to eighteen like a calendar in the movies, what used to be "Dad-could-you-give-me-some-money--please" inevitably becomes "Mom-i-want-some-money" for the pocket money which doesn't have the habit of staying put.

Like clockwork the power schism starts with the species under consideration getting to an undergraduate school. The provocative late night arrivals akin to Indian Railways (nothing sexual, just that they provoke arguments later), the splurge of 'dad's money' just to go to college and come back, irritating "cool-dude" attitude - are usually the complaints of several dads over these better-not-to-talk-about years. The schism gets it's midlife crisis with the son finally finding a job or going to a school out of paternal reach. These moments might be tricky. The difficult to handle male ego cools down to allow some paramagnetic dad-son talks. But such moments easily heat up from first becoming slightly repellant to going overboard with the severe taskmasters (that dads are) bent on packing that suitcase tonight for the takeoff next month.

Later when the sons get slightly homesick (mostly due to missing healthy food made to order for free) and do call home, the ever inscrutable dads come up with totally incomprehensible ponderings about meteorological predictions in Bandar Seri Begawan or Ljubljana (for the uninitiated in geography - until a moment ago which included me - capitals of Brunei and Slovenia). Retrospective introspections reveal that such extemporaneous outbursts might be somewhat analogous to an acceptance of power balance taking seed in the lands most barren of the nutrient -acceptance.

However, in all honesty, the real dads are to be known through the moms. Moms have a way of putting dads' curses into perspective. Evolution has given moms the exact ingredients to make sons do their bidding. And evolution has also made dads out of every son (legitimate or otherwise or conceptual). Hence it would not be too exaggerated (even considering all the contrasting evidence above) to believe that one day the sons of sons would be writing about their dads in the aforementioned universal anecdote only to end on a slightly cautious note. That after all you gotta love dads;as an insurance for the risk of becoming one someday.

Male ego see!

(Un)common Sense

2005-08-16T13:18:00.000-07:00

While it may be that flooding of Hyderabad is treated light-heartedly by people even in one of the most respected daily newspaper in our country, like the Hindu, it is unfortunate that a paper of its stature hasn’t published a single useful insight into the problem. Either it hasn’t received a useful comment or it only chose the crappy views published. August 2000 in Hyderabad was a prelude to what happened to Mumbai in 2005. While people die because of Hurricanes elsewhere in the world, our country has enough lives to spare for a few inches of continuous rain. A first step to solving a problem is to show how important it is to solve that problem. While media is trusted to do this job in the case of public affairs such irresponsibility on its part mirrors the state of affairs. If the comments of the viewers were supposed to be taken in a sarcastic light, none of them look knowledgeable.

A simple search revealed this about Hyderabad – many water bodies were filled up or encroached to cater to land needs. Extensive land use has sealed off drains to the rivers causing what would have been surface run-off to fill up the land instead. Creation of effective drains to the adjacent rivers (without compromising on water quality) would be a first cut solution.

What should have been a forum to start a debate about possible solutions and emergency procedures has instead become a playground for not-so-grown-ups (I bet kids have much better world views and innovative solutions) and hence this post.

It is not what it is...

2005-07-26T23:17:00.000-07:00

The mystical and legendary Satya-peetam (stool of truth) of the Krita, Threta, and Dwapara yugas has eluded many archeologists'(and other enthusiasts') search over the centuries. However, I'm quite positive that they have all looked in the wrong places. In fact, now that I know its whereabouts, I daresay the object under consideration was grossly (and unknowingly) underestimated, even misunderstood. Tolkien said it right -- history became legend, and legend became myth and somethings that shouldn't have been forgotten were lost... but the story doesn't end there does it? Stuff was lost and then someone always finds it. And gets into trouble.

The idea occurred to me while I was thinking about this thing and that. Couldn't this legendary stool have evolved over the ages? I mean think about it, something that could tell you the deepest thoughts of a person, those hidden secrets and truths, something that could bring out these, couldn't it have evolved? And this thought was crucial for knowing its whereabouts. It was then I realised that I was sitting on it...in my bathroom.

Not only did it metamorphose and evolve in its physical characteristics, it sneaked right into our civilization as something that is indispensable!! That is exactly what a thing that evolves would do... outsmart us. (That is ofcourse because after the transformation into our present form we just didnt budge on the evolutionary chart anymore)...and if you dont believe me you better take a test. In the guise of feeding the city sewers, it gives us those truly alone moments.. when almost anything seems possible. Great ideas are born not out of great minds. It's where the pre/post-ablutions routine takes place... and unsuspectingly we think about everything in true light only then and there.

Ofcourse, several people use this time and space in every conceivable way. Besides ruminating on life's mysteries I mean. One of my very close friends, used to (and still does I think) take a walkman into the bathroom. Most people dont spare us that easily...they sing to themselves like Elvis got into them...only the ignorant bystanding outsiders are suddenly enlightened about our co-routine-activities. Use the walkman, stay out of trouble. But ofcourse there are some others...who take the whole electronic piano into the bathroom. These are the more ambitious ones--indulging in an activity that they think will make other people sing the tunes they make up in exactly the same room of their homes. How wrong to be right! There are a lot of others who read the daily news in there. Books. Name any printed material (including those with the rabbit head's profile (and not limited to it) stamped over a corner (or the whole page) on glossy paper) and I'd bet it was read/stared at/ogled at by atleast one person on this planet in the bathroom. And add to that list, mobile technology. Telephones, laptops, notebooks (wireless enabled;))...with advancement of technology, the list of things that you could take in there only grows larger, more varied,and better (mis)used.

Hearing all the evidence would you then concur that Satyapeetam was right under those seeker's noses (well technically...)? And like everything else with the passage of time it modified not only its shape but also its multitasking ability and its outreach into the global market. It's not just the guilty who use it now... every person, even those with sub-decent living conditions, must have it... and use it everyday to feel good, bad, (ugly;), enlightened, and everything-else humans are capable of feeling.

Michael

2005-07-08T22:11:00.000-07:00

"Put your hand like you have a gun in your pocket" he tells Enzo.
A car slows down by the gate. And takes off as if jerked out of sleep.
Enzo reaches for a cigarette in his pocket, hands shaking. The lighter
unwilling to fire up in his shocked hands.
But Michael's steady pair of hands lights it up, in one stroke.

~~~

"Pa, I want you to know I'm with you now" is whispered into the old Don's ears as a tear rolls down his cheek. "I'm with you now" he says.

~~~

"You don't talk to a man like Moe Greene like that Mike!" a scared Freddy complains.
"Freddy, you're my older brother. And I love you. But never take the side of another against your family. Ever" with a piercing look directed at Freddy.

~~~

"Do you trust me?" the old don asks Tessio and Clemenza in answer to their plea to start their own families.
"Yes Godfather"
"Then listen to what Mike says. He has my confidence"

~~~

"Tom I want you to go to Las Vegas. I want you to be our lawyer there"
"But.."
"You are not a wartime consiglieri Tom"

~~~

"Barzini is dead. So is Philip Tattaglia. Strachi..."
Carlo starts to cry.
"There's a car waiting outside to take you to LA. You are not involved in the family business anymore. That's your punishment. Only dont tell me you are innocent. It insults my intelligence"

~~~

"Is it true?"
"I will not answer anything about my affairs"
"Is it true?" Kay shoots a riveting look.
Silence.
"Is it true?"
"ENOUGH!"
Silence.
"This one time. I will tell you about my affairs....No"

And then... a new Godfather is born.

A Series of Unfortunate yet Inevitable Conversations

2005-07-08T08:27:00.000-07:00

In Fall when the air chills just enough to make her touch even more enjoyable but she's not nearby-

I'm so sad you're there.
Me 2.
Isn't Fall chilly?
Ya.

In Spring while flowers bloom, more fragile-handle-with-cares wither -

I'm getting married.
Right.
In June.
OK
...!
I'm going out.
OK
To play tennis.
...

In Summer when you dont care anymore and still mechanically dial her number on her birthday -

Happy B'day
Thanx.
Congratulations on your marriage.
Ya it was good.
What else?
Can I call you back?
OK.

Beep. Ad Infinitum.

Oh! vaaralaaraa!!

2005-06-28T06:32:00.000-07:00

This post has been moved to And Then...

Yesupaadam Daaniyelugoru *

2005-06-25T22:33:00.000-07:00

Caution: The following anecdotes use a fair amount of Telugu.

Click. Buzz.

Do you mean to say that the victim's body is covered with click the metro school board has decided to click mmm mocha-no baby muffi..click... the hecht's saturday sale this click the new BK black angus click Ellen you have thirty seconds to finish those roaches click buzzzzz click Beaman toyota you see so many cuz you save so click pum pum tam tam traalalalaa click buzzz click buzzzzz click Ohhhhhh you keep this faitthah -- the day you welcommaa Jesus into your worldah click

Do not lose hope niraasa chendhavaladhu Keep your faith in our Lord Jesus Yesu ni neevu nammu Do not lose hope niraasa chendhavaladhu Keep your faith in our Lord Jesus Yesu ni neevu nammu... The Lord has held the door to heaven wide open Yesu swargadwaaramunu therichiyunchinaadu He washeth our sins with his blood - you get the point.

TV is the root of all evils. But that's besides the point. How muchever you despise it and continue to surf channels thinking how depressing life is, a few words in the mother tongue on a firangi channel in a firangi duniya are sure to catch the eye and the ear. Even if its on a channel you wouldn't normally bother to stop for an extra picosecond. But the sights and sounds do take you off on a tangent interspersed with places and people and memories from memory. Like that church near Golconda crossroads.

Golconda chaurastha is known by all sorts of names in Hyderabad. People call it by different names depending on their mode of transport; Odeon or Devi theatre (is the other one Shanthi?) by the movie goers or golconda crossroads/chaurastha by the auto-philes or simply X-roads by the bus travellers. I always had a question though. Why would it be called Golconda crossroads when its not even near Golconda? Such questions are not easily answered. And hyderabadis know how not to answer anything straight.

Enough of digressions --that church near the X-roads near the X-roads (its not delete repeated word but Charminar Chaurastha before golconda chaurastha) ... has statements similar to those shown in multicolored sentences above on its high whitewashed walls in blue and red (in english and telugu) written with words the size of a dinosaur's head. Occasionally there would be a few posters that actually had anything to do with the church pasted on those white walls (other tenants of the walls include: political campaign posters/painted words, movie posters, and sometimes signs saying "do not put posters"with all the above-mentioned paraphernalia, and "do not urinate - ichata muuthramu cheya raadhu" and long streaks of - you-know-what right underneath it generously sprayed with parallel paan marks and some crossstreaking ones as well). One such poster that is forever branded in my memory is that of "Yesupaadam Daaniyelugoru" (*Literally translated it means "Jesus's foot the toe nail ". However it is supposed to be the name: Yesupadham (last name) Daniel (first name) goru (or garu like sir or jee in hindi).

Some more interesting and definitely familiar comic translations of telugu christian statements: "Neevu utthamundavu nenu paathakundanu" - you're just a widow/(sometimes derogatory "whore") and i'm an old pot (supposed to mean you are noble and i am a sinner).
"Na cheppu maatalu nee chevilo vesikonudu" Please put bits of my chappal into your ears (listen to what i say).

(Another related and less famous invention: Kommuri Venugopal Rao - Horn village Flute cow milk Doesn't give (sentence constructed in pure biblical grammar if you were wondering what the connexion was). That wasn't funny)

On normal days the road that houses the church would be crowded. On special days when Yesupaadam Daaniyelugoru or some such famous personality is adorning the hyderabadi kraisthava mahaasabha (a christian congregation) or some such thing,you will never be able to find the roadviewing from a rooftop: men and children shouting some slogans in something like telugu, women with heavily talcum-powdered faces following them in a large group. As a child (and even now i guess) it was a sight to behold.

On the same road not too far away from the church lives a hindu wise man. I happen to have visited him a few times (dont ask why) and his conversations were always sparkled by wit (well i just take it as wit without any serious hidden meaning).

"Khan antey aemitanukunnavu? Sanskritam lo khaanamu antey goyya ani artham... antey khan antey goyyalu thavvey vaadani. " ( Do you know what Khan means? In sanskrit "khaanam" means a ditch/grave. Which means Khan is a grave digger)

"Thomas antey aemitanukunnavu? Sanskritam lo "thaamasamu" (Do you know what Thomas means? In sanskrit it means torpor).

More recently on my visit to India he said "Merikallaanti kurraallu aa desaniki velthe adhi a-merikalu ga chesi pamputhundhi (sharp youngsters sent to that country, (america) makes them blunt) I could not help but laugh.

And ofcourse hearing the inevitable namaaz five times a day billowing through soot covered air wherever you live is an accepted ritual for every hyderabadi irrespective of religious faith.

The fourway intersection infront of the church has the church on one road, a masjid on another, and a temple on the third. It is the physical manifestation of Shri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa's teachings.

However we mostly used the fourth road, the one that led to Secunderabad.

A PERSONAL PLEASURE

2005-06-22T23:39:00.000-07:00

By Chandu Tennety
(published without his consent)

Every time you speak, every time you smile, you remind me of those fairy-tales of old: in which the princess, spell-struck, sleeps dreaming of a forgotten romance. Or the beautiful, lonely girl in the tower; her long tresses waft out of her room’s only window to the ground far below. Or the one who flees at midnight, leaving behind only a small shoe of glistening glass.
And I feel…
I feel not like the knight who flies through unseen lands on untamed steeds; not like the Prince Charming who bends over to kiss the pallor of your lips. But I feel like the teller of the story, like one of the seven dwarves who look on…as much in love as the knight or the prince, perhaps more…but whose one word could shatter the world into a myriad of ripples, and cause it to vanish like a dream undreamt. Because silence has bent my breath like a bow, and my word, the arrow, is ready to shoot forth into the clouds of my thought, making the eyes rain.
And as a fairy shall you haunt my reminiscences, wandering, lost in the labyrinthine recesses of my memory. Your image shall be the eternal will-o-the-wisp flitting over the marshes of my abandoned fantasies. And I shall stand like a tree, firm but desolate, holding delicately in its branches the nest in which love once blossomed, bore fruit and then took wing.
And if you should chance to read this, think not of me as a bird that feared to fly; but as the flamboyant Icarus whose waxen wings melted as he neared his love – the Sun. To you the Earth and all its happiness; all but the glory of your image, immured forever within the walls of my heart. There it shall stay – a cherished treasure, a very personal pleasure.

Memoir of an accomplice

2005-06-13T22:02:00.000-07:00

Summers were always looked forward to in those days. We travelled from humid and sticky ones to dry and scorching ones to visit our cousins, relatives and anybody who's delighted to have us over. Those magical days began with great gusto that only the promise of never-ending adventure holds.

The first task of the summer would ofcourse be setting up a secret head quarters. A place where we could stash up tons of "The Three Investigators" or " The Famous Five", our weapons of mass destruction which included a fully functional Rambo-bow with arrows that had suction caps, a serrated plastic knife, two (I hate to admit they were plastic) fully operational ak-47s, a table lamp that could be clamped to any wooden or cement corner, and a blanket to sit on. The trouble however was not every relative's place was convenient enough to have a secret headquarters of mischief. If it is an attic at one uncle's place it would be a hall cabinet in anothers or the roof of a neighbor's place. Sometimes an innocuous looking bed would be turned into anything between a four wheeler to a spaceship. The settings in which our adventures took place ranged from streets of london to barkatpura or from the amazon to our own bathroom depending on the ever-new levels of imagination bent upon fun.

However, there would be some uncles' or aunts' homes that were just not amenable to such devilry. Even if they were, we would always be surrounded by elders whose eyes were constantly upon us. It was precisely this lack of facilities for a head quarters that was the cause of the great piano tragedy.

It measured a good fourteen inches by ten inches. And it was the biggest functioning piano I had ever seen. However it was a gift to one of our much younger cousins who was just a baby then. Oh! our eyes would light up just to imagine the feel of the keys and the music that would plung out of them. Our gracious aunts always allowed us to play with anything as long as we were not a pain ( anywhere). So on a grand looking day we were not only given a chance to play with the toy piano but also we were left alone - the three of us-- my younger brother, a cousin (who was the same age as me) and me :) - as all the aunts went out for pickle- mango shopping.

The incident didn't happen in the first hour or in the second. It happened in the eleventh. My younger brother in his fit of never diminishing enthusiasm accidentally (such a grossly misunderstood word) jumped onto the piano which vomited a sound that would have been a mood setter in a horror film. It wasn't broken. Nor was it completely dysfunctional. It was having a slight difficulty spluttering out any sound in five of its 12 keys. Ok, six. But that was it. The situation got under control after a small verbal fight and finger pointing. We needed to do something before anybody came home. We tried shaking it around so that the keys would set in. Luck wasn't on our side. We tried lifting the keys up. Luck wasn't on its side either. After a second round of panic was overcome, we decided its time to take the matter into our hands. A confession would have been gracious. But we were in no mental state to accept defeat. We did the only thing we could. We found a small rasp/saw in one of the boxes in the storage closet. We made a small rectangular hole to check out what was wrong with the keys... well almost made a hole. Three-fourths along the way the rasp was stuck in the unyielding plastic not moving an inch this way or that .... neither up nor down (well the piano was from america made by the chinese... talk about quality control) with the result that we could not see or reach the viscera of the victim.

Now we not only had the victim but also the instrument of death stuck in it as well. We knew everybody would be back very soon. We could feel it. We did what the most crafty of murderers would do when faced with pressure like this. We had to hide the victim (and by lack of any choice, the murder weapon along with it) . But if found inside the house it would lead to certain doom. Life for man-slaughter wasn't a known phrase then ... but we would have guessed its import given the circumstances. The only choice was to bury the dark secret along with the victim and the rasp stuck in its throat elsewhere.

"What about the dumpster on the street?" - my naive mind suggested. It wouldn't even be on the places-to-search list by anybody.

The time to run down four flights of stairs (of course there wasn't any power for the lift to work) we later thought, we had smashed every known record. Well not really, not the record time we took to climb back up after we disposed the dead body.

A few days later one of the aunt's asked if we had seen the piano anywhere.

A few more days later the uncle asked the aunt if she had seen a small rasp in his storage cabinet.

Nobody was put on the trial stand.

Before long guilt was replaced with more fun-filled memories, mango pickle, and other times when we weren't as lucky.

The Mind of the Sith

2005-06-10T12:17:00.000-07:00

Darth Maul - Legendary Sith Lord

It is sacrilegious to the all knowing consciousness to refer to Creation from the Void as The Dawn. It is the evening twilight of the deep brooding thought drenched with secrets from the darkness. The light of knowledge that the light-worshippers seek was at the heart of darkness even before Creation.

For, light is but darkness conscious of itself.

The power of Dark Side of the Force bends its will on the million suns and the candle alike and engulfes them ...slowly...and surely.The all connecting Force is only tasted by giving the mind's horses the free rein of raw passion. Use your anger...lust...to taste this Power; the Power we Sith derive from the Dark Side.

It's the left hand

2005-06-04T00:54:00.000-07:00

A new something to discover. A new something to get obsessed with. If its LOTR yesterday, its Star Wars tomorrow. But it's golf today.

As if it had a premonition of its destiny, the right hand glove disappeared after its last act (when it was humiliatingly used to turn an unyielding lug wrench in a flat tire scenario). The skin covering the phalanges is now calloused to the extent that nothing can bite into it anymore. I changed my touch-sensitive fingers into genetically mutated pachydermal composites. By swinging a golf club. The wrong way. For a few months.

It took me the (g)love loss to figure out what I was doing wrong. You see the back of the right palm must be facing the target. But i showed the target my lunar mound. No wonder The balls were flying left if at all they left the ground to begin with. But how do I change how I hold the club?

I give credit to the movie "National Treasure". It alone has an inane and pointless montage of scenes (they seem to fill up the whole movie though) where you would inevitably get out of the couch, pick up the No. 7 and see if you can change your grip of the club. It takes Nicolas Cage's acting talent (im still searching) to discover that it's not the right hand all along. The power must be balanced between the left and right hands when one swings. All i needed to do was mentally transfer the energy into the left hand and voila! The back of the palm of the right hand -- facing its target.

So I will continue to the driving range once again. To see if figuring out is equivalent to application. And add unfeelable pain to the gloveless fingers.

Cuz obsessions have to be lived for.

?

2005-05-30T17:02:00.000-07:00

Since when did not being unhappy equate with happiness?

Musically Yours

2005-05-22T09:44:00.000-07:00

definitely a thing or two can be and should be written about the recent albums i have heard. all these albums have impressed me in their own way.they all are very different and have proved me wrong, just when i began to believe that good music is a thing of past.
On hindi front, Vidhu Vinod Chopra's Parineeta has really good music. Shantanu Moitra (of ab ke saawan fame) has proved that simple and good music still has scope..if the song "piyu bole" grabs the immediate attention of the listener..chitra's wonderful rendition in "raat hamari" makes you wonder why she is not given many chances these days. sonu Nigam himself comes out with a good number "sooni aangan". the credit, i think, should go to Vidhu Vinod Chopra also.he is one among the very few film-makers who has an ear for good music.

the second album i heard is "Paheli". this project surprised me because it brings two opposite personalities together. director amol palekar and producer/actor shah rukh khan. the former is a wonderful actor and award-winning film-maker also.and the latter..the less said..the better(as i said..he is the opposite of amol palekar). but strangely, SRK is producing this film, based on the love story between a woman and a ghost..set in rajasthan. and treading a different path, SRK chooses a low-profile M.M.Keeavani (perhaps amol palekar's choice) for music..instead of great maestro's like anu malik and jatin lalit.lyrics are by Gulzar, who teams up with Keeravani for the 1st time.(imagine the keeravani of "nuvvu whistle vesthey aandhra soda buddi"!!! did he ever dream of working with gulzar!!!..but quite contrastingly, keeravani has given some good music in hindi) the songs are definitely very different, especially for Keeravani.they are more folkish and earthy sounds.though i personally didnt like all, except 1 or 2, i do appreciate Keeravani's sense of experimentation..of breaking cliche`. songs like "dheere jalna", "kangna re" are definitely new to him.
Gulzar comes up with his own inimitable style, with imaginative phrases like "socha na tha zindagi aaise phir se milegi jeene ke liye..aankhon ko pyas lagegi apne hi aansoo peene ke liye"..but the ones which caught me up were ,"doobtha hai din to shaam ko saaye udte hain, teri yaadein liye...laakh din hue hain ke raat ko, aadhe chand se, teri baatein kiye...yaad hai kya tujhe raaha ki baariyan wahaan...khali hain tere bina dono aankhiyan, tum gaye kahaan".they gracefully graced Keeravani's tunes.
from north, it is time to go down...i have to write about 3 albums here. all the three are by my favourite composer Ilaiyaraaa. and usually, when i talk about him, i have lots to say. nothing unusual now either. first, a trip to kerala...ie.,. malayalam.
in 2005, ilaiyaraaja had 3 releases in malayalam. i heard two of them. i am yet to hear the 3rd album, "twinkle twinkle little star" ( a children's film).
Achuvinte Amma, is the 1st album.it has 3 songs. the director of this film seems to have got a fascination for ilaiyaraaja, that he choose to talk about the making of the music, in the album.a song by chitra has nice rendition and one can see ilaiyaraaja's touch..which was reminiscent during 80s and 90s.infact all the 3 songs have his signature."thamarakurikivu" reminds of another old song of his.the best of the lot "swaasathil" is sure to hit the melody lovers.

Ponmudi Puzhayorathu is another album which has got some wonderful songs."maan kutti" sounds like some 80s song presented on modern sound.the song "naadaswaram" is little modern on sound..but ideas are the same. the brilliant song of the album "oru chiri kandaal", in his favourite maayamaalavagowlai is a treat for ears. ilaiyaraaja proves that he is still the emperor, though he may not be ruling the kingdom.

the 3rd album is Balu Mahendra's " Andha oru kanaa kaalam".prior to this, together, they have created some brilliant albums like "moodu pani", "rettai vaal kurivi", "sadma", etc.,. this album has 5 songs. it opens with "andha naal nyaapagam", sung by Vijay yesudas and ilaiyaraaja's current favourite Shreya Goshal.this is a slow ballad...with nice combination of violins and electronic stuff...he doesnt let anything dominate over the other.hats off to ilaiyaraaja for such a fresh and mature composition..he shows his sparks towards the end of the song. the next song "kili thattu" is another favourite of mine. this one sounds like vintage ilaiyaraaja. like some 80s song. the charanams especially (is it keeravani??) have been well-crafted.good rendition..the flutes and sounds he used are pure 80s. after a long time i got to listen to Tabla a south-indian song(just think..when did u last hear it? these days its all synth-beats).my 1st reaction-simply wonderful. the next song which caught my attention after 4th hearing is "kaatu vazhi", sung by maestro himself. it is no great song..but the way he composed the violin interlude makes it special. it is very peculair because two violins are interspersed on same notes..yet..if one violin plays a note at one instant, other violin sounds as if it is secondary..and then, in 2-3 secs..they interchange..this repeats intermittently...i have never heard an experiment like this in any of ilaiyaraaja's songs before...not even in his How To Name It? the violin piece itself brings glory to this song. a must hear for all, especially to observe the way violins have been woven together..it is a blinder of idea.
the last two songs are unimpressive, commercial songs(mass kind), probably for the film's hero and to move the sales.perhaps ilaiyaraaja and balu mahendra wanted to recreate their regular sensual-number magic with "unnale thookkam" but it doesnt work. for me, "oh babua"(from his sadma) and "thanni konjum" (from julie ganapathy) are still the best. but in all, with 3 songs being good..the duo, balu mahendra and ilaiyaraaja dish out what is expected from them.

the sound of these albums is new, no doubt..but ilaiyaraaja displays his compositional skills with same ideas.he may not be using his violin to great extent but yet, he uses his violins ensemble to create that harmony..and adds wonderful synth sounds around them.not long ago, my friend ravi told me that he prefers ilaiyaraaja with a violin over ilaiyaraaja with keyboards.now, how many times did we listen to raaja with violin?hundreds.. i guess every other song during 80s and early 90s had raaja using violin. he literally exploited it so much that after a while it began getting repeatitive.thats where his innovativeness took backseat. today i have a huge bank of his songs in which many violin pieces sound similar.

i personally would prefer the ilaiyaraaja who willing to experiment... who moves beyond his trappings..his last album "mumbai express" did that infact. he tried more of jazzy/funky tunes..with "poo poothadhu" ,"kurangu" and "theme music".the songs of mumbai express may not be masterpieces of his career, but they visibly display his style..in all songs...not to forget,it was ilaiyaraaja who created gems with keybaords, in songs like "sundari neeyum" or "raaja nodum"(sathi leelavathy)..he has a style in using them..like in "nothing but wind"(other than flute and violins..everything else is synth..but..intelligently synth) and how to name it? (the track "do anything" explores keyboard chords amazingly) many other songs(vaanam thoda--raghu's favourite) and albums like "gharshana", have had extraordinary and extensive keyboard work. afterall, it was he who brought and revolutionalised electronic music, spanning mid eighties to nineties. and he still remains the player..coz i can still see his style(he gives more importance on chords) in using them, having studied numerous compositions by this legend.

and what i like about the present ilaiayaraaja is that he has finally come out of his repeatitve-self. the tune reflect his style and stamp but in orchestration, he is touching a different chord(s). and this may not be the best or glorious phase ever, in his career, but it is definitely interesting, impressive and challenging one indeed...because he is 62 and his songs sound young and youthful.

Rendezvous

2005-05-08T23:41:00.000-07:00

one day i asked my youth,
"tell me! why is it that there is passion in your eyes?"..
my youth replied,"i dont know what that wild flower was,
whose wine i drank, and it filled passion in my eyes.."
"but not all accede to the passion in your eyes!",
i remarked.
my youth replied,
"well! some are wise and some foolish,
some are watchful and some are careless.
there are eyes that smile...and eyes that weep
--but the charms of the wild flower were so seductive,
that they filled inexhaustible passion in my eyes..."

my youth then asked me,
"why does your heart stands still under my shadow?"
i replied,"my feet are tied to rhapsodic rhythms of my heart,
which endlessly throbs to your enthralling songs..
and my heart stands still under your shadow."
my youth remarked,
"but not all hearts and feet throb endlessly to my songs.."
i smiled,
"well! some march on their way and some linger
some are free amd some are fettered...
there are feet that stagger, and feet that ride away on the crest of time,
but mine are tied to rhapsodic rhythms of my heart,
and my heart stands still under your shadow."

Have you heard them?

2005-05-03T12:24:00.000-07:00

It is the strangest thing,
I speak to you and my words ring out.
All around they resound.
In nearby streets, far off groves,
In fields and woods beyond the river,
In your room and in my home.
And it is good that they should.
These smiles, sighs…gasps and cries,
Have learnt to travel beyond, in skies,
And I feel this mighty echo,
Is just a sign of present epoch…

Wanderer

2005-04-27T23:26:00.000-07:00

Another piece of writing from the shelf named " please dust off the cobwebs".

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aimlessly I wandered…thro’ the ‘scrapers of a concrete jungle.. always running away from the sun. I was tired of this place…all silver during the day and, all resplendent in the lights of the night. It was the same for a long time…and days passed. I was getting old…weathered and laden with dust and dampness…and scorched by the sun. I wished to let go…quietly…silently away from this monotonous visage of steel and glass... and mother earth heard my wish …for she sent me drifts of time and wind. The next day, I woke up …to find the day breaking into an autumn morn…dry leaves, twigs spread on the sun-drenched soil. It was quiet …the silence silenced only by the rustling leaves, when the breeze blew…occasionally. I could die here…in peace...unknown. I was breathing hard. The stertorous noises could be heard …if there was a living soul in that place. And, then…I heard the leaves crumble under the canopy of green less branches. It was a stranger…unwary of my presence…walking in solitude. He looked at me, with his hand over his brow. The sun rose high lighting his face with my shadow.…I let go and I breathed my last…

an obsequy of rain followed…soaking the sun-baked earth…

I was but a cloud.

A doll's hope

2005-04-27T23:06:00.000-07:00

Written for Manasi... a few years back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Twinklin' little eyes were those,

Which met mine at the store.

'twasn’too long ago I s'pose,

but a doll wouldn't know for sure.

Ah! home was I when she plac'd me on the big dollshelf,
with touch of kind caring.

with gleeful face she clapp'd for me as i danc'd myself,
stuck to the key unwinding.

...and i sang the only song i always sang

while the tinkles of the music box softly rang...

"For a lovely little girl do I sing

whose hair's a golden plush,

touch of butterfly's gentle wing,

and a smile that makes a rose blush.

Since long forgotten fairy's tale

from which the spells on dolls hail,

do we live lifeless in the living day

but turn alive when the night holds sway.

So when the skies stop smiling blue

we yearn to show our little girls too

that what you see in the yellow hue

belies the life in our glassy shoe

and to dance for you in full swing do

all the hopes of a doll cling to"

And soon, very soon could she mime

every word for word and rhyme for rhyme

but didn't understand what the song did chime.

And so it might be for some more time.

But one fine night would the stars shine,

the breeze would take these griefs of mine

Thro' the glass window would the baby moon gleam

...and my lovely little girl would wake from the dream.

divorce

2005-04-25T10:29:00.000-07:00

like a companion, my shadow used to live with me.
but we have now divorced each other.

ever since my feet took me into dark trenches,
like a jilted lover,
it began grumbling dementedly,
that i no longer sought its companionship.

i quetched in return,that i could walk alone,
in the bright paths, full of light...
but in dark, when i needed a companion,
it abandoned me, without leaving any trace.

my companion used to live with me,but..
my shadow and me--we have divorced each other now.

For Clementine...

2005-04-22T15:20:00.000-07:00

solitary blue shreds of sky
pasted on leftover puddles;
remnant drops of cloud tears
clinging onto the windshield
refract a distorted world
upside down;
ephemeral images
forgotten by the rain

silhouetted memories
against a montage of streets
only get clearer
dizzying my mind;
choking silence reminds me
you're forgotten;
yes... you're forgotten
i am trying to remember the pain.

Everyday man

2005-04-18T22:28:00.000-07:00

Before I began, he looked up the spelling for "Every". Something was unusually wrong with it with a capital "e" he said. For a split second I even thought 'Everyday' wasn't a valid word. Wonders of the digital age. Makes memory external.

Your everyday man cannot understand tons of words (however simple they are). He is not used to them. He is a shy, low-key, unexpressive, nodding existence during daytime which is mostly uneventful. He doesnt want to go to lunch alone. Takes off to the restroom to read his favorite book while leaving a note at the work desk -- 'at the library'. Does not (I would have said 'cannot'..but he insists) say 'no' to a woman. Gets tugged between his conscience and his desire. David Carradine would have said "he is the comment on humanity. That's the way he looks at us".

But come night, he gives a face lift to his mundane day with a digital charisma. His day is colored, stained, glossed, and embossed -- newly packaged. He turns into a superhero trying to save his life from being pedestrian.

I just help him with words.

An afternoon theme

2005-03-29T15:01:00.000-08:00

Mouse clicks’ percussions
Rattling keys’ timpani
Paper ruffle cymbals
Chair squeak viols
Door screech cellos
Cabinet shriek violins
Telephone ring piano
Occasional grunt trumpets
Exhaust hum choir
Distracted mind conductor
And I’m audience
For the office symphony.

Is there a trend?

2005-03-27T20:44:00.000-08:00

At first we tried hiding the keychain in one of the pockets. The point being that the other person would have to guess which pocket it's hidden in. Then we tried tossing a rusted coin.

The blue and white couch is extremely comfortable and faces the telly at a smooth angle so as not to hurt the neck. Dinner time entertainment has always been watching a movie.

The results till now are proof for the existence of mr. murphy. Who ever sat on the couch before the toss without waiting for it always lost the position. This happened for 7 days in a row. Need one more for statistical validation.

unchained and discarded

2005-03-27T00:46:00.000-08:00

#1)
as the morning, approaches through the path of dawn, i try to wrap sleep around a tired mind.tired, yet restless. each time this seemingly purposeless life comes across a crossroad which may lead to a purpose, obstinate apathy wins over seemingly uncertain sense of adventure, cruising along to a mediocre monotony...

philosophizing, it strikes me now, is an escape out of the world as it is into a world through my eyes... a luxury of the adequately provided... inertly pondering over life's "bigger" questions from a tiny window.

#2)
An old english villa at the edge of Chicago is where the guests are put up today. They wear outlandish yet recognizable european garbs. And, they are seated in carved wooden chairs sipping coffee and licking icecream. An old gentleman curious about a particular hat in front of his eyes, deciding to check it out, throws acup of icecream at it. Little did i realize that the hat had a head and a body beneath it until it raised the icecream war.

too believable for a dream.

#3)
What is it with holidays? It's like the change you get from a taco bell drivethrough... you get it and ... it disappears... the law of conservation of mass does not hold for change. Within a split second a week of holidays are over and a rotten feeling consumes the whole mind making me feel I'm five years old all over again dreading school after spring break.

And I was wishing that seinfeld dvd would keep playing forever.

#4) sound room:
Customary acknowledgements in the form of green, yellow or red blinks are common to the sound console as a mridangam or violin frequents the higher frequencies at faster speeds. Its like morse code with a color code.

#5)
On the blank white post window's canvas... the big bang of thoughts evolves into ripples of words. But what to write next? The itching mind craves to see a creation. But what devilry is this block and inertia to write another line?

It must be the alpha-female. Each time the radar shows the green dot amongst the red ones...
i show up at blockbuster without the dvds in hand and stare blankly at the service desk thinking "what the hell am i doing here?";
take the longest possible road to get somewhere;
and write absolutely meaningless lines.

However each time the green dot comes in contact it results in a debacle more fundamental than the previous one. No exceptions.

Sure! life is one learning experience after another... one green dot at a time.

The Conversation

2005-03-11T01:05:00.000-08:00

A small crevice between the pulled-over comforter and the pillow is the first vision of the unsleeping eyes. A hazy but constant light diffuses in through the crevice as if in a deep cave. The desire to wake up is deferred by the promise that the crevice holds... a possible rare glimpse of the thread that life seems to string each and every day with. Instead, without notice, a sudden stop in the fall down the memory hole flashes images of a conversation on a terrace in Janakpuri, Delhi some ten years ago.

Anna was unlike any person I met. Our visit to the terrace was the result of our parents' having to talk about "important matters" that were "better discussed without you around". At fifteen, to my fifteenish eyes, she was attractive, using lipstick, and went to a hep school. Our conversation soon converged to "what do you want to do next?" under a moonlit sky. As I chattered away about becoming a genetic engineer (which I successfully avoided becoming till date) I remember that a distinct oval shaped yawn greeted me. With an irked silence I watched her as she started talking about what she'd do in the coming few weeks (which made my jaw drop considerably below my chest). She said she would run away from home, ditch school and its irrationality, find a job in a modelling agency, and then start "living life". All this while she was lighting a cigarette (standing literally on the top of our parents' heads).

Being the self-appointed preacher that I am, I thought I could reveal to her the dangers of leaving the security of home without an education that can provide or a job in hand. But I remember seeing her determined face as she drew the cigarette to her mouth. No further words were required as we stood in silence. I did not utter a word to anybody about our conversation.

I do not know what became of Anna. If she went through with her plan or not. But to this day my concept of normalcy remains shaken (although the idea of running from home seemed more achievable from that day on). How does one judge if anyone is normal? Is it an average theoretical group expectation (which possibly no one achieves) balancing the uncertainties, and deviances of the individuals?

All this... while I'm trying to evaluate if I'm normal... blinking into a self-made crevice... hoping against hope that I wouldn't need to get out of bed if I engaged my mind with matters beyond its grasp.

the coffin

2005-02-15T22:26:00.000-08:00

A foot and a knee stick out of their murky reflections in the mirror of water. Soap film swirls in imperceptible patterns on the mirror as drops of water leaking from the faucet mutate into ripples. The steam suspended in the air causes a certain shortness of breath... like when one is about to cry. The stillness of this moment has an inevitable resemblance to death. My tears are buried in the water resonant with a dirge of memories... a wiggle of the bigtoe drains them...

Rest in peace

in the limit of break up...

2004-12-06T05:25:00.000-08:00

Ironic. That's the word. It perfectly describes the phenomenon of break up. cuz it never really happens. Thanks to mathematicians there is a word called the limit. Things never really get to zero or infinity or a perfect whole number...they just keep tending to it. Break up should be a perfect in-class, demonstrable example for this concept.

Breaking up is one thing. Things have a way of not working out...it's their natural tendency, fine, accepted. But, to keep listening to a barrage of trite from the person you broke up with is a horrendous waste of time. To be always asked, " how are you?" is the most irritatingly disgusting thing. I don't know how those words came into being. They have absolutely no meaning what so ever. I wish I could stop that person who says those words and really tell him/her how I really am. But, standing on the edge of politeness, sparing that person of a brutal attack seems somewhat human. So, I continue listening to the bunkum that follows. After they get tired or when i show signs of restlessness and if they are receptive enough there is always the happy goodbye, keep in touch fart. But, some people just dont get it. When i perceive cleave as detach, they think of it as clinging to.

trite

2004-12-06T02:52:00.000-08:00

How much ever i despise it, it keeps coming back. instead of just listening and saying "things will be alrite", the tendency to sermonize is amazingly addictive, even though some part of me doesn't like it. its hard not to say anything and its hard to say something that can really solve anything for anybody. self-reference is inevitable in telling anyone that good things will happen. the projection of a happy, satisfied life is just that... a projection.... it will only make others feel more rotten than they are. really, feeling rotten is universal... coming out of it is too... so just listen...