upheaval

theatres are attacked. an individual who was named as the most powerful/influential by a plethora of best-selling cheap gossip magazines can only sit and tweet his anguish. his fans retweeting to give their assurance. an angry mob caught by the imagination of a dubious patriot runs a riot proclaiming its love for the motherland by destroying her buses and her buildings. a few valentines decide to blacken the face of an innocent anti valentine who did nothing but send a few kaamdevs to slap and punch cupid stricken boys and girls and get them married. a few lucky valentines do not participate in this national Babel for they have their own telephonic madness to handle. to shout, to abuse, to cheat, to lie, to patch up. to purr, to bray, to bark. a few others are breathing frustration, searching for love, missing the lost one, running behind the new one. the humiliator and the humiliated. the radios are crooning all time hits, evergreen hits, love hits, disco hits, dard bhare geet hits and then asking listeners to come up with one liners like 'is it just a co-incidence that children's day comes exactly 9 months after valentine's day'. TVs are showing big bindis on foreheads, humans mating and animals making love, headlines and breaking news, ants, elephants, hippos, earthquakes and sharks. then there are those who prayed awake the whole night along with Shiva, the destroyer. it is a night when Shiva drinks the poison churned from the ocean of milk. why O Shiva! Why did you have to drink the deadly poison and then ask Parvati to come and strangulate you with a snake? poor snake. It can't even come and drink water near your cool and nice lingam (don't feel shy. it's okay we worship it here). your bhaktas at this sight will worship the unknowing snake to its death trying to feed it milk and make it hear flute noises which by your very own grace it can’t hear. a million status updates. a zillion comments. nostalgia, anger, sympathy, illness, bitterness. there is pollution, traffic jams caused by cars bigger than the roads. people dying on footpaths because of extreme heat, biting cold and drunken driving. thank god those drunkards on foot did not stamp them. but of course they were walking on the roads because the footpaths are meant for the beggars and the sleepers. few happily married and sadly divorced. a few sadly married and happily divorced. babies being born and babies being aborted. and then there are babies thrown away. politicians die and cities burn. and there is no electricity and candles burn. it rains and there are floods. it does not rain and there's drought. and here you are at the centre of your universe trying to fit yourself in this scheme of things. putting yourself in it for a bit. then pulling away from it. and then doing neither of it. who you are and what you are loses its significance in the multitude of insignificants. then you are left with everything and yet nothing. you are back at the centre to watch and exist. to live and perish.

The Silent Consummation

The water is placid in the icy lake. There is a thin veil of mist over the water. The trees are all bare but they put up an imposing sight which the water cannot help but reflect it back. The banks of the lake are muddy and the occasional disturbance in the water by one of its creatures makes the stillness of the lake more pronounced. The silence is profound but by no means eerie. The rays of the sun penetrate through the mist to reach the water. It's this meeting and consummating of the water and the sun that has created the entire spectacle that beholds beauty which the trees claim to be theirs. Yet the water and the sun stand unfazed, in love with each other, not caring what anyone thinks of them, with the silence around as the only testimony to their hallowed conjugation.

drops of moments maketh the ocean of life...

Every moment is a result of so many other moments. There are some moments, which are born bastards of some unassuming moments while some are serendipitous love babies of a romantic fling between frivolous moments. Whatever may they be, these moments happen so that they can dig out some remote uninhabited corner in our memories and settle themselves to be evicted only by the flames of a pyre. But to try figuring which moments caused which ones is like trying to answer what came first; the egg or the hen. Rather than delving into the unnecessary dissection of them, let's just experience the enigma of the mysterious juxtaposition of the moments in life. Every moment of melancholy is nostalgia of another moment of joy. And every moment of joy is a celebration of the absence of sorrow. So what is there to choose? Negating one moment is denying the other its very existence. That's why experiencing these mysteries life offers is the only way ahead. And some of these enigmatic truths are so absolute in its profundity that they are the sole reason that philosophical clichés exist. One such is--"Nothing is constant but change." While accepting a change is the most difficult of the challenges life throws at us, there is nothing to make it less difficult yet the inevitability of the change makes it look like the easiest thing once the moment of change passes away. This oxymoronic fundamental, is what keeps the rope of life stretched for us to hang onto. 

The 330 million gods and goddesses are not a mere figment of imagination or some crackpots’ invention out of sheer stupidity and joblessness. It was just a technique, devised by the ancient Hindus, to exemplify the enormity of the number of moments we go through in the course of our lifetime. Instead of us surrendering to god at every moment, which is difficult for an ordinary person to do, lets just make every moment and emotion divine. That’s why you find gods with different personalities and temperaments reacting differently in different situation throughout the  scriptures even though essentially these gods are supposed to be enlightened and all too aware. Radha became a goddess, not because she was a character with a strong storyline, but because she was the embodiment of a profound aesthetic idea: the agony and ecstasy of union and separation from the Lord.*

A battery does not have any meaning if any one of its poles is not recognized. No matter how many pieces you break a magnet into; in every piece, its south is always at the opposite end of its north. It’s nature's way of telling us that if life is a sinusoidal wave then all we need is a surfboard of a desire to live.

*This line is an excerpt from the Times of India column, Speaking Tree, written by HIMANI DALMIA in the Times of India, Pune Issue dated 27/08/2009, under the title, The Cosmic Intimacy of Radha and Krishna.

Life's Whispers

To reconcile with your own beliefs, after you have drifted away from it, is so difficult. When life teaches you a lesson and you refuse to learn from it life decides to screw you up a second time. And this time the screwing is 'Big Time'. A corny cliché, but it explains a lot. Your mind is plagued by your stupidities and to cover them up you end up adding more stupidities. Self pity slowly fucks the hell out of you. But what gives room to all this? Dishonesty. Yes. As much as I hate to say it, it is dishonesty with yourself. Expectation is just a garb to hide the dishonesty within. To clean up the dishonesty first the expectations need to be burned. But expectations are not that easy to burn. When they first creep into your minds they get bound and coiled on your thoughts and actions. Making you a slave to the whims of those on whom you have rested your expectations. Be it friends, job or your own achievements. And to free yourself from the slavery you need to become a master to your desires. This is the key. Mastering your desires will clear the muddy waters you are swimming in. It allows you to think and act rationally. It reveals one of the essential truths of existence—survival of the fittest. Once you realize this your expectations becomes insignificant. You get the superhuman ability to laugh at your own self. You see life beyond mere emotions and bonds and idiotic rat-races. You begin to regain a kind of zeal for life that only children possess. You want to do things only to please yourself and unknowingly you are actually spreading happiness.

SOS

I looked at the sky. The blue was enchanting. I looked farther away I could see a hue of pink at the horizon. Clouds had covered the sun but a few rays had managed to penetrate through the clouds. It looked like someone with gold fingers were trying to squeeze cotton. A cool wind blew over my face and suddenly I realized a spiraled hole being formed on my chest near the heart. It looked like the hole that lies at the centre of a whirlpool. The hole functioned like the Black Hole— having infinite gravity that can even suck-in light. I couldn’t fathom what was being sucked. But  the blue of the sky suddenly became a mockery of its own beauty.  The cool breeze became itchy. I thought the oxygen levels were going down. My breathing lost its rhythm. But I was alive and something told me I was not going to die. I reached my hands out to the heavens calling all the gods I had adored to come to my rescue. But all that I saw was my gods standing helpless and pointing at something. What the fuck were they pointing at? Aren’t they supposed to swoop down and help me. But they allowed me to suffocate. My hands were sweating and the sweet smell of the mud wetted by the slight drizzle of rain turned foul. The whirlpool had now turned into a cyclone. Uprooting the people from the grounds of my mind and heart. They started swirling around me circles. I tried stopping all of them but I couldn’t. The tornado was too powerful. I looked up at the gods again. What the fuck are they still pointing at? Why don’t they move their asses and do what they have to? Oh celestial divine idiots! Come down here! They started laughing but would not stop pointing. The skies started to darken. Then the rains  came down. Not from the skies but from my eyes. The rains the cyclone together became an unstoppable force. Then a lightning struck. And I saw the gods again for a flash in the darkness. Another  bolt of lightning struck. But it hit me this time. The gods were pointing at me. Why? I forced myself some breath  and tried to look at me. And I knew what could save me.

A hand glove

Fascination for a hand glove. A laughable matter isn’t it? Laugh, laugh. But the fascination is true. Why? I have no reasons. When? You  rather you ask me- SINCE when? Anyway, I don’t remember that too. But fascination for a hand glove, I did have. And please don’t think it’s a lie. Because if it was, it would not have been for  a  hand glove. Nobody lies about hand gloves, do they? Who knows? Anything can happen in this world. If a person can confess that he has a fascination for hand gloves then there can be those who will think this is all a lie. Lies Lies. No it is true. My dear hand glove. And it comes in so many varieties. The ones with fur—soft and smooth; made from the hides of innocent little beasts—give such a pleasure. Aah! Then the rubber ones. Gives you such a feeling of power to put your hands in the gutter and garbage. There are so many more. Before I forget let me also mention about the free gloves you get with hair dye bottles. They are very common. So I suggest even you can try and feel the pleasure of wearing a hand glove.

 

But why am I so attracted to these deceptive things? They are hand gloves for god’s sake. There are not someone’s hand. Oh! No wonder! Now I know why. Whenever I held on to it too tightly it came off. And I thought the quality of the hand glove was not good. Mercy!! Have mercy on me my dear hand glove. I doubted your quality. Oh my five fingered friend, brother, love(I am not being incestuous—each glove is different you see!!!). You came to me in so many forms. And I found a defect in all of them. I fit my dirty big hands inside you and made holes in you. I kept you unwashed because by then I wanted a new one. Oh I am so sorry my hand glove. Ok fine. I know a sorry won’t suffice. I promise I will wash you clean and not wear until you easily fit in my hand again. I will stitch the holes I made but I need time. I will do it but I need time. I will shamefully add  Roberts Frost here…I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep and miles to go before I sleep.

a Ha, a Ha Ha, a Ha Ha Ha

When laughter abandons, what is left is a void. A vacuum. An empty hole. That’s when when one tries to fill the vacuum with the syllable, ha. But the laughter attains a sinister sound. It echoes within the boundaries of the vacuum and the syllables  crash against each other emanating a noise that could haunt the graveyards themselves. A smile takes on the role of a mask that betrays every emotion. Happiness and sadness merge into one and becomes a collective non-entity. A craving for both happiness and sadness arises. This contradiction takes away the spirit. What remains of one is the vacuum with a few syllables left in it.

The Tribe of WeAreCoolisstan

I work in the numero uno company of India Inc. A company, that was at the helm during the IT revolution in India. (I am not saying all this to praise myself. Not that I don’t praise myself. I do. And I wish I can, right now, about so many other things but that can wait. And anyway there is nothing proud in being a vegetable among other assortments of exotic vegetables in this revolutionary place. So now you know I am not praising myself. ) So let’s assume the obvious that the best always hires the best. Now coming to the point, I am here to write about this hired “best”.

The Best can be segregated into a variety of categories. But I would like to form three categories (the common denominator for all being that they are intelligent and bright engineers). One, the civilized and the classy. Two, the uncivilized and the unsophisticated junglees (I don’t blame them more than the circumstances they have been through for being in this state). And finally three, those who border in between the first and the third. I had no choice but to come up with this third category because I failed utterly in placing them in either of the first two categories. So, to be technically right I will not call them a category but a tribe.

The confusion arose because these tribal people at first sight look like as if they belong to the first category. But only when you approach them you will realize that they are tribal. They will perform rituals like chanting “We are so cool.” Their language and activities are also distinctly tribal. They will not allow you to be a part of their tribe. They don’t do it intentionally but they do it because they can’t understand the language of the higher category. They detest the junglee category and don’t allow members from that category intentionally. But the junglees can defect into the tribe if they work a little hard to pretend they are from the first category. But the thing that is in favour of the tribe is the sheer numbers they exist in. Nearly, 47% are from the tribe alone.

This makes it even more difficult to access the first category. Especially if you are from a place which too had junglees , and want to desperately get out from their clutches. You end up meeting the tribe. The illusion of tribe is so powerful that you are easily fooled into thinking they are from the First category and hence shake hands with them. And once the handshaking is done you are doomed to be part of the tribe. Even after you realize your folly you can’t do much. If you break free from them and still don’t find the first category you will not be accepted into the tribe with the same warmth. You will become the outsider and a misfit. I am currently the outsider and the misfit (God bless me. Amen! ) So I am requesting you to be aware of the tribe of WeAreCoolistan. It’s dangerous. But if you are a junglee then I request you to please go and read Theory of Evolution by Charles Darwin.

The Nostalgic Grip

It grips you. It holds your heart tight and squeezes it. The squeeze is nice in the beginning but you start feeling the pain soon. In a flash an unfathomable depth of memory starts pouring out its content. It feels like sitting near a bonfire on a winter evening. The warmth gives an unspeakable pleasure yet the smoke hurts your eye. Nostalgia is neither a dream nor a nightmare. It's a sweet bitter reality. It ambushes you in the most predictable moments. It's ironical to use ambush and predictability together but there can't be a better way to explain its appearances when one moment you think its lurking in the corner but does not show up and yet when you are really having the time of your life it suddenly shows up. One of Nostalgia's favourite moments is your loneliness. It's the best bait you can attract it with. Not that it will show up surely but the stats are definitely on your side. Nostalgia, when its feeds on loneliness, is a pain that you will enjoy. It's like looking at mirage when you are dying of thirst in a desert. It's a desert rose.

The defecation of thoughts in a toilet of chaos

Wow, I finally allowed myself to wallow in excreta. Yuck! Chee! But hey it’s not a crime, in the land I live, to shit in the open. I am not implying that our ancient, 5000 year old civilization calls upon us to display our turd to the world at large but the lack of space and the urgency to relieve after the spicy Indian food, drives many to squat in the open. But as with the other things of my Mother Land this habit has been adopted by all the classes in some way or the other. Yes, yes. Even by the privileged that have that wonderful gift of the west to the toilets of the east. Right. The Western-Style—hallmark of the toilets of the rich. Even the slightly lower but better than the class of open –air, who use the usually-stained Indian-style have drawn inspiration from public defecation. Now let me clear a few things before you close your nose and run away. What we, most of the time, defecate is not the undigested matter from our stomachs but the undigested thoughts of our mind. And the resemblance is strikingly similar. Even the odour is unbearable. And it is this kind of public defecation of thoughts that has been mastered by the Western/Indian-Style users. And why not? We are from the proud land of Vedas; the book with some of the greatest thoughts in the world written by equally great and unknown people of this ancient land.

So, why these shameless acts of indecency and derogation? Everybody seems to want to contribute this dumping of fecal thoughts. I am not talking of those that do have some usefulness left in them but of those that are blatantly plucked out of the minds and discarded in the open. I hope this statement will save me from any imminent dangers I may face for mentioning of the Holy Vedas in the presence of some unholy things. And I am so thankful to Lord Ram that his Sena of thugs is not here to slap me and kick me and punch me in the name of blasphemy. Oh. No, no. I don’t have sympathy for the Managlore girls who got beaten by the saintly. I mean, how can I? They were destroying the culture of this pure land of holy cows. How dare did those foolish girls think they were free in this free land? Oh, come on, didn’t they see the Holy Public Crappers, crapping their thoughts of purity. Of course you can’t go to a pub for a drink and a dance. And arre baba, you definitely can’t dress up in an “Un-Indian Way”. I mean, please, you have to clothe fully to be raped. Otherwise who will rape you? And by the way rape, bribery etc. are more important and holy than drink and dance. Of course, have you noticed any Ram Sena or any other Senas or Brigades attacking a rapist? I don’t know if lord Ram is happy with the modern Vanars. But St. Valentine definitely isn’t. All the poor saint did was to spread some message of love. But our dear Holy Thought Defecators made a toilet of this too. Young men and women are not supposed to be together on Saint Valentine’s birthday (or death day, I don’t really know.) Why? You are asking me? Hell, don’t be so stupid. Don’t you know St. Valentine is a Saint not a Sant or a Rishi. Still don’t understand? My god! Okay let me tell you. St. Valentine is not a son-of-the-soil of our generous Mother Land. What difference does that make you ask? Well it does. How can a foreigner’s message of love be allowed to spread in a land which has so many great sons of her own? It doesn’t matter even if a foreigner is married to a son-of-the-soil. She still is a foreigner. We can’t allow ourselves to be ruled by foreigners again. Thousand years of slavery by the foreigners is enough. Let’s start our own brand of sons-of-the-soil slavery and racism. It’ll be more fun to sling our excreta/thoughts at one of our own. But I do agree some of the Holy Crappers over do it. I mean there are those who blow up buildings and trains and people just because their faeces fell next to the faeces of the other Crappers. Oh the never ending wars of the toilet goers. But as in the case of any toilet we also have a few toilet cleaners. Who brave their way into the putrescence and rottenness and clean the excrement. But the stains are tough. But they do their job with diligence. It’s an unrewarding job but someone has to, isn’t it?

I pray to Ram/Allah/Christ/Blah/Blah/Blah to please ask their respective senas, mujahedeen, and crusaders to stop defecating in the public and let the others, the followers of humanity, breathe some clean air and allow the few toilet cleaners to finish their job before it is too late.

The Rose by Don Williams

Some say love it is a river
that drowns the tender reed
Some say love it is a razer
that leaves your soul to bleed

Some say love it is a hunger
an endless aching need
I say love it is a flower
and you it's only seed

It's the heart afraid of breaking
That never learns to dance
It's the dream afraid of waking
That never takes the chance
It's the one who won't be taken
Who cannot seem to give
And the soul afraid of dying
That never learns to live

When the night has been too lonely
And the road has been too long
And you think that love is only
For the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winter
Far beneath the bitter snows
Lies the seed
That with the sun's love
In the spring
Becomes the rose

Some time that day

I don’t remember where I kept the book I was reading just an hour ago. But while trying to retrieve that strain of memory I caught hold of another one. I am dancing wearing a crimson shirt and silver shorts. Complementing it, I’ve worn (made to wear actually) white canvas shoes, the kind worn by those old retired men teaching PT in schools. There is a girl standing next to me wearing nearly the same attire except the ugly silver skirt replacing my equally gory silver shorts. Both of us are also wearing wide belts made of cardboard decorated with silver and red craft paper. The haute couture doesn’t end there. How could it without the much-needed makeup? So make up it was! Some generous amounts of powder making us look like Chinese theatre artists. This connection to the Orient further extended with the rouge (called roose by our makeup artists then) literally painted on our cheeks. All my protests against this beautification drive met with stern approbation that this makes our faces visible on the stage when the bright stage lights blind our eyes. I suddenly can feel my heartbeat when the voice from the memory announces, after the lovely dance by Class II next is a performance by Class III. It is time to move our juvenile rumps in the rhythm taught by the teachers of our class. We were told this was dance. A dance that was to be danced in front of our parents so that they can be fooled into thinking that child of theirs was a good dancer. I cannot speak for others but back then, I didn’t get the point at all. A week before the day of the Dance I remember I was caned for dancing in the class and, now, when I didn’t feel like, I was being scolded for not dancing. I had participated only because my mother had told me it was the right thing to do and I was allowed to because my grades were good and hence I could afford a bit of extra curricular activity. Of course, those were the days when Aamir Khan was just a few movies old and had a good 15 years before he made Taare Zameen Par. So there I am dancing. Dancing with a girl next to me and many more like us with red silver clothes around us. While I am desperately trying to finish this affair of dancing, (sometimes I forget which hand to lift and when wiggle my head) with funny clothes, I see my mom emerging from the darkness ahead of me with a camera in her hand. The darkness behind even more full because of the bright stage lights dancing on my eyes making her look like goddess Durga whose come to rescue me from this dance of death (co-incidentally Durga often comes to rescue from Shiva’s Tandav—the dance of death!). The moment I look at the camera the lessons taught to me since childhood about photography come flooding to my head. One such and the most important of all the lessons is, the moment you see a camera you have to freeze (no matter in what position of action you are in) and give your best smile looking directly into the lens. Moreover, being the child who never missed his lessons, I do what I is required to; stop dancing and give a million dollar smile. But the people around me suddenly lose their smiles. My mom’s vanished back into the darkness and I see my teacher mouthing something to me while doing all my steps (If only she didn’t have that horrid expression someone would think she’s gone mad dancing like children). That’s when it strikes me that I am supposed to dance and not stand there like some life-sized portrait of myself. And there I go again dancing away to glory (?)…….Oh now I know where I kep’t the book! Bloody hell I have to wait till my dad comes out of the toilet.

making sense of the nonsense...answer to the question asked below

The world is definitely full of nonsense. But let's not forget that the word nonsense itself has the word sense in it. Being at the topmost level of the evolution pyramid, we humans have the ability to perceive this. This perception it what makes us want to dignify our being. Animals, we are. But the kind of animal that can see and think ahead. That harbours ambitions and emotions. As time passes these simple things start fusing together and gives rise to complexity. With more time, these complexities further get compounded. This gives rise to protocols because the human race needs to carry the burden of this complexity. But surely enough much of this burden is redundant and useless and is just an accumulation as a hangover from the past. It is this useless burden that transforms humans back into mules. It is at this point that we stop living and start surviving. So the choice remains with us as to whether we want to live as humans or survive as mules under the burden of the past's idiots. 

The fact that we can't live alone is an innate facet of human nature. But thankfully our provenance has made sure that we strive to maintain our individuality. Otherwise monotony would have bled us to death from boredom. But indifference due to lack of individuality is an attribute of a cowardly hypocrite. Another interesting aspect of the human nature is, we would never bother to criticize the company we keep if are able to conveniently leave it according to our will. 

Coming to the second part of the mystery; yes, we all love those things which are in order. In fact we covet perfection. But perfection is quite a difficult thing to come by. The Leaning Tower of Pisa is one of the wonders because there aren't many Taj Mahals. As I mentioned above perfection is a very hard thing to come along and hence majority of the time we settle for the second best. This creates a lack of variety of the perfect things, giving us the illusion of something different as something better. But it also has to be mentioned that most of the unusual things which are attractive are actually unusually perfect. That is when the imperfect things become usual and we tend to follow them because they are easier to achieve and they are acceptable too. Shiv Khera's words can't be more apt than at this juncture, 

   "Winners don't do different things,

                                     They do things differently."

sensible nonsense

World is full of sensible non sense. We all are animals but to dignify our existence we call ourselves social animals. We have certain fixed protocols for living but the truth is we are just surviving and death follows no protocol. We can’t live alone. We always search for a company but still we want to be different among our own friends. We want to look differently, we want to sound differently but when we can’t be different, we start showing indifference. We criticize our own company yet we never leave it also. We know that or rather we accept that the things which are in order are beautiful but then I wonder why leaning tower of Pisa is among 7 wonders. Why do we like atif’s voice, curt cobain’s voice who struggle with sur and taal. World’s most attractive things are usually very unusual but we still trust the usual path. In short we just follow and the worst part is we all know that.

Time to Enjoy

Time is a waste of Life,

Life is waste of Time.

So why not get wasted ,

All the time

And have the Time

of Our Life!!!

Finally its let gone

It is important to let certain things go.To release them. To cut loose. People need to understand that no one is playing with marked cards;Some times we win and some times we lose.
Don't Expect to get anything back,don't expect recognition of your efforts;don't expect your genius
to be discovered or your love to be understood.Complete the circle.Not out of pride,inability or arrogance,but simply because whatever it is no longer fits in your life.Close the door,change the record.clean the house,get rid of dust.Stop being who you were and become who you are.

-Paulo Coelho

unrevealed revealed

This was the draft of the testimonial I had written for a girl, which she rejected because it sounded quite offensive to her “army” of squirrels whom she loved then; anyway let’s get on with it. I came to know her through an intellectual whose art she considers a scribble on the last page. The intellectual loved jumping off cliffs and liked to transfigure humans into elephants (Mrs. McGonagall you have a new student!!!). My acquaintance with her continued over the phone. We met a few times too, but under conditions that made crossing the Sahara look easier. Then came along a person who called himself ‘R’, who wanted to keep many things under wraps more than what the CIA does. His investigations revealed that another person called ‘A’ and I would fight over a girl whose undercover name was Candy and a ‘G’, who was the girlfriend of ‘A’, would get angry. Anyway about the person ‘A’ in question, I’m sure he fell down from a flight of stairs and started hallucinating that I would murder him someday. Finally came the great ‘Mahatma G’ (no, not the eternal Gandhi) whose philosophies would put even Karl Marx to shame. He has an amazing ability to create preposterous zones when he gets कंटाला। The latest is a zero comfort. He’s got a small bad habit of making people feel insecure EVEN WHEN THEY DON'T WANT TO.

Bliss

I was sitting in a corner deep in thought. Thinking about things that seemed important. The past and the future seemed so significant that I forgot that I lived in the present. When suddenly I was brought to reality by a hard slap on my back. I turned around, angrily, to see who had the audacity to do such a thing to me. However, when I looked to see who it was, a pair innocent eyes peering at me confronted me. The eyes were dark and round and they were so full of mischief. Those eyes showed no animosity. Instead I saw an invitation to join in its mischief. And before I could react. Slap! Came another one but this time on my cheek. It hurt but I could not bring myself to do anything to the source of this sudden volley of slaps. I wondered why I was not reacting. I could not even feel a trace of anger. Then it occurred to me that I could read those eyes. Those very eyes which I, before this magical moment, refused to understand, that I felt were irrational and dumb. How could I have been so “dumb”? How did I not realize that those eyes were once mine too? How could I have not liked children? What a fool am I and what a fool was I!

I am not antipathetic towards children but I have always complained that children are annoying especially when they throw tantrums and found them irrational little creatures. I used to hate it when at times they go bawling for no apparent reason. I never found their jokes or actions funny and neither could I really understand how fully-grown adults could even laugh at this seemingly idiotic stuff. But it took just one moment for the jigsaw to fit it in. One moment and the whole of my perspective underwent a metamorphosis.

Those eyes revealed to me the meaning of true honesty and fearlessness. It’s only a child who’s fully aware of what he wants. He wants something and the whole world around him comes to know of it. He makes sure he is heard. Yet when he gives, he redefines generosity. Children understand only love. Hate confuses them.

Those eyes left me mesmerized and yet another slap got me out of the trance. The child did not have the time for thoughts. He was busy. Busy, toying with the present and so he could not tolerate such a transgression from me. I felt utterly ashamed and pleaded guilty before the child. As a punishment, I was to do what was instructed to me. And the first one came before I asked for it. My new master ordered me to be his accomplice in his designs of playing in the mud. I wished for the return of my hatred for these little punters. But I already knew it was not to return. Because the child inside me and already agreed to the invitation of the one in front of me.

Candy's Story: Part 6

The treachery of the sea began showing its ugly face. Aperture waged a war on three ends. The first was against the inhabitants of the world he lived in. They totally abandoned him for they felt that Candy had brought upon them a curse that disrupted their fragile bonds of friendship. The feeling of hatred was further engendered by one wily, rotten-toothed, sympathy seeking friend of no one but Aperture himself. The second battle that Aperture braved was against his ambitions that demanded a lot from him. He was failing his own expectations and that disturbed Aperture a lot. While all of this was taking a toll on him, the final blow came from the words of “his” Candy. She told him that she no longer loved him because he, Aperture loved her “as per his convenience”. She told him that Aperture was so full of himself that he could not love anyone. She told him she wanted more from him than to be a mere recourse to someone’s emotional stagnation. And this was his third war. The war wounded him fatally. He won the first two by an iota but lost the final one miserably. His world crashed. Aperture hung on to Candy with fear. The fear of losing. He became bitter than before. He hopelessly lost faith in everything. But a storm had taken root in Candy’s soul. Yet she stood by his side throughout his period of madness which thankfully waned in the due course of time but the remnants of which lingered until he left that dark world.
Candy, the lighthouse, braved all storms and still stood to show the light. In the face of a storm it’s the lighthouse that remains intact but it’s the ship that wrecks. Aperture had a shipwreck and was thrown off on an island within the territories of the world he trying to get out of. The lighthouse still stood; showing light to the other ships. One such ship belonged to Captain Kryptonite Arliss.


to be continued...

Candy's Story: Part 5

In these nascent days of the Sacred Friendship Candy too gravitated towards Aperture. He became a window to her thoughts. He could decipher the meaning of her dialect because that was his language too. She knew he understood her in the way she really was. She was there for him showing him the light when he got lost in the darkness, which was often in the dark world he lived in. She gave him the love—though briefly and sporadically—he sought. He felt complete. He felt the circle of life closed in on him finally. He in turn was there for her when she needed him. She called on to him from dawn to dusk. In fact the dawns merged into the dusks when they were together. But Aperture had other callings to attend too. Most of all, the callings of his ambitions and of the battle he was waging against the idleness that was beginning to wreck his sanity. Candy’s calling was now seldom reaching Aperture.

to be continued...

Candy's Story: Part 4

Candy's story cannot be complete without Aperture's story being told. Because Candy became Aperture’s world entire. With her he laughed like a kid. Wept like a child. And complained worse than a mid-wife would. He began to see more than his reflections in Candy. He saw the lost him inside her. Her honesty was like a magnet. In the world where Aperture lived then, honesty, intellect and companionship were lost in its madness, mediocrity, and complete idleness. Aperture had recently lost the love of his life and the emotional stagnation further destroyed his belief and goodness. Candy became his lighthouse. He adored her and loved her in the way he loved his own self. In their journey, they together explored the uncharted paths of each others psyche. For Aperture imagined this to be his salvation from the scum he was surrounded with but as time would tell this was not be. In his euphoria he did not realize that there is always a stretch of sea to traverse before one can reach the lighthouse and the treachery of the sea is never foreboding. But for the time being Candy and Aperture were like infants in the hands of what later came to be known as the Sacred Friendship.

to be continued...

the rainy morn...

It was quite early in the morning. And, aberrantly, especially during the rains, I was up, wide awake. I went to the balcony and looked over. The weather was typical Indian june-to-september —the kind that is described in the geography books. The rain wasn’t heavy but the drizzling was relentless. The morning was pretty cold. I wished I could somehow conjure a sizzling hot cup of coffee but alas I was after all a “muggle”. I wrapped myself with my, still warm from my sleep, blanket and sat by the window looking outside wondering what the people in America might be doing at that moment. It must be the beginning of night for them. What could they have had for dinner? I could’ve thought of Indians and India too but the human brain has a history of being weird at the most unassuming times. And at the moment I was a victim to its bizarre-activity syndrome that leaves so many of us so many times with a miscellany of long forgotten and mysterious memories and emotions. Soon, I decided I was unnecessarily acting like those clichéd poets who stood by the rains to write those equally corny poems—the ones the lovers, who relate their brain’s prowess to those of the ‘Dark Ages’, still include in their oh-so-lovely perfumed love letters. I began feeling hungry so I guessed it was time I nourish my body which grudgingly endured the morning chill. Being a Hindu (and being at home) I can have breakfast only after I have the Morning Bath. It was still too cold for me to undress but I knew I had to if I wanted any breakfast. I somehow managed to but had to face the ordeal of the initial spurt of the deathly cold water of the shower. I cursed the existence for the torture it had just inflicted on me and as redemption, hot water, god bless it, finally touched my skin. I immediately returned to the world I had just left by the window. But I was no more in America now but in a plush office, I don’t know where, wearing an expensive suit. I am the richest man in the world and also the most successful businessman in the history of mankind. I have recently won the Nobel Prize for literature and also the Booker for my all time bestselling book. I am also being considered for the Peace prize for being the greatest ever philanthropist. I am also the prime minister and have just made a call to the American president asking him to mend his ways or face a war. The American congratulates me for my recent win at the Wimbledon, the first Indian ever to achieve this feat. But my bathroom geyser did not realize that I was such an important man, and determined that I had had enough of the blissful hot water. I zapped back into the reality with no regrets. There were rats running in my stomach (I am exceedingly sorry for the cheesy translation) that drove me out of the bathroom and helped me get dressed as fast as it was possible for me without hurting my vitals. Just as I reached for some food I realized the grimmer “reality” that I was a mere mortal that hadn’t done much in the last few days except sleep and eat. But with the first bite of that delicious dosa I decided to give the Americans some more time to rectify their baneful foreign policies before I declare a war.

rumble

It’s a matter of few hours. Just a few. Yet the mind won’t listen. It wants liberation this instant. No more patience. No more perseverance. No more endurance. Stop it. Enough is enough. Enough of sliding on the edge of the sword. Not a minute more. Surge ahead. Reach the horizon. Capture your quiescent imaginations. Reach out to the provenance of your true self. And reach fast. No more patience with mediocrity. No more perseverance to bear stupidity. No more endurance to carry your split personality.

rock, paper, scissors and prayer

I lost a part of my soul today. My heart is in a great tumult. My head is heavy with a bitter hangover. I want to go the past and change things. But I scared to think even of the dreaded past. I want to stop the fraction of soul from leaving me. I say unto it to give me just one day, just one day. If not, then at least a couple of hours. They say there is always a time to rend and a time to sew. But for the first time I know it’s too late. I ask the bit leaving me why it wants to leave. It says it needs to be away for it to know that it is still a part of me. I say it is an irony. It says it’s done with being a part of my soul. It’s angry now. It’s disillusioned now. It needs to go. It needs to go. By now, I am already begging it to stay back. The vermin inside me has taken over. My pride, my ego, my selfishness...everything has abandoned me. I am crawling asking my soul to take pity on me. I never imagined a day would come when my own soul would refuse me. Yet here I am bereft of all the dignity pleading my very own to show some mercy. Just one day, just one day, just one day……………the answer is no, no, no…..NO!!!!!

Then I prayed. I prayed with my heart and soul. I sought help from my soul mate. I tried to calm the upheaval when the universe conspired. And as always the universe never cheated.

November Rain

November Rain lyrics - Guns N' Roses lyrics

When I look into your eyes
I can see a love restrained
But darlin' when I hold you
Don't you know I feel the same

'Cause nothin' lasts forever
And we both know hearts can change
And it's hard to hold a candle
In the cold November rain

We've been through this such a long long time
Just tryin' to kill the pain

But lovers always come and lovers always go
And no one's really sure who's lettin' go today
Walking away

If we could take the time to lay it on the line
I could rest my head
Just knowin' that you were mine
All mine
So if you want to love me
Then darlin' don't refrain
Or I'll just end up walkin'
In the cold November rain

Do you need some time...on your own
Do you need some time...all alone
Everybody needs some time...on their own
Don't you know you need some time...all alone

I know it's hard to keep an open heart
When even friends seem out to harm you
But if you could heal a broken heart
Wouldn't time be out to charm you

Sometimes I need some time...on my own
Sometimes I need some time...all alone
Everybody needs some time...on their own
Don't you know you need some time...all alone

And when your fears subside
And shadows still remain
I know that you can love me
When there's no one left to blame
So never mind the darkness
We still can find a way
'Cause nothin' lasts forever
Even cold November rain

Don't ya think that you need somebody
Don't ya think that you need someone
Everybody needs somebody
You're not the only one
You're not the only one

 

(This is a song by the band Guns n Roses, a song thats true, a song i can relate to and a song that everyone can relate to if they have ever been in love)
 

Like the Flowing River

Be like the flowing river,
Silent in the night.
Be not afraid of the dark.
If there are stars in the sky, reflect them back.
If there are clouds in the sky,
Remember, clouds, like the river, are water,
So,gladly reflect them too,
In your own tranquil depths.

-Manuel Bandeira

when power becomes spirit

When power becomes spirit the divine soul within, reaches its
apotheosis. The hymn of hate the heart had crooned until then
transcends to a symphony of love. The cacophony of the cranium's
boredom ballad dies out. The power of perception is resurrected. The
dormant innate energies stored in the annals of memory once again
start flowing with gusto. The soul regains it alchemy. It feeds on the
elixir of life that the universe is so abundant with. It reaches the
destiny of its journey to the centre of its universe. There is an
emergenre of the ultimate Insurrection by the soul against the
pre-conditioned mind. The soul exalts only in the Power of being
itself and nothing else.

A lonely day in my life

The fans are whirring with full speed. It’s like sitting in an oven. Clothes are strewn all over. I am lying here alone on a Sunday evening, on my bed in my boxers staring at the ceiling wondering if the walls could talk. My cranium’s singing its boredom ballad again. I look outside the window and the weather’s perfect. There’s nice breeze and the trees are swaying but I can’t fight the inertia that’s glued me to my bed. Making matters worse, none of my friends I hang out with is in town. I pick my cell phone up and call my friend’s ex-girlfriend to see if at least she could give me some company. But she has plans with my friend. It’s like they aren’t seeing each other but they go out together. I console myself saying it is okay dude hold on for some more time and you’ll get better. But I get irritated waiting for the time to come. Why do things always get better only in the end? Why don’t things start well? Well it is alright now. I mean the time has come when I can get better. I just found someone I can hang out with. I mean it is not like I have found gold, but when it’s time to plough, iron is gold. Adieu.

introspection

The sea of my thoughts is deeper than an oceanic abyss. Anything that enters inside it gets drowned and resurfaces only after being putrid. There is a void that needs to be filled; a vacuum that has the power to suck in anything floating close by. It’s consuming my inner self too. When it’s done with me it seeks for a prey that’s “attached” to my inner self. Before, I had the power and strength inside me to channelise my thoughts so that the storm—that reappears so often these days—does not brew up into a dangerous monster. Now it is becoming harder and harder for me to stay clear from the storm. My life seems full but still something’s missing. I have name, success, talent and every possible tool in hand to make my life something I always dreamt of but I acknowledge for the first time there is something that I am not happy about. I have blamed the place, the people and every possible thing around me. Yet even the blame game doesn’t seem to give me any satisfaction. There is something I am looking for and I don’t know what. I know I am on a long arduous journey but again honestly I don’t seem to know the destiny. I am confident I will achieve all the material success. And I bet I will. I don’t think beggars can ever understand life. But I also want something that goes far behind these materialistic virtues. I want to see beyond. I want to know something I have never known, something I have known but never understood, and something that will reveal myself to me. Something that will reflect the God inside me.

mirage

The sepia memories, flood inside the head, of a life filtered and pure. Of a child washing his hands in cold water in the scorching heat. Of school and homework and punishment. Of laughter and first crush. Of cousins and summer holidays. Of ideals and dreams. Of ambitions and planning. Of small achievements and big talks. Hmmm why do these memories keep recurring sometimes as dreams and sometimes as a longing? A dream that can never be true again and a desire that cannot be satisfied.

once again...let go!!!

Stupidity revealed. Once again, fell victim to my greatest enemy. Who? Yup, the same old little vermin inside me that makes me crawl begging for some pity and love. The Creator himself must have winced at the sight and wondered, “Hey where have stuff like self esteem and pride gone. Didn’t I infuse every human being with at least a small pinch of it?” Yeah, yeah but gods must be crazy. The organs in the body maybe in right proportions but the ratio between head and heart ain’t always. Oh well who wants to believe this piece of crap. I bet there are many of them out there who want to. Things in life are sometimes so simple that it’s the sheer simplicity that makes it even more complex. Let go boy! Because it doesn’t make a difference whether I do or I don’t. The last time I wrote under the same kinda title I wrote something about those I consider close to me and blah, blah…Shit! A lightening has just struck me I can’t see them anymore.

Intentions

Intentions are so relative. What's a good intention that is misinterpreted or what's a bad intention that works good for some.

cranium's boredom ballad

What do I do? Getting bored. Feeling lost. Bad results. Mom. Dad. I’ll write my journals. No I don’t wanna write them. Let me call her. No I don’t want to. Okay I’ll call someone else. Well, who do I call. Hmmm. No I don’t want to talk to anyone. I’ll go to Pune tomorrow. Nah. What’ll I do? I am short on money. Its okay I’ll borrow. No forget it. God help me. Govinda. I think I should listen to some music. La la la la. Rang de, dil se. No. English music. I don’t like rock. I don’t want to listen to the same old songs. Please no Don Williams. Okay My immortal. Fuck its so sad. Something better. Okay fuck the music, I’ll read. One page, two pages, three pages…god its so boring. Life is so boring. There’s nothing to do here. What do I do? I am lost. No Milind you cant think like this. Do something. What do I do? There’s nothing here. Computer. Internet. What the hell!! No one’s online. Gosh! no bloody internet connectivity. Darn, what a god forsaken place is this. Hare Ram Hare Krishna. Movie. Porn. No sexual drive. Disgusting. What do I do? Sleep. Shit. Fuck. No sleep. Mosquitoes. Fuck them. I’m thirsty. Water. Now I am hungry. What do I do? I’ll eat. I don’t have anything here. Wait I’ll ask someone. Fuck, no one has anything. No luck. More water. Sleep. Still no sleep. Walk. Talk. What to talk and with whom. Okay no talk. Some silence. Enough. Yes!!! Write. Computer. MS Word. Write. Over with writing. Now what do I do? Help. Govinda Govinda. More water. Again some water. Heck I’m not thirsty. Who cares. More water. Sleep. No sleep. Still sleep. Hare Ram Hare Krishna. Sleep. water. No sleep. Okay phone call. Talk. Now finally sleepy. Sleep.

Candy's Story: Part 3

The death had grieved Candy endlessly. The indifference of the people around her made her realize the intensity of the loss, which the death had left behind. After all, he was somebody who fought for those mute creatures who could not fight for themselves. As she sat by the window searching for a solace in the starry night, the universe conspired and the faithful night delivered Aperture to her, changing their fates in a matter of three hours. And thus, a journey began for both of them, when Aperture first saw his reflection in Candy, on that fateful night.

To be continued...

Candy's Story: Part 2

One day a great tragedy befell on Candy. And, off course, many more were to follow in the days to come. The guy from those animal documentary channels, Steve Irwin, died. Yeah, he’s the same moron who dangled his month old baby in front of the crocodiles. No, the crocs did not eat the baby. Well, talking about Candy, Oh, how much she adored Steve Irwin! Her life temporarily plunged into darkness. She could hear him say in her dreams, in his distasteful Australian accent, “wow, and check out that crawk. Isn't she byootiful?” To make matters worse, everyone she spoke to about his death gave a hoot to it. Candy couldn’t understand how human could be so apathetic towards another human’s death and especially when he is done a favour to the world by teaching the difference between an alligator and a crocodile. She found it hard to accept that life moves on. But that’s our Candy. Anyway, things were going to change for better soon, particularly, on that fateful full moon night.

To be continued...

inferno of a candle

When a breeze becomes a storm the very thing that is soothing and comforting becomes destructive. While the destruction happens, the distinction between the right and wrong starts vanishing gradually. As in the words of Robert Browning, ‘Our interest’s on the dangerous edge of things--The honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.’ A candle that’s used to dispel darkness becomes an inferno consuming everything in its way and its brightness becomes blinding. At the very end of this destruction there is an uneasy calm. A kind of calmness that has the power to tear into the hearts and cause pain, which is even beyond that caused when a dagger is stabbed into the chest.

When the heart is hard and parched up, come upon me with a shower of mercy.

When grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song.

When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest.

When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner, break open the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king. When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one, thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder.

- Song 39 Gitanjali

Nothing in creation ever works to plan, including creation itself; And God had seven days to get it right

Let go baby!!!!

My daddy told me, when I was a young man,
A lesson he learnt, long time ago.
If you want to have, someone to hold on to,
You’re gonna have to, learn to let go.
You got to sing, like you don’t need the money,
Love, like you’ve never before,
You got to dance, like nobody’s watching,
Got to come from your heart, if you want it to work.

-A song by Don Williams

To let go of things is seemingly the most difficult thing for me. Any person worth considering would know that to be happy and at peace in life you have to let go of things time and again. Some of these things may be very dear to you. But nevertheless everything becomes old and everything becomes stale. They are like chewing gum. You chew it and suck out the flavour but eventually you have to spit it out. But I keep hanging on to them and it causes a lot of pain and makes me feel disgusted.

Every emotion or a relationship has a shelf life and a boundary. I know I must not overstep it. Yet I do it more often than not. I have wondered many times why do I do it but I don’t ever seem to be able to answer it. I am a kind of a person who cannot care less for those around. But when it comes to the scarce few I consider myself close to I just can’t free myself from them even if I believe I am dying.

My friends who told me "life is a bed of roses"

A friend to me is person who loves you for what you are. Who knows what hurts you and what makes you happy. Who is honest and who never gets bored of you. I once read somewhere that sometimes we put walls around our heart, not just to be safe from getting hurt, but to find out who cares enough to break the walls and get closer. I guess this just means we look for a friend who not only understands our behaviour pattern but who can actually read our souls.

I have had many wonderful friends. Some have become the cornerstones of my life, with some the dimensions of my friendship have radically changed while there are a few I have lost recently. All I wanted was they remain honest to me and be with me and understand me when I really needed them. Instead I was lied to by one. Another called me a depressing parasite. These were the very people who once upon felt they were lucky to have known me. The only thing that kept me going was that love and respect I have for myself and, of course because of the few others who stuck by me in my most needful and dreaded hours. These were the people who never questioned why I was troubled or what was causing it. They just stood by. They stood by to support me, to cheer me and to lift me when I fell. And I never realized this. I went hanging on to those who never understood me. I did so because they were the ones I thought were my best friends. I failed to rationalize that, it was me who cared and loved them like my own and not otherwise. I gave my time, my energy and my love to them unconditionally. But when it was their turn they coolly blamed me for the condition I was in. They said my ideas are too rigid, that I never opened up or shared my feelings and I was too emotional and impractical in life. They said I never shared their happiness and many a time dampened it too. They said everything other than ‘don’t worry I am there no matter what’. Some of them taught me life. They showed me that life is after all a bed of roses. By the way I hate roses. I agree honesty sometimes can be more painful and some of them were brutally honest. But then, this is how life treats everyone or that is what I firmly believe.

I want to thank all my pals for all that they have given me. I am sorry for not realizing this earlier. And to the “others”, people I still love you but I don’t trust you any longer. I beg of you to please stay away from me if I’m unworthy but don’t ever pretend. I rather love a person who I know hates me than fool myself.

i believe

I faLL aND I pIck MyseLf up.
I Lose hope yet I DreaM.
I aM Lost aND I fIND MyseLf agaIN.
I cry aND I Laugh through My tears.
I DespaIr yet I beLIeve.

Milind मिलिंद ಮಿಲಿಂದ್ മിലിന്ദ ് மிலிந்த் మిలింద్

Candy's Story

Once upon a time there lived an enigmatic girl. Her name was Candy. Candy was a perfect human being. She helped her parents in their family business. She took care of all the household chores like a decent child. She made friends easily. She was intelligent too.
Candy was loved by many. In fact, people found a lost friend or a lost lover in her. Anyone she spoke to, would start telling his life's woes to her and then expect her to do something out of it. So addictive was Candy that great friendships were broken for her. Even the eternal Gandhi would have breached his self-assumed celibacy and lost his comfort zone in her presence.

.....to be continued

Finally the Beginning

I have heard and read a lot of people saying that choosing a title for a blog you create just to pen down your ideas is the most difficult thing. I didn't believe at first. But then when i thought of starting my own blog it took me almost a month to actually come up with it just coz i couldnt think of what to name it!!! I mean, honestly, tell me have you ever thought of naming your diary. Not that i ever bothered to write a diary. Well one of the reasons for me not writing a diary is I always wanted people to know what I think (you see i cant pass on my diary to people and ask them to read it). So thats why the idea of a blog is something I absolutely love. What more, I can actually ask people to leave a comment (i will strictly moderate it though!!).

My blog is called Perspective because thats what it is all about--my perspective of life