This, today, is the last of my functional days at this office. As I sit writing this, I see that my neighbour has a stomach-aching inkling that I am whiling time away. He gives me an oblique jeering glance and smiles economically to himself with the air of a veteran who has done it all, or at least, seen it all. I tell myself I am well justified in it; and 'is it not that my stipend is lesser than his salary by an amount equal to his salary', I soothe my dawning self-consciousness and recline defiantly, limbs stretched out, on my spring-laden cushiony chair. He raises his eyebrow for an infinitesimal moment but I somehow catch it, and pull the lever of my chair down. Now it is sufficiently low-slung for these partitions to ensure that I am out of his range of view. Emboldened by invisibility, I do a quick swivelling movement even as the chair's spindle creaks, and just as I am about to face the desk again after two complete rotations, uncap the pen and drag it on to the register like a landing airplane and start writing in cursive italics at once. There is a bit of Rajanikanth in every chairbound apprentice, I tell you.
* * * * * * * * *
My corner in the office overlooks a wall-sized lemony-yellow windowpane, Saint Gobain I guess. The window overlooks a spate of scenes, but my corner only overlooks the window and a tree just outside it, thanks to the many obstructing cubicles in between. The yellow tinted glass-pane makes me see a splendid sunset-hour evening-sky every hour of the day; and on one occasion too many I've made a fool of myself by running expectantly to the window and peeking out of the abetting porthole only to stand the glare of a harsh sun. But I marvel at this stained glass anyhow, and chew over getting myself a pair of yellow shades, but heck, they look a tad too gaudy, don't they?
In any case, when I cast my eyes over the entire place from the window today, I noticed that there stood a girl at the groundnut-hawker's, instead of that grumpy forty-something who hasn't smiled once in the last forty days. She isn't, as one can tell, exactly a stunner, but too good to be that hairy horror's daughter all the same. 'But who else could she be anyway, his daughter she is, she is', I tried warding off my cheap suspicions. Every now and then, a customer would appear, assess the items, but leave without buying a trifle. 'I love groundnuts', I condition myself and quietly sneak out of the office. Down at the stall, I take a closer look at her - she isn't as good from here as from a distance, but there's a certain piquant, tangy thing about her which, if the products had, they would have been worth buying for double the amount. Street-smartness oozes out of her voice, and it occurs to me that the Basanti in Sholay could well have been one of her followers. I taste a bit of everything enquiringly and finally settle down on fried grams and a sweet peanut slice. I had barely begun haggling, and she had barely begun resisting, when suddenly the eyesore, her dad, appeared out of nowhere, and with an expression as severe as Ajay Devgan in a romantic scene, asked me to take it or leave it. Probably he understood, discerning old fellow, that my eyes didn't speak of a man discouraged by prices.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Perspectives, on Valentine's
1
The roads nubile blush with roses red, yellow and pink;
They all today lead to galas, and at gaping pavements wink
That Love, the solemn fogey, may be your ally of ages,
But today's hero, its cousin, isn't agreeable at your wages.
2
A romantic remonstrance of made-up complaints,
A prince peps a florid trance, and a princess faints
A scene ; some public display, which curiously
Froths fervour, makes men, love furiously.
3
Eyes toiling out of the windows of old feral buses
Withdrawing themselves slowly back, as it rushes,
They turn down passively to the lying peanut peels,
Then stick out one last time, adsorbing how it feels.
The roads nubile blush with roses red, yellow and pink;
They all today lead to galas, and at gaping pavements wink
That Love, the solemn fogey, may be your ally of ages,
But today's hero, its cousin, isn't agreeable at your wages.
2
A romantic remonstrance of made-up complaints,
A prince peps a florid trance, and a princess faints
A scene ; some public display, which curiously
Froths fervour, makes men, love furiously.
3
Eyes toiling out of the windows of old feral buses
Withdrawing themselves slowly back, as it rushes,
They turn down passively to the lying peanut peels,
Then stick out one last time, adsorbing how it feels.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Pen on Paper
There is a certain pleasure in writing with pen on paper, doubly delightful if it is an old-world ink-pen - like it is right now, that the most advanced, sleek and artfully designed keyboards cannot, for the life of them, offer. Writing on paper, I am a little bit on my toes, because there is no software to help point out to me those intrusive grammatical errors which, by their mere creeping in, can make a delicately imagined, lovingly cast, and secretly revelled-in piece of life abruptly seem an eyesore. This post is none of that so I hope I can safely take the liberty. And anyway, I've been long out of touch with the observance of strict grammar, ever since it failed to help matters where it was supposed to. So much for something so trivial.
Perhaps some day I'll take to it again. I never say never; I am a coward; or is that being human? Mortal, gullible .. insecure : ah, coward it is. I'll take to it again when I find the need for a higher financial platform too pressing, for they are the only dependable means to it that I know of. And let's be fair, most of what I understand of life and living, is due to these run-of-the-mill entrance exams. They are great objective teachers, other than, of course, being objective-type tests. Unlike the archetypal pedagogue, they let you be. Unlike the archetypal pedagogue again, they make you ask questions. Unlike him again, they are sympathetically understanding of your silent responses. But like them, they make sure that you are not the same after them as you were before; you are more. Also like them, they are looked at by the pupils predominantly with a feeling of a well-known type of fear vigorously muddled with a not so well-known type of contempt, and yes, how could I forget that, that occasional awe.
My first brush with this world was when I was midway in my eleventh class. Due, somehow, to something the kind guys liked in me, I was offered their preparatory course for a pittance of a fee - a nominal eight thousand for an year and a half. I vainly wished that they took the full forty from my folks, and later on quietly slipped the thirty-two in my hands, so that I would go back home and give back that money while proudly exclaiming "I earned it, Mummy!" With the same end-result, God could have made it a thousand times more thrilling, but he likes the mundane.
Once there, I was exposed to a group of three apparently-deprived youngsters whose lives until then, it seemed, consisted only of days wasted in playing with punctured tyres - rolling them around with some stick and running alongside. Humane pretensions kept aside, the words on a father's paycheque are invariably written on the face of his sixteen year old son. And their faces told, or screamed, that the words weren't quite heavy. Newly here from their village somewhere in Bihar, they looked exactly the kind of young lads that modern, sophisticated girls would look at, from a distance of course, with disdain, and turn about hoping not to be looked back at by them. Their teeth had the red of bricks by years of guthka, pimples sat themselves in awkward positions at every corner of their faces, clothes were just good enough to venture out of a shell, bottomed by hawaii chappals. They, however, anyhow, anyway, at the end of the day, eventually, were superhuman wizards. When I would be struggling to begin to make sense of the questions, they shot back with the answers - with a sense of victory; with a tinge of, if I may add, vengeance on the world. And then I was no dumb bimbo either; on the contrary, I hardly believed until then that a pair of a head and a spinal cord existed on this planet that could work as swiftly as mine. Of course, every such mirage fast evaporated, incondensibly. They were everything I was not - carefree, loud, cocky; despite all the odds that lay against them. The next thing I knew was that I wanted to be with them. Then I squandered the year with them, in things that can politely be put as unsuitable - I didn't know that while I was craving for looking into them they had been craving for looking into something else. Obviously, I, constrained by the foolproof middle-class conditioning of temperance, never went the distance as they did. At the end of the journey when each of them was deep in debt, they were still astoundingly unperturbed, as though they had seen a life from where it was impossible to get worse.
It was the final mock test, after which there was only to be the real one, when the best among these best, took the question paper, sat in the exam hall for ten minutes flapping his feet wildly all the while, and in a sudden moment rose up and left. I thought he must have had some seriously troublesome thing bothering him; and after fifteen restless minutes I submitted my answer sheet and left too, I knew no answers either, but that's another story, for another post. Outside, in stark contrast, he was lounging around as if he had all the time in the world and he would much rather be preoccupied if that was an option.
And in a few days it was the time for which we were all there in the first place. While some of my human, ordinary friends went on to make records, none of these three ended up exactly in heaven. It was their destiny, there's no other answer that I would take, it was their destiny, just as it was their fathers'.
Perhaps some day I'll take to it again. I never say never; I am a coward; or is that being human? Mortal, gullible .. insecure : ah, coward it is. I'll take to it again when I find the need for a higher financial platform too pressing, for they are the only dependable means to it that I know of. And let's be fair, most of what I understand of life and living, is due to these run-of-the-mill entrance exams. They are great objective teachers, other than, of course, being objective-type tests. Unlike the archetypal pedagogue, they let you be. Unlike the archetypal pedagogue again, they make you ask questions. Unlike him again, they are sympathetically understanding of your silent responses. But like them, they make sure that you are not the same after them as you were before; you are more. Also like them, they are looked at by the pupils predominantly with a feeling of a well-known type of fear vigorously muddled with a not so well-known type of contempt, and yes, how could I forget that, that occasional awe.
My first brush with this world was when I was midway in my eleventh class. Due, somehow, to something the kind guys liked in me, I was offered their preparatory course for a pittance of a fee - a nominal eight thousand for an year and a half. I vainly wished that they took the full forty from my folks, and later on quietly slipped the thirty-two in my hands, so that I would go back home and give back that money while proudly exclaiming "I earned it, Mummy!" With the same end-result, God could have made it a thousand times more thrilling, but he likes the mundane.
Once there, I was exposed to a group of three apparently-deprived youngsters whose lives until then, it seemed, consisted only of days wasted in playing with punctured tyres - rolling them around with some stick and running alongside. Humane pretensions kept aside, the words on a father's paycheque are invariably written on the face of his sixteen year old son. And their faces told, or screamed, that the words weren't quite heavy. Newly here from their village somewhere in Bihar, they looked exactly the kind of young lads that modern, sophisticated girls would look at, from a distance of course, with disdain, and turn about hoping not to be looked back at by them. Their teeth had the red of bricks by years of guthka, pimples sat themselves in awkward positions at every corner of their faces, clothes were just good enough to venture out of a shell, bottomed by hawaii chappals. They, however, anyhow, anyway, at the end of the day, eventually, were superhuman wizards. When I would be struggling to begin to make sense of the questions, they shot back with the answers - with a sense of victory; with a tinge of, if I may add, vengeance on the world. And then I was no dumb bimbo either; on the contrary, I hardly believed until then that a pair of a head and a spinal cord existed on this planet that could work as swiftly as mine. Of course, every such mirage fast evaporated, incondensibly. They were everything I was not - carefree, loud, cocky; despite all the odds that lay against them. The next thing I knew was that I wanted to be with them. Then I squandered the year with them, in things that can politely be put as unsuitable - I didn't know that while I was craving for looking into them they had been craving for looking into something else. Obviously, I, constrained by the foolproof middle-class conditioning of temperance, never went the distance as they did. At the end of the journey when each of them was deep in debt, they were still astoundingly unperturbed, as though they had seen a life from where it was impossible to get worse.
It was the final mock test, after which there was only to be the real one, when the best among these best, took the question paper, sat in the exam hall for ten minutes flapping his feet wildly all the while, and in a sudden moment rose up and left. I thought he must have had some seriously troublesome thing bothering him; and after fifteen restless minutes I submitted my answer sheet and left too, I knew no answers either, but that's another story, for another post. Outside, in stark contrast, he was lounging around as if he had all the time in the world and he would much rather be preoccupied if that was an option.
Bewildered, I began, "You, Piyush, you, it is you who stood up; no duffer gets up before half an hour, and you know it's you. What happened to the whiz who had taken admission here?"
"Forget about it, I was wasting time inside; I knew not many answers, and those that I knew wouldn't have scored for me a bumper." Nothing ever sparked any contemplative emotion in him; not at least the emotion you expected to spark.
"Why did you even come for it if you were so unconcerned?", my curiosity was seamless.
"If I didn't appear, a letter would have reached my home that I missed the test, and you know the kind of dressing-down I'd get from my Dad then?", retorted he.
"And wouldn't you get a dressing down for the seven-on-hundred or nine-on-hundred or whatever that you'll get now, and which, too, would be reported to your Dad?"
" No. He can't get a seven-on-hundred on this test himself, I bet. Ha ha ha" he answered hysterically.
And in a few days it was the time for which we were all there in the first place. While some of my human, ordinary friends went on to make records, none of these three ended up exactly in heaven. It was their destiny, there's no other answer that I would take, it was their destiny, just as it was their fathers'.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
They didn't have keyboards back then!
The gentle, distant Sun had become unforgiving in an hour's time. The last smoke was had with whimsical whiffs of cool breeze playfully manoeuvring the smoke as it made its way out after living its character inside the lungs. Now, the surrounding air stood lifeless like a godforsaken rock; and the smoke erupted in dense grooves persistently amassing a trembling blanket, suffocating in its own monopoly.
The flyover, otherwise a cacophony, was a trustworthy protector in these times. Even if it weren't, he would still be surveying its bending angles, its chatter under the cruelty of hordes of vehicles, or the fatigue in the pillars that support its weight at its various nooks. He lived here; once the most brilliant student of civil engineering his reputed college had witnessed in decades, this flyover had been his home for the last three days.
His classmates, who had always found him in the company of an old keyboard that he had chanced upon when he moved into his room in the hostel and never in that of his books, envied his acumen as much as his professors were awestruck by his proficiency. In his heart of hearts, he exulted at this giftedness, but also wished he got the gift that he wanted. Music was his passion, his God, but perhaps not his gift. But there was only so bad someone like him could have done at what he loved, he was still way better than the overflowing ordinariness all around him. Day in and day out he practised the symphonies of Mozart, dared to improvise upon them, fiddle with them, flirt with them. This usually continued for hours at a stretch; and it may be true that it also somehow nourished him, for there is no count of how many times he missed the inflexibly timed hostel meals in his trance. By the time he was in his final year, the passion had outgrown itself to resemble an obsession; biographies of Mozart lay all over his room; he made music in the classroom, in the labs, even in his dreams. Salil, his closest friend, who also singularly somewhat closed in on his academic and musical talents, besides sharing endless cigarettes with him over music, stood first this semester. Not that it mattered to Mohan, the rank race; plus it had gone to his best mate, so it was all the more calming. But it was conspicuously unexpected - Mohan who exceeded number twos by huge margins, being exceeded. Salil, baffled himself, sought Mohan to ask what was going on, when Mohan just joked it off by calling him Salieri and calling himself Mozart citing the similarity in names, which of course, was feeble if any. 'Mozart and Salieri', he imagined and swelled.
The days at college were about to end when, in a bolt from the blue, Mohan decided to run away to pursue music. Salil, who had been Mohan's roommate for years, couldn't help feel a pricking concern for Mohan's father - provincial, semiliterate, ingenuous, hearty and by now Salil's Kishan uncle. It was evident from the frequency of his college visits from their native place two thousand kilometres away in the hinterland that uncle's life depended, in more ways than one, on his son. How proud he was of Mohan's education, how he couldn't wait to see the first 'graduate' generation spark up his lineage. Indeed, so ingenuous he was he didn't know Mohan, let alone Mozart.
Salil pestered Mohan persistently to rethink, to not ruin his career, to give himself some time, to take a short holiday, and even to not live a 'delusion', but all to no avail. Mohan vehemently denied being naïvely romantic, and sometimes tried his bit to convince Salil that it was a necessary evil - the construction company employment would render him infertile, bereave him of his purpose, and then 'what use will be the career?', he asked furiously. For some days he defended his as the righteous choice of passion over glory, and then one fine evening, he vanished from the college without any noise. The college mourned a few days later.
It's been two years since, and the college is doing well.
Now as the sun had become scorching hot along the left edge under the flyover, and a puddle of dirty water soiled the right, a frail looking Mohan was hard put to find twenty square feet of convenient shade. When he couldn't find any, as luck would have it, he resorted to oblivion as a substitute to solution. So he took out his keyboard, from an unbelievable preservation. It was a carefully crafted case made of construction leftovers that lay everywhere under the flyover. He hadn't sold the keyboard, though it seemed he rarely played it now.
Meanwhile, the suffocating blanket of smoke had by now expanded into a big cloud near the sixth floor balcony of a swanky multi-storey across the road, towards the other end of the flyover. A young man dressed in the finest fabric, sipping the rarest coffee, and smoking the choicest cigarette had his eyes fall upon the keyboard, his once-hobby made him momentarily wonder 'If I could be there'. Two minutes, practical-thinking and a few unsatisfying puffs later, Salil throws his half cigarette out of the balcony, and resumes work on the MS-Excel file waiting impatiently for him back in his cabin.
A few hours passed, the sun relented, the swanky building deserted, and Mohan picked up the half-cigarette thorn-bound upon a cactus plant. Back in his haven, he takes a deep satiating drag, one that also satiated the cigarette itself, perhaps giving it 'delusions' of not being just any saleable commodity.
~
The flyover, otherwise a cacophony, was a trustworthy protector in these times. Even if it weren't, he would still be surveying its bending angles, its chatter under the cruelty of hordes of vehicles, or the fatigue in the pillars that support its weight at its various nooks. He lived here; once the most brilliant student of civil engineering his reputed college had witnessed in decades, this flyover had been his home for the last three days.
His classmates, who had always found him in the company of an old keyboard that he had chanced upon when he moved into his room in the hostel and never in that of his books, envied his acumen as much as his professors were awestruck by his proficiency. In his heart of hearts, he exulted at this giftedness, but also wished he got the gift that he wanted. Music was his passion, his God, but perhaps not his gift. But there was only so bad someone like him could have done at what he loved, he was still way better than the overflowing ordinariness all around him. Day in and day out he practised the symphonies of Mozart, dared to improvise upon them, fiddle with them, flirt with them. This usually continued for hours at a stretch; and it may be true that it also somehow nourished him, for there is no count of how many times he missed the inflexibly timed hostel meals in his trance. By the time he was in his final year, the passion had outgrown itself to resemble an obsession; biographies of Mozart lay all over his room; he made music in the classroom, in the labs, even in his dreams. Salil, his closest friend, who also singularly somewhat closed in on his academic and musical talents, besides sharing endless cigarettes with him over music, stood first this semester. Not that it mattered to Mohan, the rank race; plus it had gone to his best mate, so it was all the more calming. But it was conspicuously unexpected - Mohan who exceeded number twos by huge margins, being exceeded. Salil, baffled himself, sought Mohan to ask what was going on, when Mohan just joked it off by calling him Salieri and calling himself Mozart citing the similarity in names, which of course, was feeble if any. 'Mozart and Salieri', he imagined and swelled.
The days at college were about to end when, in a bolt from the blue, Mohan decided to run away to pursue music. Salil, who had been Mohan's roommate for years, couldn't help feel a pricking concern for Mohan's father - provincial, semiliterate, ingenuous, hearty and by now Salil's Kishan uncle. It was evident from the frequency of his college visits from their native place two thousand kilometres away in the hinterland that uncle's life depended, in more ways than one, on his son. How proud he was of Mohan's education, how he couldn't wait to see the first 'graduate' generation spark up his lineage. Indeed, so ingenuous he was he didn't know Mohan, let alone Mozart.
Salil pestered Mohan persistently to rethink, to not ruin his career, to give himself some time, to take a short holiday, and even to not live a 'delusion', but all to no avail. Mohan vehemently denied being naïvely romantic, and sometimes tried his bit to convince Salil that it was a necessary evil - the construction company employment would render him infertile, bereave him of his purpose, and then 'what use will be the career?', he asked furiously. For some days he defended his as the righteous choice of passion over glory, and then one fine evening, he vanished from the college without any noise. The college mourned a few days later.
It's been two years since, and the college is doing well.
~
Now as the sun had become scorching hot along the left edge under the flyover, and a puddle of dirty water soiled the right, a frail looking Mohan was hard put to find twenty square feet of convenient shade. When he couldn't find any, as luck would have it, he resorted to oblivion as a substitute to solution. So he took out his keyboard, from an unbelievable preservation. It was a carefully crafted case made of construction leftovers that lay everywhere under the flyover. He hadn't sold the keyboard, though it seemed he rarely played it now.
Meanwhile, the suffocating blanket of smoke had by now expanded into a big cloud near the sixth floor balcony of a swanky multi-storey across the road, towards the other end of the flyover. A young man dressed in the finest fabric, sipping the rarest coffee, and smoking the choicest cigarette had his eyes fall upon the keyboard, his once-hobby made him momentarily wonder 'If I could be there'. Two minutes, practical-thinking and a few unsatisfying puffs later, Salil throws his half cigarette out of the balcony, and resumes work on the MS-Excel file waiting impatiently for him back in his cabin.
A few hours passed, the sun relented, the swanky building deserted, and Mohan picked up the half-cigarette thorn-bound upon a cactus plant. Back in his haven, he takes a deep satiating drag, one that also satiated the cigarette itself, perhaps giving it 'delusions' of not being just any saleable commodity.
~ ~ ~
Rumour has it, that two months ago, in the dark of the night, Mozart was heard on this road. Yes, more prominently near that seeping incline under the flyover.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Small Talk
Not so much plagues the absence of her voice dipped in sucrose,
Nor does not hearing words of praise when he sits writing prose,
No, not even the fact, that there were not to be any more dates,
But that he had no topics now when chattering with his mates.
Nor does not hearing words of praise when he sits writing prose,
No, not even the fact, that there were not to be any more dates,
But that he had no topics now when chattering with his mates.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Straight from the Office Desk
It takes time, and then, time takes it. In a moment of accidental reflection, it's clear that it took less than even a fortnight, for the capacity to think about other, less-taxing things to return to me. In the penultimate analysis, I guess what I had feared for a bloodsucking parasite, was only a pesky, pokey, unwelcome guest. A few sessions of brooding are still inevitable, and justified even in their pointlessness, for in the final analysis these 'sessions' are, I concede, more of 'fits', and you can never really be too sure about them.
The other less-taxing thing, as it turns out, is the industrial training. Only that sitting through nine hours of absolutely no work is a most taxing challenge in its own right. Sleeping, apart from being prohibited and inspite of being tempting, is an inconsiderate escape. Because each of the men in the neighbouring cubicles, whose professional assignments weigh a full-fledged train as against my handful of nuts and bolts, is bound to feel wronged, maybe even to sigh pensively amid silent cries of 'why me', maybe even stare resentfully at sleeping-me amid silent curses of 'why him'. The second alternative, now, is to pass time talking, but then, with whom ? Certainly not these guys with trainloads of work keeping them busy and rendering them irritable. Lastly, there's the option of actually working through the day, where my own inadequacies abandon me. In tragic contrast to my branch of study, I am not really a man of machines; except of course, the tomato-soup vending machine there, which, by now, may even possessively call me 'My Man' for the faithful company I've been to her. But seriously, there are only so many cups you can take, the numerous five-minutes just don't add up to nine hours; besides, you start feeling like a bottle of ketchup by the time you're back home.
Despite being a minnow's minnow in this intimidatingly complex pecking order in this intimidatingly large organisation, I, surprisingly, am answerable directly to the AGM, who, surprisingly, is a very humble, forthcoming gentleman. Quite unlike my immediate senior, the minnow, who is too much of a Mr.Know-it-All for him to actually know anything at all. But then if your actual expertise over your putative expertise is anywhere like mine, you aren't really entitled to grouses like these. For that, I must first get better at my work, or change the work itself, because currently, my work and I - we just don't get along. Like a platonic relationship between two shy perverts, ours too, is going nowhere. A few more months.
I have set a fresh label for posts of this kind, anticipating that there'll be many more of these. There have to be.
Added Later: Ok, my dashboard tells me it is the hundredth one. Not quite the way I would have wanted to hit a century, but anyway, I let it be, like they say, 'it doesn't matter'.
The other less-taxing thing, as it turns out, is the industrial training. Only that sitting through nine hours of absolutely no work is a most taxing challenge in its own right. Sleeping, apart from being prohibited and inspite of being tempting, is an inconsiderate escape. Because each of the men in the neighbouring cubicles, whose professional assignments weigh a full-fledged train as against my handful of nuts and bolts, is bound to feel wronged, maybe even to sigh pensively amid silent cries of 'why me', maybe even stare resentfully at sleeping-me amid silent curses of 'why him'. The second alternative, now, is to pass time talking, but then, with whom ? Certainly not these guys with trainloads of work keeping them busy and rendering them irritable. Lastly, there's the option of actually working through the day, where my own inadequacies abandon me. In tragic contrast to my branch of study, I am not really a man of machines; except of course, the tomato-soup vending machine there, which, by now, may even possessively call me 'My Man' for the faithful company I've been to her. But seriously, there are only so many cups you can take, the numerous five-minutes just don't add up to nine hours; besides, you start feeling like a bottle of ketchup by the time you're back home.
Despite being a minnow's minnow in this intimidatingly complex pecking order in this intimidatingly large organisation, I, surprisingly, am answerable directly to the AGM, who, surprisingly, is a very humble, forthcoming gentleman. Quite unlike my immediate senior, the minnow, who is too much of a Mr.Know-it-All for him to actually know anything at all. But then if your actual expertise over your putative expertise is anywhere like mine, you aren't really entitled to grouses like these. For that, I must first get better at my work, or change the work itself, because currently, my work and I - we just don't get along. Like a platonic relationship between two shy perverts, ours too, is going nowhere. A few more months.
I have set a fresh label for posts of this kind, anticipating that there'll be many more of these. There have to be.
Added Later: Ok, my dashboard tells me it is the hundredth one. Not quite the way I would have wanted to hit a century, but anyway, I let it be, like they say, 'it doesn't matter'.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Childish Whims
Written on 2nd November 2008 at around 8 PM; then titled 'One of These Days'.
One of these days, I’ll bring life to fables
One of these days, I will turn the tables
One of these days ..
One of these days, I’ll ring a surprise
One of these days, I will see sun rise
One of these days ..
One of these days, I won’t remain raw
One of these days, the world will awe
One of these days ..
One of these days, I’ll break the shackles
One of these days, I’ll bring miracles
One of these days ..
Oh God! Pardon me, I refuse your order
To let go of those lands on which I border,
To take these bad days as my longer fate,
I just refuse to accept it won’t be my date.
I hope you’ll excuse me for having my ways,
I will be a little stubborn one of these days.
Making of a Joker
‘If you can laugh at it, you can live with it’: the realisation to which he awoke;
He has been cracking fantastic ones, ever since his life's been made a bad joke.
He has been cracking fantastic ones, ever since his life's been made a bad joke.
End of a Joker
He was the Joker of the class, his desk surrounded, even swarmed.
He has forgotten how to laugh, and always wonders who he harmed.
He has forgotten how to laugh, and always wonders who he harmed.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
The Stoic
When unaccompanied, no one is a stoic, these eyes betray the most heroic.
I am but just a novice who refutes, what chance have I before long solitudes.
I am but just a novice who refutes, what chance have I before long solitudes.
Curse
Don't rely on your bats to do all the talking,
oh dear fan-boys of Sachin Tendulkar.
For all your genius and elegance of kings,
a flawed bat alone can make you a sulker.
oh dear fan-boys of Sachin Tendulkar.
For all your genius and elegance of kings,
a flawed bat alone can make you a sulker.
Friendship
I'd love to be a somewhat closer friend,
to you, I slyly want to pour my heart out.
But would you me, some patience lend,
until I fight the urgent hard drought ?
to you, I slyly want to pour my heart out.
But would you me, some patience lend,
until I fight the urgent hard drought ?
The Applicant
We the patients of fatal diseases,
our days counted in countings,
live on the border, by doc's short leases,
love real borders that others find daunting.
That war's much better despite its dangers,
than this meaningless war within,
that one unites us with a billion strangers,
this one distances us from our closest kins.
Plus, don't only those soldiers march on forward,
who really have nothing to lose ?
We fit the bill; please, we are not cowards,
let our suppressed fury cut loose.
our days counted in countings,
live on the border, by doc's short leases,
love real borders that others find daunting.
That war's much better despite its dangers,
than this meaningless war within,
that one unites us with a billion strangers,
this one distances us from our closest kins.
Plus, don't only those soldiers march on forward,
who really have nothing to lose ?
We fit the bill; please, we are not cowards,
let our suppressed fury cut loose.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
What-Ever
For a change, I am not concerned too much about the quality of what I am going to write. This isn't a garbed declaration of the quality of the previous posts, but an admittance of my mere quest for it previously. For now, though, I'd just let my heart speak without intrusions of the structural, aesthetic, or the hypocritical type from my neural circuitry.
Not that being concerned would have changed anything.
It is said that scarcity makes a man grow. But of course, this is only a piece of romanticised fiction, one that fascinates the mind, and also leaves it corrupted. If at all there is anything that grows during scarcity, it is scarcity itself.
People are mad, only a little less than I. They ring me up, ask me my result. A long nurtured love with numbers makes them call out for percentile-percentile right away. The next thing they say is a loud, enthusiastic, but for me a very hitting cry of Congrats or wow! It is truly a mixed-feeling, only too mixed, only too cluttered. Anyway, then I say something and the next thing they say is variable, though mainly it is something like an even louder 'Whaaat!' from those who've been watching a lot of Indian television Reality shows, while those who had restricted themselves to Simi Gerewal talk-shows on TV respond with a mannered, quieter, baritone Awwwww. Anyway, awe and shock, separated by a damned sentence; it saves me the cost of going to amusement parks to experience roller-coaster rides. I get them by the dozen every hour.
I did not get any IIM calls. At 99.70 of something called a percentile, I know not one more person among the thousands whose profiles I madly turned all through the last night, who met the same eventual fate as I, at this score. As far as sectionals go, one of the three wasn't all that fabulous for me, but it was still much better than many who finally raked in calls. Yes, I know, I am talking like a bad loser, but I realise there is only so much grace I can show at this time as a pornstar who is diagnosed with breast cancer minutes after she checks in a hospital for silicone implants that she hoped would have made her rule the world's compact disks.
Perhaps, it was only fair. I guess it was only fair that someone whose deeper longing, much deeper than the longing to ace a management entrance, is to demystify for himself the enigma of the Absurd, met with a full-blown, in-your-face absurdity hitting his head. However, the important word here is not 'Fair' or 'the Absurd', it is unfortunately 'Perhaps'.
Of course, it is not all bad, it never is. Almost at the nadir of my faith in the world, I discovered how terribly good some people thought of me. Major disappointments are palliative in the sense that they homogenise other auxiliary setbacks within themselves, making them indistinct, and making you inert to them. At the same time, they ensure that any faint good thing that happens shines out distinctly and you immediately recognise its being. So when I get terse replies, or worse, am left unanswered, it is easier accepting that it is how it was meant to be, and remain nonchalant, on the inside as well as on the outside. On the outside, I had always remained a stoic, but even the furore inside has now been replaced by a fading, near-mute, deathbed wistfulness. Put simply, it can be said that I have been humbled. And I still say scarcity doesn't make you grow. Being humbled is not growing. It was better earlier.
As a cockroach lying on its back, as a curious teenager being made to sit through back to back episodes of Vishnu-Puraan, as an audioning vocalist with a sore throat, as a nun in a stripclub, as a Nobel-prize awardee resisting a call of nature at the time of his speech, as a copywriter being corrected for wrong grammar by his maid, as Osama in Ayodhya - and as all of them put together, I am currently an amalgamation of varied emotions, all of them disconcerting, well almost. Among the four hundred and thirty six feelings that I feel now, the only one that qualifies as a silver lining is the pride at the stupendous success of Abhineet. It is no surprise, for it was always going to happen, unless all the IIMs decided to not conduct admissions at all this year. Of course they are conducting admissions, so of course Abhineet is there, right on the top. I particularly love people who don't make a big fuss of their brilliance, who aren't immersed narcissists. But then narcissists are never immersed, they only mistake drowning for immersion. I am amazed how Abhineet, after being what he is, comes off as just another guy, while being everything but that. Seeing his name printed with praise on the front page of a national daily today, I had a firm feeling it is only a beginning of a story that'll be long, admired, and deserved.
I also feel guilty for having subdued his celebrations, his enthusiasm. Among other things, maybe he would have wanted to write a jubilant post on his blog, the kind of victory-speeches that I am only too fond of, but cancelled it owing to the bad taste he must have thought it would leave in my mouth. That's how your head works, I know, yaar. But to set the record straight, I am looking forward to your masterpost as much as Shakti Kapoor looks desperately forward to new, struggling damsels asking for his patronization for them in bollywood. Even more than that, so please! And I cherish your email-of-compassion yesterday just about as much as I would have cherished the calls, and it goes without saying that it'll remain in my inbox forever. Also, All the best!
Unless Mamta Bannerjee taught you humour, you'd know that parts of the post were funny. Maybe the post was, but I am not. Perhaps 'this' explains the anomaly; a great blogger, see his/her blog I'd say.
Not that being concerned would have changed anything.
It is said that scarcity makes a man grow. But of course, this is only a piece of romanticised fiction, one that fascinates the mind, and also leaves it corrupted. If at all there is anything that grows during scarcity, it is scarcity itself.
People are mad, only a little less than I. They ring me up, ask me my result. A long nurtured love with numbers makes them call out for percentile-percentile right away. The next thing they say is a loud, enthusiastic, but for me a very hitting cry of Congrats or wow! It is truly a mixed-feeling, only too mixed, only too cluttered. Anyway, then I say something and the next thing they say is variable, though mainly it is something like an even louder 'Whaaat!' from those who've been watching a lot of Indian television Reality shows, while those who had restricted themselves to Simi Gerewal talk-shows on TV respond with a mannered, quieter, baritone Awwwww. Anyway, awe and shock, separated by a damned sentence; it saves me the cost of going to amusement parks to experience roller-coaster rides. I get them by the dozen every hour.
I did not get any IIM calls. At 99.70 of something called a percentile, I know not one more person among the thousands whose profiles I madly turned all through the last night, who met the same eventual fate as I, at this score. As far as sectionals go, one of the three wasn't all that fabulous for me, but it was still much better than many who finally raked in calls. Yes, I know, I am talking like a bad loser, but I realise there is only so much grace I can show at this time as a pornstar who is diagnosed with breast cancer minutes after she checks in a hospital for silicone implants that she hoped would have made her rule the world's compact disks.
Perhaps, it was only fair. I guess it was only fair that someone whose deeper longing, much deeper than the longing to ace a management entrance, is to demystify for himself the enigma of the Absurd, met with a full-blown, in-your-face absurdity hitting his head. However, the important word here is not 'Fair' or 'the Absurd', it is unfortunately 'Perhaps'.
Of course, it is not all bad, it never is. Almost at the nadir of my faith in the world, I discovered how terribly good some people thought of me. Major disappointments are palliative in the sense that they homogenise other auxiliary setbacks within themselves, making them indistinct, and making you inert to them. At the same time, they ensure that any faint good thing that happens shines out distinctly and you immediately recognise its being. So when I get terse replies, or worse, am left unanswered, it is easier accepting that it is how it was meant to be, and remain nonchalant, on the inside as well as on the outside. On the outside, I had always remained a stoic, but even the furore inside has now been replaced by a fading, near-mute, deathbed wistfulness. Put simply, it can be said that I have been humbled. And I still say scarcity doesn't make you grow. Being humbled is not growing. It was better earlier.
As a cockroach lying on its back, as a curious teenager being made to sit through back to back episodes of Vishnu-Puraan, as an audioning vocalist with a sore throat, as a nun in a stripclub, as a Nobel-prize awardee resisting a call of nature at the time of his speech, as a copywriter being corrected for wrong grammar by his maid, as Osama in Ayodhya - and as all of them put together, I am currently an amalgamation of varied emotions, all of them disconcerting, well almost. Among the four hundred and thirty six feelings that I feel now, the only one that qualifies as a silver lining is the pride at the stupendous success of Abhineet. It is no surprise, for it was always going to happen, unless all the IIMs decided to not conduct admissions at all this year. Of course they are conducting admissions, so of course Abhineet is there, right on the top. I particularly love people who don't make a big fuss of their brilliance, who aren't immersed narcissists. But then narcissists are never immersed, they only mistake drowning for immersion. I am amazed how Abhineet, after being what he is, comes off as just another guy, while being everything but that. Seeing his name printed with praise on the front page of a national daily today, I had a firm feeling it is only a beginning of a story that'll be long, admired, and deserved.
I also feel guilty for having subdued his celebrations, his enthusiasm. Among other things, maybe he would have wanted to write a jubilant post on his blog, the kind of victory-speeches that I am only too fond of, but cancelled it owing to the bad taste he must have thought it would leave in my mouth. That's how your head works, I know, yaar. But to set the record straight, I am looking forward to your masterpost as much as Shakti Kapoor looks desperately forward to new, struggling damsels asking for his patronization for them in bollywood. Even more than that, so please! And I cherish your email-of-compassion yesterday just about as much as I would have cherished the calls, and it goes without saying that it'll remain in my inbox forever. Also, All the best!
Unless Mamta Bannerjee taught you humour, you'd know that parts of the post were funny. Maybe the post was, but I am not. Perhaps 'this' explains the anomaly; a great blogger, see his/her blog I'd say.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
A New Year
But for procrastination, I went to the college only yesterday for some thing for which I should have visited it twenty days back. It was a wonderful afternoon; the atmosphere was evocative of a refreshing hill-station holiday resort. It was the kind of atmosphere that made you want to gossip rather than be a mute spectator, but being alone I wasn't exactly spoilt for choice.
A particular lad again had my unswerving attention. And risking my reputation, I'd go on to say that he always has had it. No, he isn't the typical centre-of-everyone's-attraction or the bollywood-ish party-ki-jaan; in fact my guess is that not many people are aware of his existence, other than those bound to. I wouldn't be either, if it were not for his room being opposite mine. A confirmed loner, he has always had a permanent stern expression plastered on his face. His walk from his room to the mess and back to the room is devoid of any friendly interactions or TV interruptions. He goes about his work in such a rigid no-nonsense manner it makes you wonder whether there is actually some problem with the rest of all of us. If there was one word I would associate with him, it'll be 'serious'. It is none of my prerogative to be judgemental about it; maybe he has due reasons for it which I, in all likelihood, will never know.
Again, he didn't catch my attention after all these days for his secluded, almost misanthropic disposition. I think I have now got used to it. What was once notice-worthy is by now most-expected, at best a reaffirmation. But he was, as I saw yesterday, the very definition of affability. Moving from one triumvirate to another until each ran out of the time they could afford idling, he was all laughs and giggles, looking decided that idling was to be his occupation for the day. I thought he'd be feeling a little awkward being so social so suddenly, but if at all there was any clumsiness it was adeptly suppressed. There was no doubting his chivalrous charm but when the company was all-boys he also explored his artillery of Hindi expletives, of course not in the war-monger way, but in that pleasant way that keeps you at an arm's length in conversations, fosters brotherhood among us inherently rustic strangers, and projects you as the proverbial yaaron-ka-yaar.
He still is serious, essentially. Perhaps this time, about, a new-year resolution.
A particular lad again had my unswerving attention. And risking my reputation, I'd go on to say that he always has had it. No, he isn't the typical centre-of-everyone's-attraction or the bollywood-ish party-ki-jaan; in fact my guess is that not many people are aware of his existence, other than those bound to. I wouldn't be either, if it were not for his room being opposite mine. A confirmed loner, he has always had a permanent stern expression plastered on his face. His walk from his room to the mess and back to the room is devoid of any friendly interactions or TV interruptions. He goes about his work in such a rigid no-nonsense manner it makes you wonder whether there is actually some problem with the rest of all of us. If there was one word I would associate with him, it'll be 'serious'. It is none of my prerogative to be judgemental about it; maybe he has due reasons for it which I, in all likelihood, will never know.
Again, he didn't catch my attention after all these days for his secluded, almost misanthropic disposition. I think I have now got used to it. What was once notice-worthy is by now most-expected, at best a reaffirmation. But he was, as I saw yesterday, the very definition of affability. Moving from one triumvirate to another until each ran out of the time they could afford idling, he was all laughs and giggles, looking decided that idling was to be his occupation for the day. I thought he'd be feeling a little awkward being so social so suddenly, but if at all there was any clumsiness it was adeptly suppressed. There was no doubting his chivalrous charm but when the company was all-boys he also explored his artillery of Hindi expletives, of course not in the war-monger way, but in that pleasant way that keeps you at an arm's length in conversations, fosters brotherhood among us inherently rustic strangers, and projects you as the proverbial yaaron-ka-yaar.
He still is serious, essentially. Perhaps this time, about, a new-year resolution.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Ways People Talk
It can be a most engaging pastime, if you care to notice, and you don't quite need to have a linguistic bent for its appreciation either. Really, observing how people talk never ceases to amaze me, for it brings out how there are as many languages inside a language as there are people speaking it. You can always find out a great deal about a person from how s/he says whatever s/he has to say. An example that comes to mind readily is the typical vocabulary people in a particular profession get soaked into so completely, that they end up using weird words at the most inopportune moments, unwittingly verifying the Freudian sub-consciousness theories. A distant Uncle of mine who owns a medical store has perhaps been so busy flogging off curious supplements to his enervated customers all his life that his staple adjective for anything praiseworthy is 'powerful'! 'How cute is his little daughter, Uncle, isn't she just so angelic?' I asked only to hear 'Yeah, Powerful!'
And then, almost all students of my college would be aware of the swiftly repeated loud cries of 'DCE college' that the RTV conductor makes at the Metro station, because for the life of him he wouldn't give a damn to what DCE could stand for, whether Deesee is a bollywood bombshell or a sacred cow; but has to and indeed does take due measure to ensure that this lot of 'college'-goers standing near him doesn't, by any chance, leaves him unnoticed. But then this whole profession-vocabulary angle has been dissected so exhaustively by the now omnipresent TV's comedy kings, that there is hardly any novelty left about this entire exercise that I should explore. So, I'll just get back to some more of the oddities that I happened to spot recently.
A very good friend of mine, a mysterious character however, reveals some of his mysteries thus. An ardent lover of caps and hats, he often tells me he is always on the lookout for 'different-different kinds of caps' whenever he is out shopping. Yes, precisely that. Because, in his mind of minds, he actually looks out for alag-alag tarah ki topiyaan, he found it obligatory to add that extra 'different', and not because he was actually trying to be different, which he actually is! To think in one language while talking in another can be shoddier than not thinking at all while talking I'd say, unless hilarity is your first aim. This, then, is what I identify as the translator's plight. Of course, no language completely renders itself into being converted into another; not without the sprinkling of such amusing slips. This is also why one often finds many dubbed-into-Hindi movies hilarious enough to earn awards for their comedy, only to find out later that they have already won many for the excellence of their depiction of tragedy or action. Watch the 'Rocky' movie series in Hindi after you have watched it in English already, and you'll discover how Rocky's typical filler-words '..ya know' are each and every time so meticulously translated, as if they impart the dialogue all the meaning, into 'tum yeh khoob jaante ho'. So, 'It's gettin cold ya know' becomes 'ab yeh thanda ho raha hai, tum ye khoob jaante ho' and many more similar gaffes! Really, it is so clumsy it is actually great fun.
An old friend was to get married a week ago, and the occasion called for many of my other old friends to get together - it proved to be a reunion of sorts; all marriages are, on second thoughts. Some things derive their pleasure-quotient from their rarity, and this was just that. I know how bored we were three years ago hanging out with each other day after day after day, that once it had got down to all of us discussing how our social lives sucked, and each of us undisputedly accepting the conclusion that it sucked because each of us stuck it out with the rest of all of us. Ironically, we were in agreement upon the assertion that too much of being in agreement with each other all the time wasn't such a great thing after-all. But meeting after all these years was the best thing that could have happened to us at this time, we all agreed, yet again. However, as soon as I reached the venue, I was greeted with 'Saale tu bhi aa gaya' by the groom's brother as though 'the lesser the invitees turn up the preferable' was the mingy dictum that reigned supreme. Of course, it wasn't so. As I awkwardly took a seat close by, I saw that this was how everyone else was greeted too, some of them even more strangely, like - saale aaj nahi absent hoga chahe kabhi class na gaya ho. Perhaps someone had got it into his head that this was a particularly pleasing way to welcome people. The point I am trying to make here is that no matter how much you read into people's language to try and know about them, it isn't an ISO certified yardstick. For all you know, what you think as strange or stranger, could well have been funny or funnier, in intention. So, a fair bit of allowance had better be kept in these matters.
True, as much as how you mould a language can bring you embarrassment, the impact you generate is also a strikingly straight-line function of what treatment you give your words, your own way of putting the same old thing. This is so important it cannot be over-emphasised, but then it is so universal that it needn't be emphasised at all. The endearing Short-Film 'Historia De Un Letrero' (Story of a sign) made the most of this principle all the way to the bank, besides grabbing numerous international awards on the way. Since films are always better viewed than explained, I won't bore you with what happens in the film. Instead, I'll leave a link for you to entertain yourselves.
Totally unrelated, but since it has come down to pasting links in any case, I thought I'll paste this too. I found it awesome.
And then, almost all students of my college would be aware of the swiftly repeated loud cries of 'DCE college' that the RTV conductor makes at the Metro station, because for the life of him he wouldn't give a damn to what DCE could stand for, whether Deesee is a bollywood bombshell or a sacred cow; but has to and indeed does take due measure to ensure that this lot of 'college'-goers standing near him doesn't, by any chance, leaves him unnoticed. But then this whole profession-vocabulary angle has been dissected so exhaustively by the now omnipresent TV's comedy kings, that there is hardly any novelty left about this entire exercise that I should explore. So, I'll just get back to some more of the oddities that I happened to spot recently.
A very good friend of mine, a mysterious character however, reveals some of his mysteries thus. An ardent lover of caps and hats, he often tells me he is always on the lookout for 'different-different kinds of caps' whenever he is out shopping. Yes, precisely that. Because, in his mind of minds, he actually looks out for alag-alag tarah ki topiyaan, he found it obligatory to add that extra 'different', and not because he was actually trying to be different, which he actually is! To think in one language while talking in another can be shoddier than not thinking at all while talking I'd say, unless hilarity is your first aim. This, then, is what I identify as the translator's plight. Of course, no language completely renders itself into being converted into another; not without the sprinkling of such amusing slips. This is also why one often finds many dubbed-into-Hindi movies hilarious enough to earn awards for their comedy, only to find out later that they have already won many for the excellence of their depiction of tragedy or action. Watch the 'Rocky' movie series in Hindi after you have watched it in English already, and you'll discover how Rocky's typical filler-words '..ya know' are each and every time so meticulously translated, as if they impart the dialogue all the meaning, into 'tum yeh khoob jaante ho'. So, 'It's gettin cold ya know' becomes 'ab yeh thanda ho raha hai, tum ye khoob jaante ho' and many more similar gaffes! Really, it is so clumsy it is actually great fun.
An old friend was to get married a week ago, and the occasion called for many of my other old friends to get together - it proved to be a reunion of sorts; all marriages are, on second thoughts. Some things derive their pleasure-quotient from their rarity, and this was just that. I know how bored we were three years ago hanging out with each other day after day after day, that once it had got down to all of us discussing how our social lives sucked, and each of us undisputedly accepting the conclusion that it sucked because each of us stuck it out with the rest of all of us. Ironically, we were in agreement upon the assertion that too much of being in agreement with each other all the time wasn't such a great thing after-all. But meeting after all these years was the best thing that could have happened to us at this time, we all agreed, yet again. However, as soon as I reached the venue, I was greeted with 'Saale tu bhi aa gaya' by the groom's brother as though 'the lesser the invitees turn up the preferable' was the mingy dictum that reigned supreme. Of course, it wasn't so. As I awkwardly took a seat close by, I saw that this was how everyone else was greeted too, some of them even more strangely, like - saale aaj nahi absent hoga chahe kabhi class na gaya ho. Perhaps someone had got it into his head that this was a particularly pleasing way to welcome people. The point I am trying to make here is that no matter how much you read into people's language to try and know about them, it isn't an ISO certified yardstick. For all you know, what you think as strange or stranger, could well have been funny or funnier, in intention. So, a fair bit of allowance had better be kept in these matters.
True, as much as how you mould a language can bring you embarrassment, the impact you generate is also a strikingly straight-line function of what treatment you give your words, your own way of putting the same old thing. This is so important it cannot be over-emphasised, but then it is so universal that it needn't be emphasised at all. The endearing Short-Film 'Historia De Un Letrero' (Story of a sign) made the most of this principle all the way to the bank, besides grabbing numerous international awards on the way. Since films are always better viewed than explained, I won't bore you with what happens in the film. Instead, I'll leave a link for you to entertain yourselves.
Totally unrelated, but since it has come down to pasting links in any case, I thought I'll paste this too. I found it awesome.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Childhood
Once, I was completely someone else. I always said what I had to say. Now, I say something else.
The most pressing urge I experience from within me is to go back in time, maybe back to school, maybe even back further, to infancy perhaps. Besides its urgent thrust, the urge is made unbearable by its inherent futility. I am unfortunately aware I am on a one-way. I, like billions of my contemporaries, have to go forward. Don't confuse it with upwards, better-wards or anything. Just plain forward. What makes the urge pressing is the sentiment that the farther back I look in time, the more homogeneous I see myself as. I was one with the people around me, one with nature; one with the Rickshaw wale uncle who took me to school everyday as much as I was one with the Car wale uncle who'd come to my aid on days the former would curiously disappear. The further back we go, the more all of us were similar. The more we were similar, the more we understood each other better. And even when we didn't, it was for the better. Years of unguided, misinformed, intuitive lessons learnt weren't such a profitable education after all. It feels meaningless, like an addict six months into drug abuse, on the point of no return. It also feels restless, like that addict in rehabilitation. The addict at least has to go through them one at a time. And the addict's case at least has hope.
I can be someone else in the future. I can say this because I know I was someone else in the past. The self, well, then, is an unreliable reality. Maybe it is not a reality at all, but unreliable it sure is.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
The Angry Gaze
Angrily, when I slowly gazed upwards in the darkness,
The big Stubborn Sky stared back with scary starkness
A switch, it seemed, turned on in less than an instant
Which enabled automation of the very very distant
The Sky even though decides to keep the remote-control
He does relent to take me along on this wondrous stroll
Those lovely little Stars abundant in the Space,
Swiftly move to make the contours of your innocent face
The craggy Crow - cute Cuckoo meetings,
Replay each and every one of your greetings
What memory did delete, memory also made replete
I profusely thank the Sky that it's like no other treat
It was truly a most delightful, even magnetic, sojourn
Probably the stuff, out of which legends are born
But, the little one knows about a thing, the better one thinks of it
The thorns on the red carpet reveal themselves bit by bit
I was shown the skyscraper that stood tall; also stood alone,
And struck a chord somehow with my own flesh & bone
It's avoided carefully even by the adventurer on the parachute
The building of stone isn't stone enough, it struggles to remain mute
It's uninhabited perhaps and desperate, even tenants would do
Not its expensive tiles and furnishings, no gimmicks could woo
It's lonely at this altitude perhaps, the building muses
And every now and then, it wished the height reduces
I rethink whether I was stared back in a Response by the Sky
Maybe he was staring down already - fed up of the splendour, on the sly
The big Stubborn Sky stared back with scary starkness
A switch, it seemed, turned on in less than an instant
Which enabled automation of the very very distant
The Sky even though decides to keep the remote-control
He does relent to take me along on this wondrous stroll
Those lovely little Stars abundant in the Space,
Swiftly move to make the contours of your innocent face
The craggy Crow - cute Cuckoo meetings,
Replay each and every one of your greetings
What memory did delete, memory also made replete
I profusely thank the Sky that it's like no other treat
It was truly a most delightful, even magnetic, sojourn
Probably the stuff, out of which legends are born
But, the little one knows about a thing, the better one thinks of it
The thorns on the red carpet reveal themselves bit by bit
I was shown the skyscraper that stood tall; also stood alone,
And struck a chord somehow with my own flesh & bone
It's avoided carefully even by the adventurer on the parachute
The building of stone isn't stone enough, it struggles to remain mute
It's uninhabited perhaps and desperate, even tenants would do
Not its expensive tiles and furnishings, no gimmicks could woo
It's lonely at this altitude perhaps, the building muses
And every now and then, it wished the height reduces
I rethink whether I was stared back in a Response by the Sky
Maybe he was staring down already - fed up of the splendour, on the sly
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Days
Days, these days, pass in a hurry. I remember how I reluctantly woke up early this Monday to reach college on time since I desperately needed to be where my books were. And before I could notice, it’s Friday and I am back at home. It tells me that I am more at home now, when I am in the hostel. For a major part of my first year, Mummy used to send me off to college every Monday with myriad Do’s & Don’t’s as well as with a very heavy heart, as though I was leaving for war. And truth be told, a part of that did seep into me and I, although completely aware that I was going to be back in a matter of days and in any case it’s just around forty odd kilometres away that I was going, would too feel sad about it. In retrospect, I think it was a most childish thing, and everyone ought to grow up so much so as to be willing to change shelters for education or profession. It’s remarkable how things are better now. Mummy gets up, wakes me up, I pack my big bag for hostel and my small bag for college, do the routine, have my breakfast and leave, that occasional forgetting some important file at home notwithstanding. Of course, this is only what happened even then in the initial days, but it has acquired a sense of mechanisation to it, as if all of us are programmed, like Robots are, to do what we do. For instance, I am always at that very point on the lane from where I have to turn right when Mummy comes to the balcony just in the nick of time to wave a final bah-bye to me, time after time after time; it’s incredible precision-programming in action.
*******
I am done with Semester Seven now, which means I have now known seven-eighths of what I needed to know to be called an engineer. On the face of it, I know nothing. All I know is how to cram before the exams, write the exams so that I get a decent enough score and just get away. Yes, that’s all I know. And yes - I also know how to destroy all evidence that I tried for it, in case I don’t actually get the decent score I aspired for!
*******
Had I not been deep sunk in a meaningless muddle of my own back then, I’d have loved to come up with farewell eulogies for both Jumbo and Dada. Call it fixation, but I fear that as my own heroes of Indian Cricket fade into the oblivion of the sidelines, my own love for following the game will peter out sooner than later. No Dhoni can be Dada, no Bhajji ever Jumbo; and even as we’re doing very well to rip apart the Aussies and the English one after another, I seem to miss the memories of those passionately fought draws that these men of lesser luck always seemed to end up with. Apart from that, I sense a somewhat intricate feeling of oneness with big-day chokers, being one myself. I know, I know that’s a weird justification to place their losses before these victories, but I guess there’s no harm in justifications being weird as long as they be truly-felt ones.
*******
I’d also have loved to write about the exams, and that’s almost a ritual for this blog – I see I have a specific Exam-post for each of the exams I have taken over the last couple of years, but then so much has been said about them already that it makes no point really. ‘All’s well that ends well’, is all I guess I can come up with.
*******
I am done with Semester Seven now, which means I have now known seven-eighths of what I needed to know to be called an engineer. On the face of it, I know nothing. All I know is how to cram before the exams, write the exams so that I get a decent enough score and just get away. Yes, that’s all I know. And yes - I also know how to destroy all evidence that I tried for it, in case I don’t actually get the decent score I aspired for!
*******
Had I not been deep sunk in a meaningless muddle of my own back then, I’d have loved to come up with farewell eulogies for both Jumbo and Dada. Call it fixation, but I fear that as my own heroes of Indian Cricket fade into the oblivion of the sidelines, my own love for following the game will peter out sooner than later. No Dhoni can be Dada, no Bhajji ever Jumbo; and even as we’re doing very well to rip apart the Aussies and the English one after another, I seem to miss the memories of those passionately fought draws that these men of lesser luck always seemed to end up with. Apart from that, I sense a somewhat intricate feeling of oneness with big-day chokers, being one myself. I know, I know that’s a weird justification to place their losses before these victories, but I guess there’s no harm in justifications being weird as long as they be truly-felt ones.
*******
I’d also have loved to write about the exams, and that’s almost a ritual for this blog – I see I have a specific Exam-post for each of the exams I have taken over the last couple of years, but then so much has been said about them already that it makes no point really. ‘All’s well that ends well’, is all I guess I can come up with.
Friday, November 28, 2008
The Bell Curve
There's only so much you can smile in solitude; it doesn't quite qualify as celebration.
It was the ecstasy that naturally follows those long longed first-conversations which end with warm goodbyes and implicit assurances of getting back to each other. Heck! It wasn't just that. It was mad euphoria, there's no other word for it. The slightest attempts to downplay the surge will, I am afraid, distort the story.
An important exam had gone awry beyond consolation in the morning. And the floating remorse of it still managed to vanish into pleasantest surprise with the first traces of an elongated 'Hiee' hitting the eardrums. It had to be special. The lad had been wishing to hear it for months, but somehow every time he would try to find lame excuses for striking a chat, that's what they invariably turned out to be - excuses which would be really lame.
The remaining exams hardly demanded his attention. Rather, he could hardly give it to them. The days that ensued saw him narrate that eventful day to his friends over and over and over again, a fresh perspective each time; each subsequent narration brought forth a previously unhighlighted intricacy; each one of them bringing out a shinier glint in his eyes.
* * * * * * * * * *
Then there are some realisations you think you'd have been better without. The one that was soon brought home to him had surely been brought home to him only too soon. It hadn't sunk, the hysteria. It sank, the realisation of its sudden demise.
Perhaps all things that pervade fast subside superfast. This one did - like an acute illness as against a chronic one. Abruptly, unanticipatedly, cruelly, the news of that other guy was somehow soon broken to him - the news of that other more-important guy.
'Luck... lucky' he mumbled wistfully between explosive plosives.
Ah, well.
It was the ecstasy that naturally follows those long longed first-conversations which end with warm goodbyes and implicit assurances of getting back to each other. Heck! It wasn't just that. It was mad euphoria, there's no other word for it. The slightest attempts to downplay the surge will, I am afraid, distort the story.
An important exam had gone awry beyond consolation in the morning. And the floating remorse of it still managed to vanish into pleasantest surprise with the first traces of an elongated 'Hiee' hitting the eardrums. It had to be special. The lad had been wishing to hear it for months, but somehow every time he would try to find lame excuses for striking a chat, that's what they invariably turned out to be - excuses which would be really lame.
The remaining exams hardly demanded his attention. Rather, he could hardly give it to them. The days that ensued saw him narrate that eventful day to his friends over and over and over again, a fresh perspective each time; each subsequent narration brought forth a previously unhighlighted intricacy; each one of them bringing out a shinier glint in his eyes.
* * * * * * * * * *
Then there are some realisations you think you'd have been better without. The one that was soon brought home to him had surely been brought home to him only too soon. It hadn't sunk, the hysteria. It sank, the realisation of its sudden demise.
Perhaps all things that pervade fast subside superfast. This one did - like an acute illness as against a chronic one. Abruptly, unanticipatedly, cruelly, the news of that other guy was somehow soon broken to him - the news of that other more-important guy.
'Luck... lucky' he mumbled wistfully between explosive plosives.
Ah, well.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Culmination
On Being Judgemental
Cross-culturally, being non-judgemental has come to occupy the high-ground of sophistication. Very often, we get to know of people being criticised for being too judgemental. So much so, that their criticism often has in its subtext allegations of clumsiness, insensitivity and the likes. At this stage of cultural evolution, hasn’t it become necessary to ask ourselves whether anything of any constructive value has ever been created without forming a set of judgements in the first place? Filmdom comes to the fore of my memory when I think about the attack on being judgemental. As though it were a ritual, the preachy-quotient of new films is discussed with alacrity by critics all and sundry. When all other aspects conspicuously fall perfectly in place, it is then that that film runs a great risk of being labelled as preachy or judgemental. Being opinionated is treated like a sin, unfortunately, in a profession which is in many ways only a portrayal of opinions. Now someone told me being judgemental hasn’t got anything about making judgements, it is about criticising people too quickly. The way I see it, I see people being disapproved of for being judgemental per se, without a heed being paid to the opinion they took and why and how they took it. The way things stand then, isn’t being anti-judgemental being judgemental too?
*******************************************************************************
An Idler's guilt
I guess I should unzip the veil to confess that I have lately been susceptible to evaluating myself all too much. Too much is fine by me, really; only the evaluation should reap pleasing results. Only, it never does. Frankly, when you are in this mood, you tend to find a meaning out of every inconsequential thing randomly taking place around you. In one such event, I noticed I don't take nicely to being the only one online in a chat-tool list, while all other of my friends are offline, even the exponentially greater number of those who are more adds than friends. Being the only one isn't nice, even when you didn't really want to talk to anyone in any case. It fills me with defeating feelings of being a useless layabout whiling away his time in the most unproductive of things while others must be exercising, studying, reading, watching films, having ice-creams, going on dates, playing cricket, writing codes. From a logical construct however, what difference should it make if one of those umpteen would have been online at the same time? Nothing. But that saves me this self-defeating thoughtless mental ordeal. Now that I considered the logical construct as I was writing, I also feel illogical now. Eeeeeh.
*******************************************************************************
Clutching at Straws
I have a weird manner of classifying my posts as happy posts and sad posts in my head. Once every few weeks, I come back to this blog and scroll a bit, trying to gauge how days have been. Since days haven’t been exactly smooth of late, I came back a few days back, with a specific purpose this time. I was trying to see the posts of around that time when things were particularly hunky-dory; everything was falling into place, almost as though by a divine intervention. I tried to take note of how I thought, wrote, lived and reflected in those days when everything was going so well that it sometimes occurred to me that I could make no mistake, even by mistake. I saw that I had quoted something by Muhammad Ali back then, thought for a moment about my present state of mind which is in starkest contrast to it, and cursed myself for the transition of decline. I made up my mind, did a bit of that self-motivating, psychological catharsis that all men of aspiration must have some time or the other done in their lives. I was banking heavily on it to bring about a difference.
It didn’t.
Now, I have one more chance before the real day. A chance to redeem old, forgotten reputation; but more importantly, a chance to regain old, forgotten confidence.
*******************************************************************************
"I never expect to lose. Even when I'm the underdog, I still prepare a victory speech." - H. Jackson Browne
Shamelessly or otherwise, I have, again.
Hallucinations
Sauntering through metro-stations
I have these strange hallucinations
That one discerning pair of eyes
With intentions though free of vice
Follows every movement of mine
From how I spit to how I dine
But since I also harbour inklings
That every damn appraisal brings
More bad than good to the fore
I fear culpability all the more
Although these fears I often hide
Miss Nonchalance ever by my side
With twilight they come out of hiding
And until dawn are with me, fighting
And end up victors more than often
No folded hands can make them soften
Mornings spent trying to start anew
Watching the birds, feeling the dew
Just when the fears I am done forgetting
Are re-sown their seeds - those eyes, riveting
I have these strange hallucinations
That one discerning pair of eyes
With intentions though free of vice
Follows every movement of mine
From how I spit to how I dine
But since I also harbour inklings
That every damn appraisal brings
More bad than good to the fore
I fear culpability all the more
Although these fears I often hide
Miss Nonchalance ever by my side
With twilight they come out of hiding
And until dawn are with me, fighting
And end up victors more than often
No folded hands can make them soften
Mornings spent trying to start anew
Watching the birds, feeling the dew
Just when the fears I am done forgetting
Are re-sown their seeds - those eyes, riveting
Incomplete Fiction
The Try (incomplete here, complete in the head)
Preface
To the part 1, I had got a comment which said girls were more of backstabbers and jealous than perhaps boys. I don't completely approve of that generalisation myself, and would in no way want that such an inference be drawn from this story I wrote. In fact, for the kind of B-grade storytelling it is, I wouldn't want that any inference of any kind be drawn from it. But now that that comment had made me think a couple of things, I'll ensure that this sequel belies any such notions - boys can be schemers, after all. Simultaneously, I also feel B-grade storytelling shouldn't be met with contempt, the likes of Chetan Bhagat mustn't be trashed the way they are. Why? There's reason. You need B-grade to really value the worth of A-grade. Hideous, yes, but judgements, even if aesthetic, invariably rely on contrast. With this intro, I have cleverly (or so I like to believe) ensured that not much is expected of this mumbo-jumbo written primarily with the aim of assuaging academic monotony.
[Part 1 + Part 2] follows :
Yesterday, Sagar made a startling revelation to all his buddies, including me.
'I love her, guys. I am the Next.'
'Whom?' we asked in chorus, as if rehearsing for some third-rate, forcibly-make-believe street play. Though I never used to get his unnecessary jargon I did get a hint of what his 'next' would be about.
'Aastha, you dumbos.' I heard from him and thought 'who's the dumbo?'
For a second there was the silence of confusion. I suppose all of us were ten percent happy and ninety percent amazed at his courage. Happy for his face was lighted with cheer, a face that had just barely managed to smile mildly for a second when he got a cent in his Numerical Analysis paper, and then made up for it by yawning for a minute. Amazement, was even more obvious. Aastha had dozens of aspirants dreaming of her, and half of them were listening to Sagar at this moment. Though the amazement was at his imagination that made him believe he could win the race. The other day a seminar on 'Heights of Imagination' was arranged by the cultural society people. We never knew he had attended it even as he told us he's going to his room to sleep. Now we were sure he did.
Probably he attended it sitting on the front bench. That is his trademark. Sagar isn't a stud, apart from his grades. But no one knows about his grades. Yes, I forgot to add he's unknown too. Half the class wouldn't recognise him on phone, because they'd not have ever heard his voice.
'Its DCE mate! Where every girl with two feet and a nose considers herself an Aishwarya Rai and all of us some Rajpal Yadav duplicate. And you're talking about the best goddamn material there is.', yelled Abhay. Pretension was never Abhay's forte. But he could have done without this one, I thought. So I went ahead to mend matters so that Sagar doesn't get depressed.
'Great Man! Who knows, you might not even talk to this funny Abhay once you're done. You know what I mean.' I added with a superficial smile and followed it with a wink of an eye that didn't come naturally with the mood either.
'What the hell! I thought you guys would be happy on hearing this. You guys are no friends. You are hopeless.'
None of us said a word, and we agreed to him partly. Apart from Vaibhav who chuckled, 'Better be hopeless than a hopefool!' and then laughed loudly and raised his palms before mine hoping I'd clap my hands to his. That was a tough situation for me. I had already resisted laughing out along with him, but now I had to refuse his clap too. I couldn't resist the temptation. On the spur of the moment, I clapped my hands against his, and then immediately looked back at Sagar and winked an eye at him indicating to him that it's Vaibhav who's the fool. Sagar looked foolishly confused.
After about an hour of conversation in which most of us were hell bent towards pessimism, Rajat finally agreed to help him out. Rajat had a better track record than all the others, so that made Sagar all the more bullish on his chances of success. Though I'd still call the bullishness, pure foolishness, but they were both very proud of their optimism.
Rajat has got this better reputation than all of us, all for nothing I believe. I have never believed his tales about his sky high feats. And none of those feats had been achieved in front of our eyes, we were just told about them. By none other than Rajat himself. All I held about him was that he is my friends' friend who knows nothing better than occupying one computer centre seat all the time and never taking his ass off it, however important the waiting guy's work on the computer might be. He was as happy about his fanlist on orkut reaching two hundred as Mika might have been at the Rakhi Sawant pappi. He is known to have more than a thousand friends there, and doesn't forget to mention at the slightest provocation that he has more people in his fanlist as you'd have in your friends' one. The addict that he is, I wouldn't be surprised if he answers his exam sheets starting with a 'u there?' and putting a :) following correct answers, a :( following presumably incorrect ones, brb before his 'may I go to toilet/drink water' breaks, and gtg at the end of the exam. That might as well be the case infact, coz hiz marx r a bl8ant p8h8ic. He is a humble guy though, lolzz.
Anyways, I went back to my room then, my eyes already strained by the excessive winking.
Sagar came to my room in the evening, and even though I was a million nautical miles deep in my ocean of dreams, his noisy bangs on the door jolted me awake. Unlike in the morning, he was very no-nonsense-goes this time around. He expected from me an estimation of his chances, to which I tried to comfortingly remark that, my forecast simulation project wasn't so advanced just as yet. But like I just said, Sagar wasn't here to hear jokes; bad ones like these - not at all.
Like a formula that clicks just when the viva-voce question is put up to you, the evil thought of fabricating a story to turn him off Aastha crossed my mind. The story seemed to me the quintessence of a necessary-evil, deserving of dethroning Friction. It was, if I may add shamelessly, a Eureka moment. Conscience tried its bit to reject the unworthy idea, but expedience had embedded it oh so rigidly. I told him to check his email the first thing tomorrow morning, while I'd meanwhile get around talking to some of my friends common with Aastha. I was, in fact, buying time for preparation. He left after a while, hopefool.
Later, I scratched my head for half an hour over why I was going to do what I was going to do, despite full confidence that I was going to do it anyway. A slight compunction reminded me of that famous Lalu Yadav one-liner targeted at the Left during the N-Deal debate: Tum agar mujhko na chaho to koi baat nahin, tum kisi aur ko chahoge to mushkil hogi. At the same time, I also felt a little bit Othello-ish. Okay, that last pseudo comparison is only to console myself.
I sat to write him an email. The longest of my life. I made sure I diluted and dilated it with a lot of fondly reflective undertones, and gave the crux a secondary treatment, to give it that guise of ingenuous credibility, to sustain his oblivion of the slightest vested-interests I may have.
___________________________________________________
To: sagartempo@truckdriver.com
Subject : hiii
_______________________________
Hi Sagar,
Here you go.
Last year, I worked for a couple of NGOs. Service was more of a by-product, adding stuff to polish the resume the prime motive. If that makes me sound like a hardened utilitarian, all I can say is No-I-am-not and be wishful that my word be taken for it. Anyway, there was a fabulously good-looking girl working with me in both of them who'd remind you a lot of that 'Swades' actress Gayatri Joshi. A month ago, she erupted out of Sagar, that much-loved South Indian restaurant, while I was chewing on paan outside it. Languishing in a rugged old pair of bermudas, it was almost as though I was caught off guard while she shone in one of those impeccable neo-Patiala-suits. I recognised it as an opportunity to latch on to, but these bermudas repeatedly made me want to slink away. After a fleeting dilemma, I realised I might just get too late. I stood up, put on a calm, nonchalant expression, ruffled up my hair - you know the way they give that SRK-effect, and shouted 'hi' looking at her. 'Hi', she smiled and I began blabbering, without losing a second about how she had slimmed since the NGO days. She nodded in welcome agreement for a while to whatever I had to say. Soon, monotony set in. I longed to come up with something cute and endearing, or at least cracking witty, but for the life of me I have never been able to exude useful charm, particularly when I am itching to. As her sister picked up Tinkle from the magazine-stand, she started telling me how nothing quite matches up to Calvin & Hobbes. I cursed myself for never giving it a try, despite desultorily going through the whole ruckus about it wherever I landed on the internet. A cursory glance over one of its petty pieces and I knew I could go on about it in the most engrossing manner; you know that too, don't you? What a small price to pay for having her listening to me intently. Goddamnit!
I saw Harry-Potters lined up against the pavement. Then, for five minutes I went on unabated about how I had still kept immune to the great Harry Potter mania. I tried my best to convince her of the gravity of the bad times we're in that such frivolous fantastique is adulated as masterly. I lacked conviction in what I was saying but I made sure none of that was palpable. Alright, it was a somewhat despicable attention-mongering exercise, for the kind of attention all things unusual must have. Anyway, I knew I was taking a risk, maybe even clutching desperately at tender straws, but I had to. Did I have to? No, she was already taken. Also, she probably loved Harry Potter more than she loved the guy she loved; I would soon discover through a long, animated carp.
But leave that for later. And anyway how does all that bother you! And yeah, soon came out from Sagar, who, Aastha! Yes, and goodness me, she was with her! Although, what you might want to know, is that she was with him too. Her guy. They were settling the bill while my NGO wali girl had come out to buy her kid sister some comics. You won't believe it, but then do you really think I have the kidneys to contrive such a complicated story?
Now that guy is handsome, Muscular with a bold, italic, capital M, and drives a Pajero. You know what kind of guys drive a Pajero at our age? The prodigal Bad-boys. Ok, you think I am prejudiced. I am only a well-wisher, dude. Go ahead! By the way, I was told his Dad's a political bigwig. Also, I don't think Aastha is as naïve as my NGO wali girl to love a novel-character; or a book, actor or soft-toy for that matter; more than that guy she likes.
Top secret it is that I have revealed to you bhai. But then, what are friends for! Keep it like secrets are kept, though. And wish me luck with the social-worker!
Bye!
___________________________________________________
With that last exclamation mark put, ecstasy overcame me. The only hindrance to this bliss was that I couldn't share it with anyone. Happiness, to sustain, needs to travel. Haven't you noticed that the most hilarious movie in the world seems boring when you don't have a friend by your side to keep passing off those comments on? Those comments that you believe are funnier than the film, after cracking each one of which you swell with self-importance. That I couldn't share this wicked genius with anyone was a slight spoiler, I tell you. Slight, I repeat. The bigger spoiler was waiting to happen.
*******************************************************************************
The Brothers ( Incomplete .. hazy in the head too)
Kishen started out on the morning paddy inspection very early today. Dawn hadn't broken when he bent over his head to face the chilled handpump water on his head, the gush of cold almost sweeping his head away, but he was enjoying it. Truth be told, he had been enjoying everything for some days now, even the most mundane routines. As the winds blew more and more turbulently, he found his clothing more and more a hindrance to the fun he could have had. He had been like this ever since he was a child. When he was still not an adult, he would accompany his father in the mornings, and occasionally took kid Mohan along. Unlike father and Mohan, who remained glued to their blankets as they walked, he was always tempted to throw away the blanket and run through the winds. With age, that enthusiasm had shrunk, and his jump and jabber filled morning rounds increasingly became reluctant compliances of obligations. For the last few days though, he was reliving old times. Mohan is going to come back after completing his college studies, we hear he is a qualified computer professional now. The last time he was here more than an year back, the occasion didn't call for reunion induced merry-making. Their father had passed away back then, and after a week of sharing the grief, Mohan had gone back without a goodbye, only informing them by a phone call after his arrival at his college, that he had to leave to take some exams. Kishen was furious at him then, and Mohan had started to remain more aloof from them subsequently. His phone calls decreased from daily to weekly to hardly. Letters became far out of question. For Kishen, the guilt had become overbearing. He would curse the day he screamed so madly at him on the phone. 'What could he have done here anyway?', he must have asked himself a thousand million times. In a dramatically pleasant turn of events, Mohan had resumed writing to him now. The last three weeks had witnessed Kishen receiving five of his letters. Why he still wouldn't call them up, was what kept Kishen thinking half his waking hours. 'He's still shy. He always was. Can't call, huh. But writes, just a matter of time before he'll crack his voice on the phone.', Kishen gladdened himself by telling his wife daily. But wait, forget the phonecall, he's coming! The latest letter, recited to him by his eight year old son Vaibhav, reads,
"Bhaiya, it has been long since we talked. I remember you every day, and remember that you couldn't wait for me to come back home from my school in the adjoining village, and never failed walking miles from the fields just to make me those bajra-rotis for lunch that I particularly loved from you, right at the time I was supposed to come back from school. What a chef you were, you'd any day put to shame the five stars here. How do you manage now? Must have got used. I have got a job here. And I'll be back home for two weeks. Meet you on Sunday.
*******************************************************************************
Born to Stand Out, Trying to Fit In ( incomplete would be an exaggeration)
The boy rose from his bench, the fan still running. He asked his Dad if he could go out for a movie with his friends. He knew Dad wasn't accustomed to thrusting his opinion on him, and wouldn't object. Expectedly, he was allowed. Still, there was a tinge of guilt as he stroked his hair back, and tucked his shirt in at just the right parts, leaving the rest untucked. It was a little discomforting to peep into his wallet too. He wondered if he should be asking for more money. He took five hundred the other day, which he ought to have saved so far, at least nowadays. The guilt would overbear him, he thought and left. At the gate he noticed the tank of his motorcycle empty. He started his mental calculations. Calculations didn't help. He walked to the main road, hoping to catch some bus. He didn't know about which bus to take, asked someone on the stand, misunderstood, boarded and on realising that, got down somewhere.
Somewhere was a dark place. Somewhere was stark dark at One in the noon. A small kid half his age was holding ten sugarcane sticks by his left hand, and fondling an ice filled container with his right, with a grinder making irritatingly scratchy sounds between them.
A man in his eighties knocked a coin on his table, and the small kid's hands started working even more quickly, as though that served to charge the battery of his robotic hands. In seconds he served him the juice, even as the old man looked on, understandably dull on reaction at his age.
The small kid insisted a friend of his to take charge for a moment, while he returned from one seemingly ultra-important assignment of his. Our boy-lost, who stood in the shade of this shop, was in the middle of a useless conversation when the call abruptly ended. An sms followed that informed him his balance had crashed. He was furious, even though at no one in particular. The small kid returned chewing guthka, and out of courtesy had brought one for his friend who sat at the shop. He didn't take it. He nudged him again, to no avail. Visibly, he too was happy that his gift wasn't accepted. He immediately emptied the other pouch also into his mouth. His friend wanted a glass of juice for having been there, to which the kid straightaway refused. His friend ran out snatching two sugarcane sticks from the pile. Our boy,
(I leave it, it'll get way too wayward)
Friday, October 24, 2008
यहाँ कैसे ?
I had promised myself to refrain from idling on the internet for the next three weeks, for some exam is due shortly, but as it turns out, I am back at it in what has been less than even one. For a change, I wouldn’t call it incorrigibility but a careful reconsideration. When I am not averse to wasting time per se, why would it be such a sin if it happens to be on the internet? Rationale says that the venue of the (in)activity should mostly be immaterial. Not that I am a stickler for rationale; there is none behind idling at such a crucial juncture in the first place.
To cut the crap, what brought me here was a welcome I thought I ought to give to a new blogger on the block, one of my closest friends with whom I have spent the lion’s share of my college life, especially the last two years.
To begin with, it gives me great pleasure to have him here, for I often wondered how it would be if he were to begin writing a blog or something. And this was because I was often amazed at the striking similitude of our outlook on all things under the sun. Also, I knew for sure that with his kind of linguistic command, going wrong couldn’t be the bleakest of possibilities. So ever since he told me about having started his blog this past Sunday, I had been waiting eagerly for Friday to come so that I have internet at my dispense to read it with delight.
What makes it all the more interesting for me is its title – Out of d Closet. After having lived with him day in and day out, I have to say there’s still a tinge of mystery that surrounds him. He isn’t usually given to being very vocal about how he feels about things of importance, except a few times in the quiet of his or my room; but then it gets kind of awkward having two guys in the prime(?) of their youth sitting in a cobweb-rich room and talking ‘sense’. So watch out Abhineet, I am counting on you to actually take the out-of-the-closet thing seriously, besides accounts of the black satirical comedy that our lives have more or less come to be.
And finally, I hope that the people who read his blog aren’t fooled by the lazy, laughable, languishing image his blog thus far entails about him. Because beneath the self-mocking layabout is the sharpest mind I have seen in these three and a half years of my stay here.
Whistles and Cheers!
To cut the crap, what brought me here was a welcome I thought I ought to give to a new blogger on the block, one of my closest friends with whom I have spent the lion’s share of my college life, especially the last two years.
To begin with, it gives me great pleasure to have him here, for I often wondered how it would be if he were to begin writing a blog or something. And this was because I was often amazed at the striking similitude of our outlook on all things under the sun. Also, I knew for sure that with his kind of linguistic command, going wrong couldn’t be the bleakest of possibilities. So ever since he told me about having started his blog this past Sunday, I had been waiting eagerly for Friday to come so that I have internet at my dispense to read it with delight.
What makes it all the more interesting for me is its title – Out of d Closet. After having lived with him day in and day out, I have to say there’s still a tinge of mystery that surrounds him. He isn’t usually given to being very vocal about how he feels about things of importance, except a few times in the quiet of his or my room; but then it gets kind of awkward having two guys in the prime(?) of their youth sitting in a cobweb-rich room and talking ‘sense’. So watch out Abhineet, I am counting on you to actually take the out-of-the-closet thing seriously, besides accounts of the black satirical comedy that our lives have more or less come to be.
And finally, I hope that the people who read his blog aren’t fooled by the lazy, laughable, languishing image his blog thus far entails about him. Because beneath the self-mocking layabout is the sharpest mind I have seen in these three and a half years of my stay here.
Whistles and Cheers!
Friday, October 17, 2008
Why Lara at a 52 point something batting average is greater than those averaging 54, 56, 58 :)
Stats sourced from Cricinfo.com
The Audition
This little-known actor had been diligently mastering concealment for years, guided by the notion that it was more exacting than, and therefore superior to, expression. For years, he pursued it with extreme honesty.
An upcoming dramatist hosted a lavish gala, inviting one and all. Our immersed actor was peremptorily chucked from the impervious protagonist's role in her cast-to-be; it was an audition in disguise.
Hurt at the discovery, the actor, indelibly proud of his expertise, felt cheated. 'My disguise was beaten, only because it was evaluated in disguise', he protested.
'Oh no, that's how it ought to be evaluated. Besides,' added the dramatist 'To conceal is façade and is pursued with façade, not honesty. It's a beguiling total-transparency, not a cultivated total-opaqueness'.
The dramatist has since risen to the highest echelons of Theatre, the profession of make-believe.
The actor came back crippled that night, and has since been rehearsing normalcy.
An upcoming dramatist hosted a lavish gala, inviting one and all. Our immersed actor was peremptorily chucked from the impervious protagonist's role in her cast-to-be; it was an audition in disguise.
Hurt at the discovery, the actor, indelibly proud of his expertise, felt cheated. 'My disguise was beaten, only because it was evaluated in disguise', he protested.
'Oh no, that's how it ought to be evaluated. Besides,' added the dramatist 'To conceal is façade and is pursued with façade, not honesty. It's a beguiling total-transparency, not a cultivated total-opaqueness'.
The dramatist has since risen to the highest echelons of Theatre, the profession of make-believe.
The actor came back crippled that night, and has since been rehearsing normalcy.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
धुंआ
कल रात बैठे बैठे सुबह हो गई
मानो पिंजरे से चिड़िया धुंआ हो गई
ये समझाया, माना बहुत कुछ सितम है
चलो छोड़ दें, जो गई सो गई
जो सालों में उगती है पेडों की लकड़ी
कट के भी तो चूल्हे की जां हो गई
ये बतलाया ख़ुद को की दुनिया में जब भी
कोई बात बिगड़ी , कोई हो गई
कभी चाँद रोता है दागों को अपने ?
कब रोता है सूरज की छाँ खो गई
अब कल को न रोयें, अगर यह करें तो
जो कल तक थी दिक्क़त, दुआ हो गई
फिर रात याद आया जो वीरों का जज़्बा
जोश-ऐ-दिल की तभी इन्तेहाँ हो गई
ये करना है मुमकिन, वो कर देंगे अब तो
ऐसी कसमें हजारों जुबां हो गई
कई बात सोची यूँ तो कल रात हमनें
जो सुबह हो गई , सब धुंआ हो गई
मानो पिंजरे से चिड़िया धुंआ हो गई
ये समझाया, माना बहुत कुछ सितम है
चलो छोड़ दें, जो गई सो गई
जो सालों में उगती है पेडों की लकड़ी
कट के भी तो चूल्हे की जां हो गई
ये बतलाया ख़ुद को की दुनिया में जब भी
कोई बात बिगड़ी , कोई हो गई
कभी चाँद रोता है दागों को अपने ?
कब रोता है सूरज की छाँ खो गई
अब कल को न रोयें, अगर यह करें तो
जो कल तक थी दिक्क़त, दुआ हो गई
फिर रात याद आया जो वीरों का जज़्बा
जोश-ऐ-दिल की तभी इन्तेहाँ हो गई
ये करना है मुमकिन, वो कर देंगे अब तो
ऐसी कसमें हजारों जुबां हो गई
कई बात सोची यूँ तो कल रात हमनें
जो सुबह हो गई , सब धुंआ हो गई
Saturday, October 4, 2008
No Title As Such
Ironically, during an aimless idle stroll in the evening, I was reminded of why I had deleted the Idleness post in the first place. And it provided a compulsive imperative for me to delete it again. And so that I don’t forget it a second time, I am oh-shit becoming so absent-minded, I’ll bring the misgiving right here. It was uneasiness regarding this line - The people who think they are the best bet for this job appointment really irritate people like me who actually are – that had made me delete this post the last time. I have a faint feeling that I may just have overheard it somewhere in my school or something, and so maybe it isn’t something I should attribute to myself. I am not very sure, again, if this is really the case, but then again, I am not very sure either that this is not the case. So if it gives conscientious trouble, why just have it; there are many troubles already stymieing me.
Now for the latest one among them. Back at this coaching institute, these guys have come up with a special customised programme for some students with about a month left for the final thingy. Since I was told I was in it, and these guys call it the ‘bright batch’, my first thoughts were that these coaching guys needed a major vocabulary overhaul. Then I thought since some of these guys also teach vocabulary they couldn’t possibly have made a blunder. What’s it then – a play on words? I had no clue. They say they’ve handpicked some potential students from all their centres across Delhi to give their preparations that final impetus. I was surprised, to say the least, to find myself in it; I need the initial nudge after all, not the final impetus. However, all doubts were put to rest when I finally made way into the classroom. A lot of the guys over there looked straight out of study-coffins and had such stern expressions on their faces they looked like they’ll eat up anyone thwarting their chances. On the corridor outside the class I asked a particularly scary guy with Ambition written all over his forehead if he had come for this particular batch’s classes. He paused, looked at me irritated, paused a bit more, and said ‘Obviously’. Wow.
What did I know, that I would meet many more of his kinfolk inside. When I entered the class was empty; a sort of joblessness makes me reach everywhere ahead of time – that’s the good part of it. Anyway, monsters kept pouring in every two minutes. They came, they took a seat, they opened their problem-books with prompt bookmarks at just the required page-number in a flash of a second, and in flash of one more started solving stuff in their notebooks. In a few minutes, I grew tired of rotating my head like a CCTV tower staring at all these creatures. Just as I was beginning to regain affected composure, a couple of tough-nut problems were thrown at us which almost bowled me; that they bowled nobody else even slightly bowled me completely. That I was intimidated would be the understatement of the year.
So just when it seemed to be taking effect, the great Indian blog revival, it seems, will have to wait a wee bit more. I must start studying seriously, if only to save face while sitting along with a bunch of nightmarishly nerdy folks.
Now for the latest one among them. Back at this coaching institute, these guys have come up with a special customised programme for some students with about a month left for the final thingy. Since I was told I was in it, and these guys call it the ‘bright batch’, my first thoughts were that these coaching guys needed a major vocabulary overhaul. Then I thought since some of these guys also teach vocabulary they couldn’t possibly have made a blunder. What’s it then – a play on words? I had no clue. They say they’ve handpicked some potential students from all their centres across Delhi to give their preparations that final impetus. I was surprised, to say the least, to find myself in it; I need the initial nudge after all, not the final impetus. However, all doubts were put to rest when I finally made way into the classroom. A lot of the guys over there looked straight out of study-coffins and had such stern expressions on their faces they looked like they’ll eat up anyone thwarting their chances. On the corridor outside the class I asked a particularly scary guy with Ambition written all over his forehead if he had come for this particular batch’s classes. He paused, looked at me irritated, paused a bit more, and said ‘Obviously’. Wow.
What did I know, that I would meet many more of his kinfolk inside. When I entered the class was empty; a sort of joblessness makes me reach everywhere ahead of time – that’s the good part of it. Anyway, monsters kept pouring in every two minutes. They came, they took a seat, they opened their problem-books with prompt bookmarks at just the required page-number in a flash of a second, and in flash of one more started solving stuff in their notebooks. In a few minutes, I grew tired of rotating my head like a CCTV tower staring at all these creatures. Just as I was beginning to regain affected composure, a couple of tough-nut problems were thrown at us which almost bowled me; that they bowled nobody else even slightly bowled me completely. That I was intimidated would be the understatement of the year.
So just when it seemed to be taking effect, the great Indian blog revival, it seems, will have to wait a wee bit more. I must start studying seriously, if only to save face while sitting along with a bunch of nightmarishly nerdy folks.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
On Idleness
Some time back, I wrote a post which I then deleted. There must have been reasons, but I am not able to recall any of them now; the only reasons that occur to me are for putting it back here. The blog is in dire need of some posts which actually say something rather than just think what to say, or mull over having nothing to say. So here it goes, that post:
I particularly like idleness. Rather, I 'admire' idleness would be more apt to say. If I come to know another person who admires idleness, and unless he doesn't really remind me of Uday Chopra, I'd probably be very tempted to strike a good friendship with him. It comes as no surprise then that two of my favourite books are 'In praise of Idleness' and 'The Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow'. The first one actually made a fool out of me, as 'In praise..' just turned out to be one of the many essays in that book to which they gave the same name. However, it was still a good, worth-it read, only that some later essays of that book started to undermine this particular essay, when I stopped reading it any further. The second book is one I personally consider a masterpiece, but as it turns out, the 'intelligentsia' have probably just passed it off as a work of 'light writing'.
When I say idle, I do not include occasions when you are apparently doing nothing but are completely immersed in brooding, remorse, elation, expectation and the likes. Because all of them are things that are in fact keeping you from being idle, rather than making you idle as one might think.
My idea of idleness is when you're free from any resentment or ecstasy, from any guilt or vanity. My idea of idleness is probably a Dhokla of imagination garnished with leaves of laziness. It is when nothingness dumps you into a parallel world of what I like to call creativity, probably only to boost up myself.
I am surprised to find that other people are not idle. After all, how much work is there anyway? There may be, I understand, and I haven't seen real life and all that; but trust me I have seen quite a bit - both the good and the very bad. My idleness has hardly come in my way of work, for as long as I can remember. Sure, I could have done a little more had it not been for my propensity for being a layabout idle, but even with it I am managing just fine, about as much as my peers. And after all, what plethora of work are even those not idle engaged in anyway. From my frog of a well experience, I can say with certainty that when, being idle, I am just wasting my time; my friends are there wasting their time as well as talktime. Idleness might not, at the end of the day, see me as an achiever, but then I am satisfied with the mere amusement it gives me, and don't have any greater expectations from it. Oops, will right about expectations in a future post.
I agree that lack of activity is the biggest curse a man can bear - the state of having nothing to do. I not only agree, I rather endorse this view. But then, 'lack of activity' is not idleness. Here I'd quote a fantastic paragraph from 'The Idle thoughts..' : "It is impossible to enjoy idling thoroughly unless one has plenty of work to do. There is no fun in doing nothing when you have nothing to do. Wasting time is merely an occupation then, and a most exhausting one. Idleness, like kisses, to be sweet must be stolen." In hindsight I think a good example of this brand of idleness is one, albeit very boring, of my previous posts - "'Urgent Updates' - Nov 24".
Readers [added now: there were a few back then] of this blog perhaps already know that I consider myself a fairly idle person (not in any way to be confused with ideal person). And it is the aforementioned definition of idleness I am using here.
It is in these periods of idleness that I cook up a lot of things in my head (and probably you too do, but I have a tendency to fall into hallucinations that tell me I am the only anointed one in this world doing things that only I am doing - but then again, probably you too might have had these weird thoughts) that aren't remotely of any practical use for mankind but which certainly serve to amuse me and make me feel good about myself; and some of which I put down here, after weighing diligently the pros and cons of putting them publicly. Another set of such cooked up things I found pretty interesting (as I always do, because I cook them up) and thought others will find interesting too (for a change), I am putting down here. Today I was thinking of such paradoxical sentences which mean totally the opposite of what they actually say, with a tinge of humour in them. I would like to read your similar ones from you, in case you have the idle time too.
Read on for the ones that occurred to me:
1. I don't give a heck to what people say about me as long as I know I am not arrogant.
2. I am very receptive in learning from others but I wish there were good enough people existing today.
3. There's an acute lack of a sense of reason among these young men of today, see - all of them are so tall.
4. They are all ill-mannered, bloody assholes.
5. That insensitive crook lifted my most prized possession, the watch I took out of my dear late uncle's hand on his deathbed. Damn it! It was a Patek Philippe for God's sake.
I'd probably use all of them as dialogues of a weirdo in a play, if I ever produce one.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
On What To Write
With a slight grudge, I admit I have secretly been trying to revive myself as a half-decent half-regular blogger, but every time I write something I develop grave doubts about the quality of stuff that comes out, just as I go to press the publish link. Now I am not the kind people associate with this word 'blogger', especially those who have only heard of it through news-channels or newspapers; I usually never have any solutions for combating terrorism, nor do I harbour any anti-establishment, angry-young-man sentiments of mentionable magnitudes. Singur plant stays or goes, I give a damn, Samjhauta Express runs or ceases to, and I give a damn. On the few occasions on which I've tried hard to become that archetypal blogger, the results have been no short of being terribly bombed documentaries. And then I don't really live a particularly jazzed up life either that I'd beat drum about. As a result of all of this, what usually comes out is a dismissive, self-deprecating account of how I must be a loser just because I am not exactly the winner. All talk of candour notwithstanding, writing truth - and that which matters, isn't my cup of tea either, I now believe. Whenever it comes to it, I tend to become overtly sentimental about trivial surrounding issues and downright maudlin if at all I ever get down to the crux, which I seldom do. This process of elimination of alternatives leaves me with only the option of writing to make fun both of people's eccentricities and normalities, my own biases ruling out the possibility of writing possibly educative stuff. Now when I make fun of others, I start feeling guilty. Actually, I start feeling guilty no matter what. Actually, I think I need to see a doctor. Actually, I had better leave.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Updating ... done.
In some contrast to recent past, I have largely become a formality blogger. While I usually logged on to blogger when I had something I wanted to express, the posts now are more of an attempt to ensure that the blog doesn't become practically defunct. So here I am, putting in this entry, primarily because I haven't put in any in some time. I still stand by my notion though, that it is certainly among the better things to have come out of the Web revolution. And hopefully, I'll soon have the renewed zest of an avid idle-idea-baking-confectioner. Avid Idle. Oxymoron, I observe. Anyway.
This blog is in some ways a diary. Therefore, so that this doesn't pass unmentioned, I also got a job during the long tea break since the last post. Now that that is done, there's something else to get geared up for. I think the cycle never ceases. I also think it shouldn't.
This blog is in some ways a diary. Therefore, so that this doesn't pass unmentioned, I also got a job during the long tea break since the last post. Now that that is done, there's something else to get geared up for. I think the cycle never ceases. I also think it shouldn't.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
A Little Bit of Looking-Back
Hardly into it, have I reckoned the final year as remarkably different from the first three. But then, weren’t they all different in their own ways ? Freshman year was nothing like the 2nd , 3rd , or 4th year. The sophomore experience was so full of energy; unique in its own way. And well, the third year was a period in transition between the two extremities of second and fourth years; perhaps the time students start thinking about the things post-college.
I often tell my friends the time I’ll remember the most would surely be the first year. It is that time when you suddenly meet a host of new people, many of whom are certain to leave a lasting imprint on your life and on the way you see things. Talk about fun, I never had any during my first year. If at all there was, it was the fun on the run. We constantly ran away from seniors who’d always be on the prowl, looking for frail freshers to get their lengthy assignments done. If I know correctly, though I don’t claim I do, then the scene isn’t all that scary now as it used to be in our time. Anti-Ragging banners galore in the campus, which I feel deter most seniors from even trying the most harmless of mischief. What I used to do back then to avoid servility to seniors I neither knew nor respected, is that I used to tell some friend of mine to lock my door from outside and slide the key back from beneath the door, so that I would call someone up when I needed to go out and then slide the key again for him to open the door for me. Most of the times, there would be a group of six-seven of us inside my room; but the room locked from outside so that the seniors who came to my doorsteps with their assignments went back disappointed. I don’t really know how the sentiment is now, among the freshers, but back then a unanimous agreement on seniors being the common enemies provided a setting really conducive to some great bonding among all of us.
The second year was as different from the first as Nisha Kothari from Gracy Singh. In fact, it is invariably the second year guys who have the most pronounced I-am-your-senior syndrome. They like to take the roles of people they hated while in their first year, as soon as there are new people at the receiving end. I can’t say this about the whole college in general, but it is true every bit for how it’s like at the boys’ hostels. It is here that I was a misfit, never able to really value any seniority that comes on account of having been born earlier, irrespective of which side I was on. It defeats all rationale. If I admire you, it may be for your work, your qualities, or even seemingly absurd things as how you walk or how you run through the stairs. But for your age, never. Not unless you’re at least thirty years my senior. Apart from that, it was hands down the most vibrant year. We went to every goddamn fest in the city, dancing through dawns. There were hardly any days on which we slept before 2am. It was the kind of hurry to have fun which you’d expect from someone being packed off to some sand collection project in The Sahara in a week’s time. I don’t know why we were so crazy. It was fun, great fun. Very soon, I got fed up of it.
And when I got fed up of it, I became a little reclusive. Beyond that time I can’t make any generalisations on how college is like, because I had already deviated too much from any generalised conception of college-goers. By a strange coincidence, soon after I happened to read a lot of reclusive-literature, if I may use the term. Some by reclusive authors, some on reclusive protagonists. I can’t say if it was a good thing to have happened or not; at least I don’t regret it; not so far.
Things now are a muddle of all things past, a hazy assortment devoid of any valuable insight, any clear path, or any useful experience. Also, there’s a slight guilt of not having utilized my college years fruitfully. Truth be told, I am only as equipped, have only as much knowledge or skills, as I had when I had just finished Class XII. From this standpoint, it’s been a waste of years. Sometimes I wish I had studied with care, tried to score good marks and all, until the futility of this mistimed regret strikes me. The other day I went to a freshers’ room, just to see how they would react. They looked a little tense at the mere sight of someone unfamiliar in their room, and on coming to know that I am from the fourth year their misgivings multiplied. From their looks, it seemed I was, for them, the sophomore’s vice raised to the power of three. ‘I ragged people who ragged those who are these days ragging you.’, I told them just to experience the look on their faces, which suddenly started looking like pumpkins in a furnace, and I told myself that nothing has changed. When I asked one of them what book they have for Manufacturing Processes, he answered, ‘Yes, err I am err in first err year.’ as though that were his biggest err-or in life. The chap didn’t know what he was speaking. 'We weren’t that bad', I patted myself in my thoughts. Then I told them they could consider me harmless and that I just felt like meeting them casually. One Electronics guy and two Polymers guys were studying Automotive Engineering from a Khali sized book. What on earth do you do with this book, when I, despite my branch and year, don’t know cow about it? This was what I asked, partly startled, partly insecure at my own insufficiency, and partly worried about these overly studious young guys. ‘We are interested in it.’, they answered unequivocally but then started looking at me a little apologetically, until I started feeling apologetic about lacking any concrete interests and went back to my room.
I often tell my friends the time I’ll remember the most would surely be the first year. It is that time when you suddenly meet a host of new people, many of whom are certain to leave a lasting imprint on your life and on the way you see things. Talk about fun, I never had any during my first year. If at all there was, it was the fun on the run. We constantly ran away from seniors who’d always be on the prowl, looking for frail freshers to get their lengthy assignments done. If I know correctly, though I don’t claim I do, then the scene isn’t all that scary now as it used to be in our time. Anti-Ragging banners galore in the campus, which I feel deter most seniors from even trying the most harmless of mischief. What I used to do back then to avoid servility to seniors I neither knew nor respected, is that I used to tell some friend of mine to lock my door from outside and slide the key back from beneath the door, so that I would call someone up when I needed to go out and then slide the key again for him to open the door for me. Most of the times, there would be a group of six-seven of us inside my room; but the room locked from outside so that the seniors who came to my doorsteps with their assignments went back disappointed. I don’t really know how the sentiment is now, among the freshers, but back then a unanimous agreement on seniors being the common enemies provided a setting really conducive to some great bonding among all of us.
The second year was as different from the first as Nisha Kothari from Gracy Singh. In fact, it is invariably the second year guys who have the most pronounced I-am-your-senior syndrome. They like to take the roles of people they hated while in their first year, as soon as there are new people at the receiving end. I can’t say this about the whole college in general, but it is true every bit for how it’s like at the boys’ hostels. It is here that I was a misfit, never able to really value any seniority that comes on account of having been born earlier, irrespective of which side I was on. It defeats all rationale. If I admire you, it may be for your work, your qualities, or even seemingly absurd things as how you walk or how you run through the stairs. But for your age, never. Not unless you’re at least thirty years my senior. Apart from that, it was hands down the most vibrant year. We went to every goddamn fest in the city, dancing through dawns. There were hardly any days on which we slept before 2am. It was the kind of hurry to have fun which you’d expect from someone being packed off to some sand collection project in The Sahara in a week’s time. I don’t know why we were so crazy. It was fun, great fun. Very soon, I got fed up of it.
And when I got fed up of it, I became a little reclusive. Beyond that time I can’t make any generalisations on how college is like, because I had already deviated too much from any generalised conception of college-goers. By a strange coincidence, soon after I happened to read a lot of reclusive-literature, if I may use the term. Some by reclusive authors, some on reclusive protagonists. I can’t say if it was a good thing to have happened or not; at least I don’t regret it; not so far.
Things now are a muddle of all things past, a hazy assortment devoid of any valuable insight, any clear path, or any useful experience. Also, there’s a slight guilt of not having utilized my college years fruitfully. Truth be told, I am only as equipped, have only as much knowledge or skills, as I had when I had just finished Class XII. From this standpoint, it’s been a waste of years. Sometimes I wish I had studied with care, tried to score good marks and all, until the futility of this mistimed regret strikes me. The other day I went to a freshers’ room, just to see how they would react. They looked a little tense at the mere sight of someone unfamiliar in their room, and on coming to know that I am from the fourth year their misgivings multiplied. From their looks, it seemed I was, for them, the sophomore’s vice raised to the power of three. ‘I ragged people who ragged those who are these days ragging you.’, I told them just to experience the look on their faces, which suddenly started looking like pumpkins in a furnace, and I told myself that nothing has changed. When I asked one of them what book they have for Manufacturing Processes, he answered, ‘Yes, err I am err in first err year.’ as though that were his biggest err-or in life. The chap didn’t know what he was speaking. 'We weren’t that bad', I patted myself in my thoughts. Then I told them they could consider me harmless and that I just felt like meeting them casually. One Electronics guy and two Polymers guys were studying Automotive Engineering from a Khali sized book. What on earth do you do with this book, when I, despite my branch and year, don’t know cow about it? This was what I asked, partly startled, partly insecure at my own insufficiency, and partly worried about these overly studious young guys. ‘We are interested in it.’, they answered unequivocally but then started looking at me a little apologetically, until I started feeling apologetic about lacking any concrete interests and went back to my room.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Sombre Snippets
Aug 12, 2008, 6:15 AM
As I begin typing this on the word tool, I have a wavy self belief, and not much else. A friend, AG, has just left for his home after spending the night (or whatever remained of it) at my room. There’s nothing I feel right now, except that my legs are paining a lot, particularly below the knees. I just saw the mirror, and I could make out, umm I couldn’t make out anything.
Aug 12, 2008, 2:20 AM
After proposing watching a film, or better – two, just an hour ago, AB has strangely taken a diametrically opposite turn. Now it’s the other two of us – AG and I who want to watch a movie, desperately. AB, though, has refused and insists on sleeping as a ‘good idea’.
Aug 11, 2008, 3:00 PM
Aptitude results are out! 60 out of 250 short-listed. The atmosphere’s frenetic, and around hundred of my colleagues are making calls to hundred other of my colleagues. A couple were counting on me too to let them know of their result as and when it comes out, in case they are not there when it does. I make a call to one, telling him he made it. I was just going to make it to another telling him he had not, but the phone battery, I see, has fished out. I thank God for that. Meanwhile, I discover, there are 5 from my class in the list, plus I.
Aug 11, 2008, 9:30 PM
A second shortlist is about to come now after gruelling hour long interviews with each one of us. All six of us are terribly tired after the unceasing interview and the unceasing waiting that followed it. Meanwhile, PG points out that Kaluwithrana sitting next to the stairs doesn’t look any tired. But why should he; with that bombshell constantly motivating him by his side. ‘Would you be tired then, AG?’, I asked. ‘No way No way’, he answered with a new-found vigour; ‘I’d rather want the interviews to go on all night’. Wait. The shortlist. Shortlist. Yes, I think it has arrived. H’m. Three of the six from my class have been eliminated. For PG especially, I can’t find any consoling words. He was here with me the day before yesterday; when we had stuck till the end before not finding ourselves in the final selections list. I remember we were wondering what keeps them interested in us till the end, and what is it about us that they tend to realise only at the end, and that makes them abhor us all of a sudden. Now as I fasten my knot for the second round, I just take his best wishes while keeping mum, even as he leaves back for the hostel.
Aug 12, 2008, 1:20 AM
‘None of us’, informs AG.
‘None’, confirms AB.
‘None?’ I protest.
None. As we sit rejected and dejected at the end of the entire process, I point out we’d have been better off kicked out after the first round of written itself. What fun is staying up this late, when they had made up their mind. My cumulative till the end of the penultimate round was ranked fourth, the placement council guys inform me. That should have seen me comfortably in; they took seventeen eventually. But no Production-guys. ‘Production sucks’, AG shouts as he kicks air. We are still there on the pavement, though not talking with each other any longer. The security guard asks if we made it, but quickly understood from our looks without us having to answer. Ten minutes later we’re still sitting there, an odd yawn breaking the gloomy silence. Suddenly the super seventeen storm out of the hall, all having their mobiles glued to their ears. A cacophony of ‘Oyeee!’, ‘I’ve got a job Dad!’, ‘(whispering giggles)’, ‘Party party’ etc are to be heard from all sides. We decide to get up and leave. Meanwhile, AB suggests we watch a movie to diverge our minds. We say yes, ok. AB has ‘Singh is Kinng’. Alright, our faces light up.
As I begin typing this on the word tool, I have a wavy self belief, and not much else. A friend, AG, has just left for his home after spending the night (or whatever remained of it) at my room. There’s nothing I feel right now, except that my legs are paining a lot, particularly below the knees. I just saw the mirror, and I could make out, umm I couldn’t make out anything.
Aug 12, 2008, 2:20 AM
After proposing watching a film, or better – two, just an hour ago, AB has strangely taken a diametrically opposite turn. Now it’s the other two of us – AG and I who want to watch a movie, desperately. AB, though, has refused and insists on sleeping as a ‘good idea’.
Aug 11, 2008, 3:00 PM
Aptitude results are out! 60 out of 250 short-listed. The atmosphere’s frenetic, and around hundred of my colleagues are making calls to hundred other of my colleagues. A couple were counting on me too to let them know of their result as and when it comes out, in case they are not there when it does. I make a call to one, telling him he made it. I was just going to make it to another telling him he had not, but the phone battery, I see, has fished out. I thank God for that. Meanwhile, I discover, there are 5 from my class in the list, plus I.
Aug 11, 2008, 9:30 PM
A second shortlist is about to come now after gruelling hour long interviews with each one of us. All six of us are terribly tired after the unceasing interview and the unceasing waiting that followed it. Meanwhile, PG points out that Kaluwithrana sitting next to the stairs doesn’t look any tired. But why should he; with that bombshell constantly motivating him by his side. ‘Would you be tired then, AG?’, I asked. ‘No way No way’, he answered with a new-found vigour; ‘I’d rather want the interviews to go on all night’. Wait. The shortlist. Shortlist. Yes, I think it has arrived. H’m. Three of the six from my class have been eliminated. For PG especially, I can’t find any consoling words. He was here with me the day before yesterday; when we had stuck till the end before not finding ourselves in the final selections list. I remember we were wondering what keeps them interested in us till the end, and what is it about us that they tend to realise only at the end, and that makes them abhor us all of a sudden. Now as I fasten my knot for the second round, I just take his best wishes while keeping mum, even as he leaves back for the hostel.
Aug 12, 2008, 1:20 AM
‘None of us’, informs AG.
‘None’, confirms AB.
‘None?’ I protest.
None. As we sit rejected and dejected at the end of the entire process, I point out we’d have been better off kicked out after the first round of written itself. What fun is staying up this late, when they had made up their mind. My cumulative till the end of the penultimate round was ranked fourth, the placement council guys inform me. That should have seen me comfortably in; they took seventeen eventually. But no Production-guys. ‘Production sucks’, AG shouts as he kicks air. We are still there on the pavement, though not talking with each other any longer. The security guard asks if we made it, but quickly understood from our looks without us having to answer. Ten minutes later we’re still sitting there, an odd yawn breaking the gloomy silence. Suddenly the super seventeen storm out of the hall, all having their mobiles glued to their ears. A cacophony of ‘Oyeee!’, ‘I’ve got a job Dad!’, ‘(whispering giggles)’, ‘Party party’ etc are to be heard from all sides. We decide to get up and leave. Meanwhile, AB suggests we watch a movie to diverge our minds. We say yes, ok. AB has ‘Singh is Kinng’. Alright, our faces light up.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Speed
If there is scope, and you still don’t feel like changing the gear to overtake, there is something wrong with you. I know this, because something was wrong with me today, and strangely I didn’t feel like overtaking or over-speeding at all. One could argue – that’s no basis for the converse to be true too. But then didn’t I just tell you, something’s wrong.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Naukri and all
The long lazy holidays are drawing to a close. In some days, the placid afternoons I spend surfing the internet will be replaced by frantic placements activity. I just hope I get a decent job, most importantly because only getting a job will get my mind off getting a job. Belonging to quite an unenviable branch - Production and Industrial, in my case - has its own advantages. Most of us are conditioned to settle for less, not cry grouses at losing a fancy opportunity, knowing fully well that if it was so fancy, it wasn't meant for us in the first place. Among us, a major chunk gets placed in the first week itself because that's when the mass recruiters, who have a reputation for picking up every Tom, Dick and Harry (TDH), recruit. Personally, being no-topper at my no-great branch, the TDH offers are all that appear to be in reach, even if not comfortable reach, but yeah, reach nonetheless. This brings my mind to a widespread delusion that I see has inextricably become part of the archetypal I.I.T.(+) aspirant's thought-process (You know what the '+' stands for fully well). Having gone through the ordeal myself, I advise every one of them to go for the field they would love to go for, before the college they may pride themselves on going to.
Other than that, there's not much to write home about. Wait, I have some things to say about the Lok Sabha Debate, a couple of things about CAT and stuff, still some things about friends, and maybe I'd even want to sneak a few paragraphs about the latest movies I've seen - because I've seen quite a few lately, around 30 in the last 30 days. Just the thought of writing so much renders me too tired to try, so that's it.
Other than that, there's not much to write home about. Wait, I have some things to say about the Lok Sabha Debate, a couple of things about CAT and stuff, still some things about friends, and maybe I'd even want to sneak a few paragraphs about the latest movies I've seen - because I've seen quite a few lately, around 30 in the last 30 days. Just the thought of writing so much renders me too tired to try, so that's it.
Friday, July 4, 2008
हमारी मातृभाषा
बहुत दिनों से सोच रहा था की हिन्दी भाषा में कुछ लिखू। एक हिन्दी भाषी होने के नाते मुझे आभास होता रहता की मेरा कर्तव्य है की यदा-कदा ही सही मैं हिन्दी में लिखूं अवश्य। बस इसी उधेड़बुन में था की बरसो से हिन्दी छोड़ चुका मैं, क्या इस से न्याय कर पाउँगा ? फ़िर सोचता, की क्या रखा है इस न्याय आदि के आडम्बर में, प्रयत्न तो किया जाए। इसी बीच अमिताभ के ब्लॉग पर हिन्दी में एक लेख देख कर मेरा निश्चय ओर सशक्त हो गया।
हिन्दी की बात चली है तो सोचता हूँ अब इसी विषय पर थोड़ा विचार विमर्श किया जाए । विद्यालय के दिनों में मेरी हिन्दी में बहुत रूचि रही। इसका श्रेय मेरे नवी कक्षा के अध्यापक श्रीमान डॉक्टर अशोक कुमार ‘लव’ को जाता है। हिन्दी के निबंध ओर कहानियो को बड़ी सूक्ष्मता से समझाते हुए वे पूरा ध्यान इस बात का भी रखते थे की इसके गूढ़ पहलुओं को नज़रंदाज़ न किया जाए। उनकी इस शैली से मैं बहुत प्रभावित हुआ। आज भी उन बीतें दिनों को याद करता हूँ तो एक मुस्कान मेरे चेहरे पर एकाएक आ जाती है। हमारे अध्यापक होने के साथ साथ वे एक सिद्धहस्त कवि एवं लेखक भी थे। फ़िर यह तो स्वाभाविक ही है की हिन्दी साहित्य के अध्यन में उनके समान परिपक्वता शायद ही कोई ओर शिक्षक रखता हो। उन दिनों मुझे हिन्दी में लेख लिखने में बहुत आनंद आता था। प्रतिदिन घर लौटकर मैं कभी कवितायें लिखता तो कभी अपने एक महान लेखक बन्ने के सपने देखता। थोड़ा ओर बड़ा हुआ तो महसूस हुआ की हिन्दी के क्षेत्र में जाना यूँ तो मुझे खूब लुभाता लेकिन जीवन के निर्वाह के लिये आवश्यक पैसे शायद न आ पाते। ओर फिर मैं बचपन से ही, ज़्यादा तो नही, लेकिन थोड़ा महत्वकांक्षी अवश्य था। केवल निर्वाह मात्र मेरा लक्ष्य होता तो मैं खुशी खुशी उसी क्षेत्र में पाँव जमाता परन्तु ज़्यादा पैसा कमाने की लालसा कब हिन्दी प्रेम को पीछे धकेल कर मेरे ऊपर सवार हो गई पता नही चला।
आज देश में हिन्दी की स्थिति को देखकर दुःख भी होता है, पछतावा भी। दुःख इसलिए क्योंकि जिस देश की मात्रभाषा का गौरव पाने पर यह भाषा कभी इतराती होगी, उसी देश का एक बड़ा वर्ग आज इस भाषा से बंधन छोड़ चुका है। इससे ज़्यादा पीधित करता है यह सच की एक बड़ा, साख ओर रसूख वाला, अखबारों ओर परदे पर चकाचौंध से पेश किया जाने वाले लोगो का समूह हिन्दी में अपनी विफलता के बारे में बताते हुए मन ही मन आनंदित हो उठता है, ओर एक बेशर्म हसी इस विफलता पर नाज़ होने का सबूत देती है। धीरे धीरे ये विचार लोगों के मन में घर करता जा रहा है की समाज के ऊंचे पायदानों में उठाना बैठना है तो हिन्दी से किनारा कर लेने में ही भलाई है। अपने ही देश में हिन्दी की यह दुर्गति अत्यन्त चिंताजनक है, पर इसके लिए जिम्मेदार भी हम ही हैं। डर इस बात का नहीं है की हिन्दी समाप्त हो जायेगी – वो इसलिए की करोडो हिन्दी बोलने वालों के लिए अन्य भाषाओ से अवगत होने का कोई साधन है ही नही; परन्तु इतना अवश्य है की अच्छे साहित्य से हिन्दी वंचित रह जायेगी, जिसकी वह एक समय जननी हुआ करती थी। अंग्रेजी में तो आज भी बहतरीन साहित्य लिखा जा रहा है, लेकिन पशचिमिकरण की होड़ में हिन्दी साहित्य ने एक गहरी चोट ली है। ऐसे में भारत को चाहिए की वे फ्रांस ओर रशिया जैसे देशो से सीख ले, जो आज के विश्व्यापी अंग्रेजीकरण के बावजूद अपने साहित्य को संभाले ही नही हुए, अपितु उसे रोज़ नई ऊंचाइयो तक ले जाने के लिए प्रयासरत हैं।
जाते जाते अपने पसंदीदा कवि रामधारी सिंघ ‘दिनकर’ की कुछ पंक्तियों के साथ आज्ञा लेता हूँ। संयोग ही है, कि यूँ तो ये पंक्तियाँ कर्ण (महाभारत) के मुख से प्रस्तुत की गई हैं, लेकिन अपनी जड़ो से अनजान आज के भ्रमित युवा-वर्ग की व्यथा भी ये खूब सुनाती हैं। शायद उन्हें आने वाले कल का आभास हो चुका था ॥
मैं उनका आदर्श, कहीं जो व्यथा न खोल सकेंगे ।
पूछेगा जग उनसे, किंतु, पिता का न नाम न बोल सकेंगे ,
इस निखिल विश्व में जिनका कहीं कोई अपना न होगा ,
दिल में लिए उमंग जिन्हें चिर-काल कलपना होगा ....
पूछेगा जग उनसे, किंतु, पिता का न नाम न बोल सकेंगे ,
इस निखिल विश्व में जिनका कहीं कोई अपना न होगा ,
दिल में लिए उमंग जिन्हें चिर-काल कलपना होगा ....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)