I am not sure whether sitting in my hot room, with an upset stomach, sweating it out in front of the computer has something to do with it, but I am feeling miserable right now. I feel like beating myself up. For everything that is my life currently - for the people who are in it, for those who are not, for the work I have not been doing but I should be, for being where I am and for being where I am not. Sounds crazy?
I've been thinking lately (as if that is anything new) about what kind of a person I am. I mean I have all these people telling me good things about me. Then why I do not feel so good? I feel like it is all a big sham! It's just so hard to get me sometimes. Not for other people, because I usually simplify myself for others. But for myself I am this complex, confused, conflicted person. What is that supposed to mean?
Today, just a while ago, I talked. Talked, because I really, really wanted to. I can, when I stop trying, when I let go, when I am free. I was not sure what I would write about before I talked. Now I am not sure either, but my fingers seem to have borrowed somebody's thoughtful demeanour. They are merrily going clackety-clack on the keyboard. I would have written about the way I feel (or felt, or have been feeling), but I am not very sure about what I feel. So this is not a poem, and it is not a story. It is a snapshot of my current neural mess. Where is the objective me?
Lying beside me, on my study table, are two thick papers. "Spherical averages and applications to spherical splines and interpolation." I have to read that. On top of that is lying a half finished sketch. I have to finish that. I was staring at a girl yesterday. Actually, I was studying her walk cycle. It is a miracle I did not get hauled up by her. It is a miracle I have not crashed my car so far, because of wayward staring at this or that. I have just finished reading a most wonderful book. It is like the Alice in me has fallen through the rabbit hole. I will take you along, once I see the movie. I did see Mrs. Smith last week. Yes, only her, because that was pretty much it. Curious thing I noticed during the movie was that when the Mr. and Mrs. were beating each other up, their positions were similar to the ones when they were making love. Ah! I see now. They were not making love, they were having wild, passionate, sex. Oh well, guess people get to do that too. What do I get to do?
The real part of any non-trivial zero of the Riemann zeta function is 0.5. I was asked today whether I can write in plain English, without resorting to poetry or fiction to say what I want to say. Although I said I cannot, I think can. I can as clearly as the Riemann hypothesis can. But I was never very good at mathematics, so I guess all my proofs and conjectures will be wrong. But you can understand me, can't you?
What if I am asleep, when you pass me by? Or looking in another direction? If that be so, just walk up to me and give me a tight slap. I'll know you were searching as hard as I was. And then we would live happily ever after. I always knew life would be a fairy tale, did you?
If you are still reading this, do you know why?
Saturday, June 25, 2005
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Principles of Trust
In simple ways of a simple mind,
If an outstretched hand I find,
I'll lend you a arm to grab,
If you promise to let go when you are done.
If still I see a leaning soul,
I'll let me be a supporting wall,
And bear your head and heart alike,
If you promise to try and stand upright.
Suppose then you want me to lean instead,
And fall beside you on my head,
Maybe I'll tip a little slant,
If you promise to take my weight.
If I should trip and fall,
Find you with me to break my fall,
I'll never let you fall again,
If you promise to let me help always.
If I believe in you further still,
And you have stayed all they way uphill,
Beyond all doubt you shall have my faith,
If you give all this enough reason to be.
Further in as you venture heart,
And treat it like a precious art,
You can have my thinking cap,
If you will let me take my time,
Deepest in, if you take the chance,
Effort alike, when we dance,
Life itself is yours to take,
If you will put your life in me.
If all that is above is true,
Even when I swap me with you,
Constant across your time steps and mine,
Trust each other, we shall, finally.
If an outstretched hand I find,
I'll lend you a arm to grab,
If you promise to let go when you are done.
If still I see a leaning soul,
I'll let me be a supporting wall,
And bear your head and heart alike,
If you promise to try and stand upright.
Suppose then you want me to lean instead,
And fall beside you on my head,
Maybe I'll tip a little slant,
If you promise to take my weight.
If I should trip and fall,
Find you with me to break my fall,
I'll never let you fall again,
If you promise to let me help always.
If I believe in you further still,
And you have stayed all they way uphill,
Beyond all doubt you shall have my faith,
If you give all this enough reason to be.
Further in as you venture heart,
And treat it like a precious art,
You can have my thinking cap,
If you will let me take my time,
Deepest in, if you take the chance,
Effort alike, when we dance,
Life itself is yours to take,
If you will put your life in me.
If all that is above is true,
Even when I swap me with you,
Constant across your time steps and mine,
Trust each other, we shall, finally.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Proud Confessions
Ever since Teesta had joined his English class, Malay had been distracted. Not that he ever had good concentration. But now, when he was really trying to put up a good show, his mind would not stay put in one place. He had been caught gazing blankly at her in the last class, while the teacher was explaining Elizabeth's disapproval of Mr. Darcy. And of all the people who should turn back and look, Teesta! He thought she had smiled at him, but he was not very sure. He was not very sure about how she felt about him or even whether she felt anything at all.
He was a simple boy. Simple in thought. He could not think in convoluted ways, and had trouble handling more than one thought at a time. Thinking of her was a huge overload on his neural abilities. He could not handle the multitude of responses she evoked in him. She, however, seemed to be from another planet. Calm, confident, a very lucid speaker and she had a distinct halo about her. She had once said, "Hi" to him. He had stood there, fumbling, wanting to say something, anything. But all the words in the language, deserted him and ran for cover, the moment he saw her face.
"In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you." Malay was reading out loud in class. The teacher had made Teesta read out Elizabeth Bennet's lines, while he emulated Fitzwilliam Darcy. He was trying hard not to look at her. He could imagine the paint on the walls of the room in which they stood, the smell of the air filled with her perfume intertwined with the tension hanging in the air.
"But I cannot -- I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly." Teesta's voice rose and fell with the emotion she read out, and he could see her become Miss Bennet herself. She seemed cold, almost indifferent to his existence. The aloofness of her behaviour made him feel alone in the crowd of his class.
"And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected." He could not believe he had read that out. Malay could feel his heart throb a little faster. How could she? This was turning out to be most unfair. He wanted to protest, to tell her of every last morsel of feeling he felt for her.
"You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it." She spoke these words with such force, with such passion, with so much dislike. "From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike..."
"No! This is not me... not me... I like you so... so much"
Disclaimer: All portrayed events and characters are completely fictional and any similarity to real events and people, living or dead, is unintended and purely coincidental. Elizabeth Bennet, Fitzwilliam Darcy and their dialogues are borrowed from the Jane Austen classic Pride and Prejudice.
He was a simple boy. Simple in thought. He could not think in convoluted ways, and had trouble handling more than one thought at a time. Thinking of her was a huge overload on his neural abilities. He could not handle the multitude of responses she evoked in him. She, however, seemed to be from another planet. Calm, confident, a very lucid speaker and she had a distinct halo about her. She had once said, "Hi" to him. He had stood there, fumbling, wanting to say something, anything. But all the words in the language, deserted him and ran for cover, the moment he saw her face.
"In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you." Malay was reading out loud in class. The teacher had made Teesta read out Elizabeth Bennet's lines, while he emulated Fitzwilliam Darcy. He was trying hard not to look at her. He could imagine the paint on the walls of the room in which they stood, the smell of the air filled with her perfume intertwined with the tension hanging in the air.
"But I cannot -- I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly." Teesta's voice rose and fell with the emotion she read out, and he could see her become Miss Bennet herself. She seemed cold, almost indifferent to his existence. The aloofness of her behaviour made him feel alone in the crowd of his class.
"And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected." He could not believe he had read that out. Malay could feel his heart throb a little faster. How could she? This was turning out to be most unfair. He wanted to protest, to tell her of every last morsel of feeling he felt for her.
"You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it." She spoke these words with such force, with such passion, with so much dislike. "From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike..."
"No! This is not me... not me... I like you so... so much"
Disclaimer: All portrayed events and characters are completely fictional and any similarity to real events and people, living or dead, is unintended and purely coincidental. Elizabeth Bennet, Fitzwilliam Darcy and their dialogues are borrowed from the Jane Austen classic Pride and Prejudice.
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Get it?
If for my every tit, your every tat,
When I do this, if you do that,
Do you know, or you do know,
It rains when hot, and when cold, snow.
This is slow for every racing fast,
After you have whizzed by, it will last,
If you be me, and me be you instead,
Why have two colours, blue and red?
Confused, modest, convinced,
A few words should perhaps be minced,
Bordering sense, lies the non of it,
Ah! But it is mine in every bit.
Why explain what you can force,
Take the water to the horse,
Push and shove in a rowdy brawl,
What begets of the pride you maul?
Laughing so hard, and hard work pays,
If you believe what everyone says,
Then I am like your every future ex,
Desiring more, more desired sex.
Secrets to keep, why do you ask?
Beauty, deep skinned, skin deep mask,
Leave me standing on my knees,
Of poised pose, say "Cheese!"
When I do this, if you do that,
Do you know, or you do know,
It rains when hot, and when cold, snow.
This is slow for every racing fast,
After you have whizzed by, it will last,
If you be me, and me be you instead,
Why have two colours, blue and red?
Confused, modest, convinced,
A few words should perhaps be minced,
Bordering sense, lies the non of it,
Ah! But it is mine in every bit.
Why explain what you can force,
Take the water to the horse,
Push and shove in a rowdy brawl,
What begets of the pride you maul?
Laughing so hard, and hard work pays,
If you believe what everyone says,
Then I am like your every future ex,
Desiring more, more desired sex.
Secrets to keep, why do you ask?
Beauty, deep skinned, skin deep mask,
Leave me standing on my knees,
Of poised pose, say "Cheese!"
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Deconstruction et al.
This post was supposed to be Part II and reconstruction 101 all rolled into one. It was supposed to be about my (mis)adventures in shifting a home from one part of Delhi to another. It was supposed to be about a broken water connection, a conked out computer, a nail biting ride with the fridge on a truck at 6am, exhausted victory of having conquered such a mammoth task with a few breaths left to spare and finally a new bed. But I never knew that in the few days that I was going to be away from this blog, so much would happen.
Pyar mujh se jo kiya tumne to kya paogi,
Mere halaath ki aandhi mai bikhar jaogi,
Ranj aur dard ki basti ka mai bashinda hoon,
Yeh to bas main hoon ke is haal main bhi zinda hoon,
Khwab kyun dekhoon wo, kal jinpe mai sharminda hoon,
Mai jo sharminda hua tum bhi to sharmaogi...
My last post was a reflection of one of my low moods. I suck at goodbyes. Many people do, but not many people fall in love with their beds. It was not just that. It was a whole lot of inanimate, intangible things I left behind. Still more, as I wrote, it was about not being able to speak about things. Things I want to speak about but cannot. Agonizing? You bet it is. On the whole I was feeling quite miserable.
Yeh bata de mujhe zindagi, pyar ki raah ke humsafar
Kis tarah ban gaye ajnabee.
Yeh bata de mujhe zindagi, phool kyun saare murjha gaye,
Kis liye bujh gayee chandni.
Yeh bata de mujhe zindagi.
Kal jo bahon me thi, aur nigahon main thi,
Ab woh garmi kahan kho gayi?
Na woh andaaz hai, na woh aawaz hai,
Ab woh narmi kahan kho gayi?
It is almost a year since I started writing here, and it has been a wonderful experience. I had never imagined in my wildest dreams that I would be read by anyone, let alone be liked. I have had wonderful readers, and made some really cool friends. And I have written my heart out. I have. I have also read and commented on others' writings, and it has been a joy writing to every one of you. And it has become second nature to me now. If you've heard Henry Higgins sing "I've grown accustomed to her face", you know what I mean. So when I find that three blogs I used to read have recently stopped, it puts the monkey wrench in my machinery. For a guy who cannot let go of his old bed, letting go of such enticing daily reads is quite heart wrenching.
Jab saamne tum aa jaate ho, kya jaaniye kya ho jaata hai,
Kuch mil jaata hai, kuch kho jaata hai, kya jaaniye kya ho jaata hai,
Chaha tha yeh kahenge, socha tha woh kahenge,
Aaaye woh saamne to, kuch bhi na keh sake, Bas
dekha kiye unhe hum...
This post is for you.
Ae mere kagaz ke lafzon ki humraaz,
Baarish se bheege panno par,
Har khwab, har dard ki awaaz,
Ke intezaar mein, hamesha.
Pyar mujh se, Yeh bata and Jab Samne are all beautiful Jagjit Singh songs, which my computer played while I wrote this post. Songs speak a language which I do not always understand, but I felt they wanted to be a part of this post too.
Pyar mujh se jo kiya tumne to kya paogi,
Mere halaath ki aandhi mai bikhar jaogi,
Ranj aur dard ki basti ka mai bashinda hoon,
Yeh to bas main hoon ke is haal main bhi zinda hoon,
Khwab kyun dekhoon wo, kal jinpe mai sharminda hoon,
Mai jo sharminda hua tum bhi to sharmaogi...
My last post was a reflection of one of my low moods. I suck at goodbyes. Many people do, but not many people fall in love with their beds. It was not just that. It was a whole lot of inanimate, intangible things I left behind. Still more, as I wrote, it was about not being able to speak about things. Things I want to speak about but cannot. Agonizing? You bet it is. On the whole I was feeling quite miserable.
Yeh bata de mujhe zindagi, pyar ki raah ke humsafar
Kis tarah ban gaye ajnabee.
Yeh bata de mujhe zindagi, phool kyun saare murjha gaye,
Kis liye bujh gayee chandni.
Yeh bata de mujhe zindagi.
Kal jo bahon me thi, aur nigahon main thi,
Ab woh garmi kahan kho gayi?
Na woh andaaz hai, na woh aawaz hai,
Ab woh narmi kahan kho gayi?
It is almost a year since I started writing here, and it has been a wonderful experience. I had never imagined in my wildest dreams that I would be read by anyone, let alone be liked. I have had wonderful readers, and made some really cool friends. And I have written my heart out. I have. I have also read and commented on others' writings, and it has been a joy writing to every one of you. And it has become second nature to me now. If you've heard Henry Higgins sing "I've grown accustomed to her face", you know what I mean. So when I find that three blogs I used to read have recently stopped, it puts the monkey wrench in my machinery. For a guy who cannot let go of his old bed, letting go of such enticing daily reads is quite heart wrenching.
Jab saamne tum aa jaate ho, kya jaaniye kya ho jaata hai,
Kuch mil jaata hai, kuch kho jaata hai, kya jaaniye kya ho jaata hai,
Chaha tha yeh kahenge, socha tha woh kahenge,
Aaaye woh saamne to, kuch bhi na keh sake, Bas
dekha kiye unhe hum...
This post is for you.
Ae mere kagaz ke lafzon ki humraaz,
Baarish se bheege panno par,
Har khwab, har dard ki awaaz,
Ke intezaar mein, hamesha.
Pyar mujh se, Yeh bata and Jab Samne are all beautiful Jagjit Singh songs, which my computer played while I wrote this post. Songs speak a language which I do not always understand, but I felt they wanted to be a part of this post too.
Friday, June 10, 2005
Things that I can never write about
I cannot write how I feel,
Feel every unsaid word,
I cannot write what I think,
Think of one in many ways,
I cannot write why I hate,
Hate every other who ever is,
I cannot write why I stay,
Stay rooted, rotting inside.
I cannot write why me,
Me always, and never you,
I cannot write where I want to be,
Be with, and never without,
I cannot write in clear prose,
Prosaic fears of being understood,
I cannot write who is happy,
Happiness bereft of my presence,
I cannot write how I live,
Life knows not it lives within,
I cannot write when I am dark,
Dark around and lit inside,
I cannot write when I read,
Read lines of unfeeling text,
I cannot write when I jest,
Jester in a royal court,
I cannot write of who I seek,
Seek eternal to never find,
I cannot write where is peace,
Peace rests in mortal awe,
I cannot write of why I am far,
Far adrift is destiny's plan,
I cannot write what tells time,
Time's tale is not mine to tell,
I cannot write of anything inside,
Inside only echoes play,
I cannot write of when I leave
Leaving me behind with you,
I cannot write of my return,
Return the dead do not to life.
Feel every unsaid word,
I cannot write what I think,
Think of one in many ways,
I cannot write why I hate,
Hate every other who ever is,
I cannot write why I stay,
Stay rooted, rotting inside.
I cannot write why me,
Me always, and never you,
I cannot write where I want to be,
Be with, and never without,
I cannot write in clear prose,
Prosaic fears of being understood,
I cannot write who is happy,
Happiness bereft of my presence,
I cannot write how I live,
Life knows not it lives within,
I cannot write when I am dark,
Dark around and lit inside,
I cannot write when I read,
Read lines of unfeeling text,
I cannot write when I jest,
Jester in a royal court,
I cannot write of who I seek,
Seek eternal to never find,
I cannot write where is peace,
Peace rests in mortal awe,
I cannot write of why I am far,
Far adrift is destiny's plan,
I cannot write what tells time,
Time's tale is not mine to tell,
I cannot write of anything inside,
Inside only echoes play,
I cannot write of when I leave
Leaving me behind with you,
I cannot write of my return,
Return the dead do not to life.
Letting go
I was lying in a state of absolute bliss, on my bed. Now, now... Do not let your imagination fly. Stay with me. An engrossing novel in hand and a packet of biscuits lying carelessly somewhere beside me. And as I munched on, my cassette player decided to started playing...
To really love a woman,
To understand her,
You've got to know her deep inside...,
I just let the novel go, and I lay there. Letting go of every muscle of my body is so relaxing at times like this. And as I lay there, limp and helpless and exposed, I could feel the soft voice of Bryan Adams wash over me.
Hear every thought,
See every dream,
I was a little sad. This was the last night I was spending with her. The effeminate object of desire I am referring to here, is my dear bed. My mom tells me, when she got back from the hospital with `baby me' I was put on this bed. And I remember the first night I slept away from my parents (and that was way, way long back) I slept on this bed. I remember sleeping beside Nani on the bed as she read me stories from Phantom and Mandrake comic books. I must have read countless novels lying, curled up on her.
And give her wings when she wants to fly.
Then when you find yourself lying helpless in her arms ...
You know you really love a woman
She has been a constant companion in all my dreams. And she has seen me fall of her, while still sleeping. And she has shared my fantasies... Ahem! I must not get carried away on this topic.
When you love a woman,
You tell her that she's really wanted.
When you love a woman,
You tell her that she's the one.
She has seen me steal away in the middle of the night, to cook up a packet of Maggi in the kitchen for that yummy midnight snack. She has also seen me cry. I think, besides my parents perhaps, she is the only one who has. What a depressing thought!
To really love a woman,
Let her hold you,
Till you know how she needs to be touched.
You've got to breathe her, really taste her,
Till you can feel her in your blood.
Oh! Of course, how could I forget. She has watched me write, even a few of these posts, which I first wrote on paper. She has also suffered my out-of-tune guitar chords, and my bouts of drawing frenzy. And though she creaks every now and then, and sways a bit, she has borne my weight on her trusted wooden beams for so many years.
And when you find yourself lying helpless in her arms,
You know you really love a woman.
She has become a little creaky from hearing my monologues all the time. And I am sad to let her go. For a mere Rs. 200... Sold to someone in the neighbourhood, because there is no place to keep her in our new home. Because she is being replaced by younger pieces of furniture. I just hope she will make someone else just as happy as she made me. Sayonara, dear bed. May you always be slept upon with love...
So tell me have you ever really ... really, really ever loved a woman?
To really love a woman,
To understand her,
You've got to know her deep inside...,
I just let the novel go, and I lay there. Letting go of every muscle of my body is so relaxing at times like this. And as I lay there, limp and helpless and exposed, I could feel the soft voice of Bryan Adams wash over me.
Hear every thought,
See every dream,
I was a little sad. This was the last night I was spending with her. The effeminate object of desire I am referring to here, is my dear bed. My mom tells me, when she got back from the hospital with `baby me' I was put on this bed. And I remember the first night I slept away from my parents (and that was way, way long back) I slept on this bed. I remember sleeping beside Nani on the bed as she read me stories from Phantom and Mandrake comic books. I must have read countless novels lying, curled up on her.
And give her wings when she wants to fly.
Then when you find yourself lying helpless in her arms ...
You know you really love a woman
She has been a constant companion in all my dreams. And she has seen me fall of her, while still sleeping. And she has shared my fantasies... Ahem! I must not get carried away on this topic.
When you love a woman,
You tell her that she's really wanted.
When you love a woman,
You tell her that she's the one.
She has seen me steal away in the middle of the night, to cook up a packet of Maggi in the kitchen for that yummy midnight snack. She has also seen me cry. I think, besides my parents perhaps, she is the only one who has. What a depressing thought!
To really love a woman,
Let her hold you,
Till you know how she needs to be touched.
You've got to breathe her, really taste her,
Till you can feel her in your blood.
Oh! Of course, how could I forget. She has watched me write, even a few of these posts, which I first wrote on paper. She has also suffered my out-of-tune guitar chords, and my bouts of drawing frenzy. And though she creaks every now and then, and sways a bit, she has borne my weight on her trusted wooden beams for so many years.
And when you find yourself lying helpless in her arms,
You know you really love a woman.
She has become a little creaky from hearing my monologues all the time. And I am sad to let her go. For a mere Rs. 200... Sold to someone in the neighbourhood, because there is no place to keep her in our new home. Because she is being replaced by younger pieces of furniture. I just hope she will make someone else just as happy as she made me. Sayonara, dear bed. May you always be slept upon with love...
So tell me have you ever really ... really, really ever loved a woman?
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Shopping for pants
I was wandering with S at the Ansal Plaza. Loitering (in this `first' mall that we ever went to) is all we ever do here. Usually, that is. We had just had huge burgers at McDonald's and were feeling mighty pleased with ourselves. And so we went about gazing at windows of Lacoste, UC of Benetton's, Music World, Marks and Spencer and Planet Sports. S decided we should go CD hunting in Music World. So I followed him inside, and after a while he turned up raving about a combo CD he had found with Zeher and Dhoom songs. I picked up a Kaagaz Ke Phool vcd but kept it back after remembering the chaotic state of my home presently and the fact that my vcd player was in one home and my tv in another. Now, I was left feeling distinctly left out of this very rare shopping outing. I believe this low feeling is what gave me the idea to shop for a pair of pants as we passed by Shopper's Stop. That and the fact that the time was ripe to put my first five-year-plan about procuring much needed trousers into action.
So I dragged S with me, who could not believe I was willing to go shop of my own free will. After passing through sections selling watches, perfumes, cosmetics, belts, luggage we managed to clamber out of the first floor to the second. Now, as S has reminded me a hundred times, that the second floor is the ladies section, but my suicidal tendencies tend to drag me to that door, every time I climb those stairs. S, being the good friend that he is, managed to guide me to the third floor and we landed in a brightly lit hall, lined on both sides with stacks and stacks of denim pants.
I took a minute to breathe in the choices: Lee, Levi's, Wrangler, Pepe and perhaps a few more. A goofy looking chap with a huge grin turned up like djinn, "What are you looking for sir?" "Ah! well... I am just... browsing." He was suitably impressed with my answer and left me to my own designs. I saw straight, loose, bootcut, low waist, super low waist. S stood smiling, while I was trying to make up my mind about which of these made the most sense. A low waist was not a good idea. I have a bad habit of forgetting to put on my belt. That's when the low waist tends to go super low and whatever that ad on the tele shows (with the svelte examination invigilator checking for chits of paper in all the right places), I not a very have-it-so-flaunt-it kind of guy (primarily because I am not so sure of the have-it part). The chart showing the ladies fits had an ultra low too, and as I was checking out the model on the poster, the wide-grin-guy passed me giving me a even wider grin! Eeeks!
I quickly rectified my posture to a more dignified stand, and asked "Where can I see corduroys?" "Here sir, and here and there." "Thank you." S decided to intervene, "Abe tu kar kya raha hai?" I explained to him I had just remembered that I desperately needed a pair of black corduroys. "Excuse me, I want black corduroys, do you have those?" "Sirji, black...emmm." He made an expression which seemed to suggest I had just asked him the whereabouts of the treasure of the Templars. "Here sirji, this is it." With the enthusiasm of a greyhound returning a ball I had asked him to fetch, he handed me a Lee. I promptly unfolded the thing, and headed toward the changing rooms. There I saw a lady banging on the door of a changing room shouting "Does it fit? Show me!" I found the room which was farthest away from her and started... well... trying on. And what do I find? The very-eager-to-help chap had handed me a waist 28! Now, I am no in shape to compete in the Gladrags Manhunt, so I promptly went out and handed it back. S was fuming by now. It was already over an hour since I had started... browsing!
After much searching, I unearthed a Levi's corduroy in khaki. It was the perfect size, and when I tried it on, it felt just right. So I asked S, "How does this look?" "Hmmm theek hai. Will go with any dark t-shirt" Just to torture him a little, I randomly picked up another pair of washed out black jeans and asked "This or that." S gave me the most murderous of looks. I decided not to tempt fate any further and promptly walked off to the payment counter. Finally I came out of the store, the proud owner of a pair of khaki corduroys. I treated S to chocolate chip ice cream just to calm his nerves a little bit, and to complete this harrowing albeit perfect shopping experience.
And now for the next five years, shopping for pants goes right to the bottom of the todo list!
So I dragged S with me, who could not believe I was willing to go shop of my own free will. After passing through sections selling watches, perfumes, cosmetics, belts, luggage we managed to clamber out of the first floor to the second. Now, as S has reminded me a hundred times, that the second floor is the ladies section, but my suicidal tendencies tend to drag me to that door, every time I climb those stairs. S, being the good friend that he is, managed to guide me to the third floor and we landed in a brightly lit hall, lined on both sides with stacks and stacks of denim pants.
I took a minute to breathe in the choices: Lee, Levi's, Wrangler, Pepe and perhaps a few more. A goofy looking chap with a huge grin turned up like djinn, "What are you looking for sir?" "Ah! well... I am just... browsing." He was suitably impressed with my answer and left me to my own designs. I saw straight, loose, bootcut, low waist, super low waist. S stood smiling, while I was trying to make up my mind about which of these made the most sense. A low waist was not a good idea. I have a bad habit of forgetting to put on my belt. That's when the low waist tends to go super low and whatever that ad on the tele shows (with the svelte examination invigilator checking for chits of paper in all the right places), I not a very have-it-so-flaunt-it kind of guy (primarily because I am not so sure of the have-it part). The chart showing the ladies fits had an ultra low too, and as I was checking out the model on the poster, the wide-grin-guy passed me giving me a even wider grin! Eeeks!
I quickly rectified my posture to a more dignified stand, and asked "Where can I see corduroys?" "Here sir, and here and there." "Thank you." S decided to intervene, "Abe tu kar kya raha hai?" I explained to him I had just remembered that I desperately needed a pair of black corduroys. "Excuse me, I want black corduroys, do you have those?" "Sirji, black...emmm." He made an expression which seemed to suggest I had just asked him the whereabouts of the treasure of the Templars. "Here sirji, this is it." With the enthusiasm of a greyhound returning a ball I had asked him to fetch, he handed me a Lee. I promptly unfolded the thing, and headed toward the changing rooms. There I saw a lady banging on the door of a changing room shouting "Does it fit? Show me!" I found the room which was farthest away from her and started... well... trying on. And what do I find? The very-eager-to-help chap had handed me a waist 28! Now, I am no in shape to compete in the Gladrags Manhunt, so I promptly went out and handed it back. S was fuming by now. It was already over an hour since I had started... browsing!
After much searching, I unearthed a Levi's corduroy in khaki. It was the perfect size, and when I tried it on, it felt just right. So I asked S, "How does this look?" "Hmmm theek hai. Will go with any dark t-shirt" Just to torture him a little, I randomly picked up another pair of washed out black jeans and asked "This or that." S gave me the most murderous of looks. I decided not to tempt fate any further and promptly walked off to the payment counter. Finally I came out of the store, the proud owner of a pair of khaki corduroys. I treated S to chocolate chip ice cream just to calm his nerves a little bit, and to complete this harrowing albeit perfect shopping experience.
And now for the next five years, shopping for pants goes right to the bottom of the todo list!
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Little old me!
Forever, if I live in the question of my child, I can
Be young eternal, and fly out the window with Peter Pan.
I was walking to my car in the parking lot, talking to myself. I do that. In fact I do it quite often. So much so that the guard at the parking lot has long stopped staring at me (on an entirely side note: I've been drawing a lot of stares from much feminine quarters lately, but my theories on that are too outrageous to write here). I heard my precious ride-in-white scream out, "There you are! Are you out of your mind? Parking me like this, out in the hot sun. Couldn't you have found a place in the shade somewhere? How selfish of you... Look at my paint.. I look double my age already." "Ah! My dear, my dear. You know how it is with me. It is more out of forgetfulness, than selfishness, that I mistreat you so." I discovered the gross inadequacy of my answer when I had (or rather my bum had) to suffer a scorching car seat for the next 30 minutes. Imagine my state of heated distress. Or rather don't. I am going to tax your imagination a lot more in the latter half of this galloping-wild-horse of a write up.
It was turning out to be a boring, hot evening. So I decided to play couch potato to the last `o' and firmly established myself in front of the telly. It was then that I caught, between my innumerable channel-changing remote clicks, Finding Neverland on Star Movies. Now, I had already seen the movie at the cinema. And I had felt something which I wanted to write about, but it got pushed back into one of those drawers of my mind. You know, the one on the back of the highest, dustiest shelf of the cabinet, where I keep all my precious stuff. I remember having read Peter Pan for the -forgotten-again- time and thinking, "What is it that I cannot put my finger on here?" So I watched the movie again. And it tugged so hard at my chest of drawers that the whole cabinet came tumbling down on me.
I saw my shadow snicker at me as I sat massaging the bump on my head. Oow! That hurt. But I found in J.M.Barrie's (played marvelously Johnny Depp) tale with the Davies family the most exciting thing of all. I found my lost memory. I also found an enchanted looking Kate Winslet, but that is not for children to know. In pirates, and mermaids, and fairies, and crocodiles, I lost myself for some time in Neverland. The story had an undercurrent of melancholy somewhere, and it almost became a mirror to my life for a few seconds on that account. Besides that it was a whole lot of fun. Fun to discover that the inspiration behind the most wonderful of characters, was a child. Yes, I know that is the case with most things wonderful, but there are those complex things like love and feelings which also tend to inspire people at times.
Peter Pan. The boy who never grows up. Some may see him as one who is a deserter, shirking from responsibility, running away from growing up! But that's like saying one doesn't believe in fairies (and we mustn't say such silly things!). Peter is the unconquerable spirit of youth, who believes his world to life. A world of make believe, you say. A world made out of beliefs, I see. True beliefs. Innocent beliefs. Unconditional beliefs. Belief that something magical like a happy thought will make you fly towards `second to the right and then straight on till morning.' Belief that a fairy is born every time a baby laughs.
And Peter loved Wendy. He still loves Wendy. And every Wendy loves Peter too. I should not get mushy about such stuff, what being a boy and all, but I am under the influence of fairy dust right now and cannot be held responsible for this. Everybody who thinks I am being crazy here, raise your hands. Oh! Don't bother. It is going to get worse.
I tried changing the channel once during a commercial break, to find Ash doing the item number from Bunty aur Babli (for the uninitiated that is Ms. Aishwarya very-gorgeous Rai I am talking about, and Bunty aur Babli is a brand new Hindi movie... err.. just do not ask me to explain what an item number is). The point to all this is, hormonal urges not withstanding I found myself changing the channel back to catch the end of the movie. A movie I had already seen before! But just to see the eyes of that boy again, was reward enough. I see things which half scare me to death sometimes, but at other times I see things which make me really, really happy to be able to. Able to see, I mean.
If you still have not got what I am trying to say, I must confess I am a terrible writer. I did not think, while writing this up. Because I was afraid thinking might ruin it, and so this piece is a bit here and a bit there. If you did get what I said, you are much better off than me, because I haven't been able to make sense of this at all.
I had put my mp3 player into shuffle mode, before I started writing this post. And now it is playing this Savage Garden track:
I knew I loved you before I met you
I think I dreamed you into life.
Imagine!
Be young eternal, and fly out the window with Peter Pan.
I was walking to my car in the parking lot, talking to myself. I do that. In fact I do it quite often. So much so that the guard at the parking lot has long stopped staring at me (on an entirely side note: I've been drawing a lot of stares from much feminine quarters lately, but my theories on that are too outrageous to write here). I heard my precious ride-in-white scream out, "There you are! Are you out of your mind? Parking me like this, out in the hot sun. Couldn't you have found a place in the shade somewhere? How selfish of you... Look at my paint.. I look double my age already." "Ah! My dear, my dear. You know how it is with me. It is more out of forgetfulness, than selfishness, that I mistreat you so." I discovered the gross inadequacy of my answer when I had (or rather my bum had) to suffer a scorching car seat for the next 30 minutes. Imagine my state of heated distress. Or rather don't. I am going to tax your imagination a lot more in the latter half of this galloping-wild-horse of a write up.
It was turning out to be a boring, hot evening. So I decided to play couch potato to the last `o' and firmly established myself in front of the telly. It was then that I caught, between my innumerable channel-changing remote clicks, Finding Neverland on Star Movies. Now, I had already seen the movie at the cinema. And I had felt something which I wanted to write about, but it got pushed back into one of those drawers of my mind. You know, the one on the back of the highest, dustiest shelf of the cabinet, where I keep all my precious stuff. I remember having read Peter Pan for the -forgotten-again- time and thinking, "What is it that I cannot put my finger on here?" So I watched the movie again. And it tugged so hard at my chest of drawers that the whole cabinet came tumbling down on me.
I saw my shadow snicker at me as I sat massaging the bump on my head. Oow! That hurt. But I found in J.M.Barrie's (played marvelously Johnny Depp) tale with the Davies family the most exciting thing of all. I found my lost memory. I also found an enchanted looking Kate Winslet, but that is not for children to know. In pirates, and mermaids, and fairies, and crocodiles, I lost myself for some time in Neverland. The story had an undercurrent of melancholy somewhere, and it almost became a mirror to my life for a few seconds on that account. Besides that it was a whole lot of fun. Fun to discover that the inspiration behind the most wonderful of characters, was a child. Yes, I know that is the case with most things wonderful, but there are those complex things like love and feelings which also tend to inspire people at times.
Peter Pan. The boy who never grows up. Some may see him as one who is a deserter, shirking from responsibility, running away from growing up! But that's like saying one doesn't believe in fairies (and we mustn't say such silly things!). Peter is the unconquerable spirit of youth, who believes his world to life. A world of make believe, you say. A world made out of beliefs, I see. True beliefs. Innocent beliefs. Unconditional beliefs. Belief that something magical like a happy thought will make you fly towards `second to the right and then straight on till morning.' Belief that a fairy is born every time a baby laughs.
And Peter loved Wendy. He still loves Wendy. And every Wendy loves Peter too. I should not get mushy about such stuff, what being a boy and all, but I am under the influence of fairy dust right now and cannot be held responsible for this. Everybody who thinks I am being crazy here, raise your hands. Oh! Don't bother. It is going to get worse.
I tried changing the channel once during a commercial break, to find Ash doing the item number from Bunty aur Babli (for the uninitiated that is Ms. Aishwarya very-gorgeous Rai I am talking about, and Bunty aur Babli is a brand new Hindi movie... err.. just do not ask me to explain what an item number is). The point to all this is, hormonal urges not withstanding I found myself changing the channel back to catch the end of the movie. A movie I had already seen before! But just to see the eyes of that boy again, was reward enough. I see things which half scare me to death sometimes, but at other times I see things which make me really, really happy to be able to. Able to see, I mean.
If you still have not got what I am trying to say, I must confess I am a terrible writer. I did not think, while writing this up. Because I was afraid thinking might ruin it, and so this piece is a bit here and a bit there. If you did get what I said, you are much better off than me, because I haven't been able to make sense of this at all.
I had put my mp3 player into shuffle mode, before I started writing this post. And now it is playing this Savage Garden track:
I knew I loved you before I met you
I think I dreamed you into life.
Imagine!
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Incandescent Inside
Burning steel on baking earth
Molten silver slashing the crusted pallour
Winds of flame scorch a wooden hearth
Leaves ablaze with furious valour.
Withering mirages, like a desert art
Dissolve in wisps of smoke and dust
Vehement shame of a scoffed at heart
Caustic scabs, courtesy a breached trust.
Scathing pyres of murdered spirit
Conflagrant waves of canicular days
Choices, dictating a purgatory visit
Cindered remains hanging in a scalding haze.
Molten silver slashing the crusted pallour
Winds of flame scorch a wooden hearth
Leaves ablaze with furious valour.
Withering mirages, like a desert art
Dissolve in wisps of smoke and dust
Vehement shame of a scoffed at heart
Caustic scabs, courtesy a breached trust.
Scathing pyres of murdered spirit
Conflagrant waves of canicular days
Choices, dictating a purgatory visit
Cindered remains hanging in a scalding haze.
Monday, May 30, 2005
Forgotten
Winding roads of cobbled stone,
Jaded memories of aging minds,
Dormant earth of valiant lands,
Searching eyes of innocent faces,
Entrancing music of distant love,
Kindred touch of placid hands,
Ebbing cries of wounded flesh,
Spring beauty of virgin flowers,
Parched grains of desert sands,
Applauding many of victory sweet,
Poisoned trust of a betraying kiss,
Burning touch of acid rain,
Lost company of a mocking bird,
Calm tempest of serene seas,
Warm embrace of smiling luck,
Sensuous trance of passionate art,
Mistral touch of burning lust,
Breaking waves of tumultuous thought,
Trembling steel of young courage,
Elysian fields of mystic dreams,
Unworthy wants of defenseless hearts,
Chiming bells of a divine call,
Eloping hope of a binary life,
Haloed realms of an intimate elite.
Jaded memories of aging minds,
Dormant earth of valiant lands,
Searching eyes of innocent faces,
Entrancing music of distant love,
Kindred touch of placid hands,
Ebbing cries of wounded flesh,
Spring beauty of virgin flowers,
Parched grains of desert sands,
Applauding many of victory sweet,
Poisoned trust of a betraying kiss,
Burning touch of acid rain,
Lost company of a mocking bird,
Calm tempest of serene seas,
Warm embrace of smiling luck,
Sensuous trance of passionate art,
Mistral touch of burning lust,
Breaking waves of tumultuous thought,
Trembling steel of young courage,
Elysian fields of mystic dreams,
Unworthy wants of defenseless hearts,
Chiming bells of a divine call,
Eloping hope of a binary life,
Haloed realms of an intimate elite.
Friday, May 27, 2005
I failed
I do not exactly feel like writing. And I do not feel like doing anything else either. Reason? Well, there are many. Foremost among them is the fact that my confidence in me has taken a severe beating recently. I am amazed as to how each time I think I will crack, I am left standing. Looks like I am growing resilient to... failure. Failure to do what, you may ask? This is where it gets complicated. Let's try to analyze this.
Yesterday, class X results came out. Boards... groan! I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, every time I hear anything about them. If you are thinking I failed mine... I didn't. Whew! But that's besides the point. One of my father's colleagues called to tell us that his son had got 93% marks. The boy, well I know him a little bit, has... a wild streak. So everybody is relieved that he has done well. Really, really well. Then I hear something like, "If he can keep this up in 11th and 12th, then he's ..." I do not want to hear the rest of that sentence. Why? Because the moment I heard that, I thought, "Poor boy! Now he's burdened for life. He'll not have a clue where his life will go during the next two years." Its like if you do well once, you have to keep doing well. Or if you fail once, you can never succeed again. If only the Sith deal in absolutes, everybody seems to have succumbed to the dark side.
Does anybody care how much work anybody puts into a thing? Suppose a boy who has studied hard all semester, fails to do the exam right. It can happen, I've seen it happen. Is it not wrong to label the boy a failure? What of all the work that he did? You might say that a stupid exam does not matter, and if the boy has learnt then nothing else matters either. That may be right. But ask that boy how he feels when he sees his marks. This is not about an exam, in case everybody is wondering what I am rambling about. Its about seeing something you gave your life to, broken. Broken by those, who do not have a right to break it, but have the power to do so.
The whole thing is skewed. Why am not what I am without any success or failure? Why am I not sure about myself? I hate being unsure. I hate the fact that somebody else's opinion of my work matters so much in my life. I feel helpless. This ought to crack anybody, ain't it?
Then why am I still standing? I am standing because I see around me people to whom I am me. Me, without what I know, without what I can do, without what I can achieve. Just me. I see around me people who still trust me, more than I trust myself. I see people around me who stand by me as friends and family. So maybe... maybe the light side of the force still has a chance.
I like this poem by Kipling. It says a lot better, what I would want to say:
If - Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream -- and not make dreams your master,
If you can think -- and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings -- nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And -- which is more -- you'll be a Man, my son!
I've been wandering all over the place while writing about this. And I do not know if I made any sense or not, but I know I am trying, And I'll keep on trying... trying sincerely, faithfully and with everything I've got. I do not know any other way to get over this.
Yesterday, class X results came out. Boards... groan! I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, every time I hear anything about them. If you are thinking I failed mine... I didn't. Whew! But that's besides the point. One of my father's colleagues called to tell us that his son had got 93% marks. The boy, well I know him a little bit, has... a wild streak. So everybody is relieved that he has done well. Really, really well. Then I hear something like, "If he can keep this up in 11th and 12th, then he's ..." I do not want to hear the rest of that sentence. Why? Because the moment I heard that, I thought, "Poor boy! Now he's burdened for life. He'll not have a clue where his life will go during the next two years." Its like if you do well once, you have to keep doing well. Or if you fail once, you can never succeed again. If only the Sith deal in absolutes, everybody seems to have succumbed to the dark side.
Does anybody care how much work anybody puts into a thing? Suppose a boy who has studied hard all semester, fails to do the exam right. It can happen, I've seen it happen. Is it not wrong to label the boy a failure? What of all the work that he did? You might say that a stupid exam does not matter, and if the boy has learnt then nothing else matters either. That may be right. But ask that boy how he feels when he sees his marks. This is not about an exam, in case everybody is wondering what I am rambling about. Its about seeing something you gave your life to, broken. Broken by those, who do not have a right to break it, but have the power to do so.
The whole thing is skewed. Why am not what I am without any success or failure? Why am I not sure about myself? I hate being unsure. I hate the fact that somebody else's opinion of my work matters so much in my life. I feel helpless. This ought to crack anybody, ain't it?
Then why am I still standing? I am standing because I see around me people to whom I am me. Me, without what I know, without what I can do, without what I can achieve. Just me. I see around me people who still trust me, more than I trust myself. I see people around me who stand by me as friends and family. So maybe... maybe the light side of the force still has a chance.
I like this poem by Kipling. It says a lot better, what I would want to say:
If - Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream -- and not make dreams your master,
If you can think -- and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings -- nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And -- which is more -- you'll be a Man, my son!
I've been wandering all over the place while writing about this. And I do not know if I made any sense or not, but I know I am trying, And I'll keep on trying... trying sincerely, faithfully and with everything I've got. I do not know any other way to get over this.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Hello?
A solitary telephone booth stands,
An oasis amongst dreary urban sands.
Oh! I cannot wait to call you, anymore,
To tell you, what I now know in my heart, for sure.
Just three coins in my purse, I dial,
Calling out to you from this iron isle,
A dial tone, a phone ring, a heart beat away,
Many things, so many many things, I want to say.
Hello? Can I speak to...,
Please, please, put the call through,
I have to tell you, I want to spend,
My life with you, till the very end.
Can you hear me? Hello?,
Listen to me... this you've got to know,
One coin in, only one more,
Talk to me, wait, I implore.
The call counter ticked out first,
Or did she hang up, which is worst?
All my coins eaten by Bell's child,
I go back, forlorn, into the deserted wild.
An oasis amongst dreary urban sands.
Oh! I cannot wait to call you, anymore,
To tell you, what I now know in my heart, for sure.
Just three coins in my purse, I dial,
Calling out to you from this iron isle,
A dial tone, a phone ring, a heart beat away,
Many things, so many many things, I want to say.
Hello? Can I speak to...,
Please, please, put the call through,
I have to tell you, I want to spend,
My life with you, till the very end.
Can you hear me? Hello?,
Listen to me... this you've got to know,
One coin in, only one more,
Talk to me, wait, I implore.
The call counter ticked out first,
Or did she hang up, which is worst?
All my coins eaten by Bell's child,
I go back, forlorn, into the deserted wild.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Tolerance
We, humans, are a pathetic lot,
With prejudices our minds are fraught,
One land, one air, one water, we get,
One life to live, have not learnt to stay one yet.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Maybe
Suparna was coming for dinner. Tonight, after so long. It had been almost three years since he had last seen her. Shashank was busy preparing dinner. He had taken extra care to chop the spring onions just right, and was now sautéing it in oil seasoned with some mustard seeds. He smiled, thinking "the last time I asked her home, for dinner, I only knew how to make Maggi." That had been some dinner, and he had almost told her how he felt. Almost. He added the spices - some cumin seeds, dry coconut powder, a few red chillies and continued to stir. He had sat across the dinner table, mesmerized, by her every action. He added a dash of salt. She had worn an elegant black crepe dress. "Your cooking is out of this world Shashank!" He could still hear her laughter, ringing in his ears. He emptied the bowl of cooked rice into the pan and mixed the two up nicely. "Ah! This is done. Now for the chicken."
He had shopped for an hour that evening for the ingredients. After a tiring meeting with the clients, he was drained of all energy. But the prospect of getting to see her again had been enough to make him walk all the way to the market on a scorching summer evening. He mixed the cornstarch, chicken broth, honey and mustard and stirred a little. She had spoken, suddenly, "Shashank, I have got admission into Havard, for the MBA program. I am leaving tomorrow night." "Oh! That's great. Congrats! You have been working towards that for a long time. I am very happy for you." He had been happy, and he had been sad. He was now sautéing the chicken breasts in butter. She had kept in touch, writing occasional letters and emails. In the last letter she had written to him that she was getting engaged.
The chicken turned brownish. He added the cornstarch mixture, and continued cooking it. "If only I had... Now it is too late." The gravy soon thickened, and came to a boil. "Done." He turned the burner off. He went to the room, and began arranging things on the dining table. "I should have told her that night." Two candles, two crystal glasses, a bottle of white wine, and his solitary bone china dinner set. He placed everything precisely in its place, dressing up the table to perfection. "Maybe... She has never met this guy she is getting engaged to. Maybe it's because her parents... Maybe" He placed the food on the table. He had always had trouble speaking his mind. And he had never spoken his heart. Not ever. "Oh, but I must tonight. I must tell her."
The door bell rang.
Disclaimer: All portrayed events and characters are completely fictional and any similarity to real events and people, living or dead, is unintended and purely coincidental.
He had shopped for an hour that evening for the ingredients. After a tiring meeting with the clients, he was drained of all energy. But the prospect of getting to see her again had been enough to make him walk all the way to the market on a scorching summer evening. He mixed the cornstarch, chicken broth, honey and mustard and stirred a little. She had spoken, suddenly, "Shashank, I have got admission into Havard, for the MBA program. I am leaving tomorrow night." "Oh! That's great. Congrats! You have been working towards that for a long time. I am very happy for you." He had been happy, and he had been sad. He was now sautéing the chicken breasts in butter. She had kept in touch, writing occasional letters and emails. In the last letter she had written to him that she was getting engaged.
The chicken turned brownish. He added the cornstarch mixture, and continued cooking it. "If only I had... Now it is too late." The gravy soon thickened, and came to a boil. "Done." He turned the burner off. He went to the room, and began arranging things on the dining table. "I should have told her that night." Two candles, two crystal glasses, a bottle of white wine, and his solitary bone china dinner set. He placed everything precisely in its place, dressing up the table to perfection. "Maybe... She has never met this guy she is getting engaged to. Maybe it's because her parents... Maybe" He placed the food on the table. He had always had trouble speaking his mind. And he had never spoken his heart. Not ever. "Oh, but I must tonight. I must tell her."
The door bell rang.
Disclaimer: All portrayed events and characters are completely fictional and any similarity to real events and people, living or dead, is unintended and purely coincidental.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Deconstructing a home - Part 1
Moving a home is a nightmarish experience. But it is also an inevitable occurrence in the life of an individual. Hence, I guess it had to happen in mine. The first time we moved was two and half years back, after staying in one house for twenty three years. That was hard. Very hard. Because other than the fact that twenty three years of staying put in one place allowed my family to pile up a lot (a very huge lot too) of `stuff' (everything from a collection of Campa Cola bottle caps to an assorted set of sewing machine needles), it also allowed us to breathe life into every brick of that building. That was house where I was born and raised into my present (very confused) self, so you can guess why it was heart wrenching to let go. But we just had to move to a new house, and I lived through the change, somehow.
Life got messed up for a few days in our new house, but soon it found its rigmarole equilibrium where it has stayed for the past two and a half years. Ah! But change, you see, is forever. Or said less dramatically, things always change. So, the breaking news at this hour is that my home is changing again. For several days now, I have been packing books, clothes, books, my toy car collection, books, utensils, books, the television, books, the music system, books... You get the general idea. My house has been getting stacked up, from the floor to the roof, with rows upon rows of very-boring-looking brown cardboard boxes, all tightly sealed with equally boring-but-sturdy-looking tape.
A bright Saturday morning, this weekend, heralded the beginning of the first war. The truck with the movers arrived at 5:15 am. Since trucks are not allowed to ply inside Delhi city limits from 8am to 11 am, `Operation MoveTreeHouse' had to be timed to perfection. The movers got on the job promptly, and out went the sofa, an assortment of cushions, a pastis of cardboard boxes, a medley of book shelves, one humongous divan and my dear bed. Various mattresses, pillows, bed sheets were rolled together into being strange bedfellows. The movers were a set of four marvelous chaps, who managed to get all this done within an hour.
I rode inside the truck, with the movers, all the while praying that they do not get fined for trying to win a formula one grand prix on the Delhi Ring Road. Another hour saw us standing in front of our new house. This one happens to be more near the roof of the building than the ground, so moving all the stuff upstairs was going to be tedious. But when god calls somebody nearer (about four floors nearer to be exact), he sends his angels to help you on the way! Those movers were either a divine gift, or androids from the 24th century. If ever I saw the tenacity of human spirit triumph over gravity it was then. They moved every single bit of load, up, to the house, almost without a single scratch. Ecstatic and I guess, more relieved than anything else, Dad gave those movers a few hundred bucks more, over and above their due charges. With everybody happy and content (and that's really rare), we were back home (err... Which home is this now? This is getting confusing) by 9 am.
Ok! So I moved my home, but then why is this part one? Because that was only half of the stuff moved from the old (albeit current) home, and none of the stuff placed properly in-place in the new one. Somebody dropped in, after we came back, to illuminate us on the hazards of moving a refrigerator incorrectly. Apparently, if you tilt it more than 45 degrees to either side, the compressor oil overflows (or something like it) and ruins it ! Based on this and other sundry pieces of information, I anticipate there is going to me enough masala for part two. And since I am too tired to even talk about rest of the weekend, I'll call it a day for today.
Life got messed up for a few days in our new house, but soon it found its rigmarole equilibrium where it has stayed for the past two and a half years. Ah! But change, you see, is forever. Or said less dramatically, things always change. So, the breaking news at this hour is that my home is changing again. For several days now, I have been packing books, clothes, books, my toy car collection, books, utensils, books, the television, books, the music system, books... You get the general idea. My house has been getting stacked up, from the floor to the roof, with rows upon rows of very-boring-looking brown cardboard boxes, all tightly sealed with equally boring-but-sturdy-looking tape.
A bright Saturday morning, this weekend, heralded the beginning of the first war. The truck with the movers arrived at 5:15 am. Since trucks are not allowed to ply inside Delhi city limits from 8am to 11 am, `Operation MoveTreeHouse' had to be timed to perfection. The movers got on the job promptly, and out went the sofa, an assortment of cushions, a pastis of cardboard boxes, a medley of book shelves, one humongous divan and my dear bed. Various mattresses, pillows, bed sheets were rolled together into being strange bedfellows. The movers were a set of four marvelous chaps, who managed to get all this done within an hour.
I rode inside the truck, with the movers, all the while praying that they do not get fined for trying to win a formula one grand prix on the Delhi Ring Road. Another hour saw us standing in front of our new house. This one happens to be more near the roof of the building than the ground, so moving all the stuff upstairs was going to be tedious. But when god calls somebody nearer (about four floors nearer to be exact), he sends his angels to help you on the way! Those movers were either a divine gift, or androids from the 24th century. If ever I saw the tenacity of human spirit triumph over gravity it was then. They moved every single bit of load, up, to the house, almost without a single scratch. Ecstatic and I guess, more relieved than anything else, Dad gave those movers a few hundred bucks more, over and above their due charges. With everybody happy and content (and that's really rare), we were back home (err... Which home is this now? This is getting confusing) by 9 am.
Ok! So I moved my home, but then why is this part one? Because that was only half of the stuff moved from the old (albeit current) home, and none of the stuff placed properly in-place in the new one. Somebody dropped in, after we came back, to illuminate us on the hazards of moving a refrigerator incorrectly. Apparently, if you tilt it more than 45 degrees to either side, the compressor oil overflows (or something like it) and ruins it ! Based on this and other sundry pieces of information, I anticipate there is going to me enough masala for part two. And since I am too tired to even talk about rest of the weekend, I'll call it a day for today.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Inadequate
Angry, ashamed, helpless,
Life, looking lifeless.
Savage outrage,
Debauched rampage,
Innocence crushed,
Free speech hushed.
Cold, absurd, hate,
Life, in a checkmate.
Purchased alliance,
Staged defiance,
Phobic reaction,
Fatal attraction.
Greedy, selfish, warfare,
Life, a living nightmare.
Fissile motives,
Nonextant natives,
Unceasing torment,
Nations fragment.
Merciless, scavenging, unfed,
Life, of the living dead.
Life, looking lifeless.
Savage outrage,
Debauched rampage,
Innocence crushed,
Free speech hushed.
Cold, absurd, hate,
Life, in a checkmate.
Purchased alliance,
Staged defiance,
Phobic reaction,
Fatal attraction.
Greedy, selfish, warfare,
Life, a living nightmare.
Fissile motives,
Nonextant natives,
Unceasing torment,
Nations fragment.
Merciless, scavenging, unfed,
Life, of the living dead.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Intersections
We had been badgering L for a treat, primarily because nobody had anything better to do. L decided to graciously oblige on Friday (he called it the `treat for unknown reasons') and invited all of us for dinner at Andhra Pradesh Bhawan. The usual delays happened while M got her kids ready, and V asked P (her husband) whether they are joining in the treat or not, who in turn asked V again the same thing. Everyone included, there were nine of us and the kids. A half an hour drive got us to A.P. Bhawan, where we had our Rs.50-all-you-can-eat thalis. There was dal, rice, chappatis, halwa, two vegetable dishes, curd and some of us also ordered some chicken dishes (which of course cost extra).
I started eating with a spoon, and soon spotted L merrily delving into heaps of rice with his hand. He gave me a knowing smile and said `Do you use a spoon at home?' I do not, and I saw the point. I was with friends. I could act like myself (carving out chicken pieces with a knife n fork is so "not-me"). I looked around, everybody - even V's cute little daughter, shared my world and made it that little bit more special. As S enlightened everybody with his theory of super compression, I saw the candour and gay abandon with which everyone behaved. We all waited until V finished the last morsel of food on her plate, as she has a strict no-food-goes-waste policy. After which, battling bits of chicken stuck between my teeth, I followed my friends on walk under the stars to the India Gate. Ice cream from one of the numerous ice cream carts parked all around India Gate was the cherry on this cake of an evening.
Saturday morning had me running around with Dad, trying to get this and that done, when B called, asking if I was free to join him for a trip to Gurgaon. Engrossed in the call, I locked my car keys inside the car, which cost me an hour's round trip home, on bus and on foot, to fetch the duplicate keys. With all chores done, B picked me up from home and we reached Gurgaon in an hour. There we paid a visit to G. Amongst 14-20 story high-rises and very chick malls, Gurgaon seemed... different. G's home is on the seventh floor of one of these high-rises, whose top floor houses a couple of penthouses. I paid a visit to one of these, and I'll not say anything more about that.
After wandering around a mall with B and G for an hour, acting mostly like juvenile teenagers, I suddenly came to the conclusion I am blessed. B and G are my childhood buddies, from school. They probably knew my every surprise reaction to their every frivolous action, by now. Moreover, they too shared my world. I am sure the honour, and the good luck is all mine. For lunch, we gorged on Pizza Hut pizzas. Then I freaked out at a bookstore spending way too much money in proportion to what I earn, while, G spent like an hour buying cards from Archies for someone whose identity he refused to reveal! Then we headed back home.
At night, H called. H is a friend from college (a.k.a. UG days). Another friend of H needed some information, which I gave, after which H informed me that he is getting married on the 27th. Congrats! I must've shouted so loudly on the phone, H went mum for a good ten seconds. Guess he's practicing keeping his mouth shut. Another friend, another world.
At the end of all this, I formed this theory. I am the center of my world, as are my friends the centers of their worlds. Our worlds intersect. In doing so, we make each other's a bit more habitable. Their colours intertwine with mine to paint my days in the menagerie of chaotic hues, which form my life. It makes my existence less boring, more complicated and a lot more interesting. And for that I am thankful.
Oh... there is always room for more chaos in my life, so you are welcome to come and intersect my world!
I started eating with a spoon, and soon spotted L merrily delving into heaps of rice with his hand. He gave me a knowing smile and said `Do you use a spoon at home?' I do not, and I saw the point. I was with friends. I could act like myself (carving out chicken pieces with a knife n fork is so "not-me"). I looked around, everybody - even V's cute little daughter, shared my world and made it that little bit more special. As S enlightened everybody with his theory of super compression, I saw the candour and gay abandon with which everyone behaved. We all waited until V finished the last morsel of food on her plate, as she has a strict no-food-goes-waste policy. After which, battling bits of chicken stuck between my teeth, I followed my friends on walk under the stars to the India Gate. Ice cream from one of the numerous ice cream carts parked all around India Gate was the cherry on this cake of an evening.
Saturday morning had me running around with Dad, trying to get this and that done, when B called, asking if I was free to join him for a trip to Gurgaon. Engrossed in the call, I locked my car keys inside the car, which cost me an hour's round trip home, on bus and on foot, to fetch the duplicate keys. With all chores done, B picked me up from home and we reached Gurgaon in an hour. There we paid a visit to G. Amongst 14-20 story high-rises and very chick malls, Gurgaon seemed... different. G's home is on the seventh floor of one of these high-rises, whose top floor houses a couple of penthouses. I paid a visit to one of these, and I'll not say anything more about that.
After wandering around a mall with B and G for an hour, acting mostly like juvenile teenagers, I suddenly came to the conclusion I am blessed. B and G are my childhood buddies, from school. They probably knew my every surprise reaction to their every frivolous action, by now. Moreover, they too shared my world. I am sure the honour, and the good luck is all mine. For lunch, we gorged on Pizza Hut pizzas. Then I freaked out at a bookstore spending way too much money in proportion to what I earn, while, G spent like an hour buying cards from Archies for someone whose identity he refused to reveal! Then we headed back home.
At night, H called. H is a friend from college (a.k.a. UG days). Another friend of H needed some information, which I gave, after which H informed me that he is getting married on the 27th. Congrats! I must've shouted so loudly on the phone, H went mum for a good ten seconds. Guess he's practicing keeping his mouth shut. Another friend, another world.
At the end of all this, I formed this theory. I am the center of my world, as are my friends the centers of their worlds. Our worlds intersect. In doing so, we make each other's a bit more habitable. Their colours intertwine with mine to paint my days in the menagerie of chaotic hues, which form my life. It makes my existence less boring, more complicated and a lot more interesting. And for that I am thankful.
Oh... there is always room for more chaos in my life, so you are welcome to come and intersect my world!
Friday, May 06, 2005
Kya tumko pata hai?
Kya tumko pata hai?
Makhmali raat ki chadar mein,
Tumhare zulfon ki khusboo hai,
Samundar par leheron ki harkat mein,
Tumhari aankhon ka jadoo hai.
Kya tumko pata hai?
Zindagi ki madhosh dhadkane,
Tumhari sanson ki deewani hai,
Junoon ke har zarre ki tamanna,
Tumhari simat ti javani hai.
Kya tumko pata hai?
Asma mein suraj ki lali,
Tumhare hoton ki rangat hai,
Is nazm ka bekarar intezar,
Tumhara likha har khat hai.
Kya tumko pata hai?
Sharmati kaliyon ka phoolon mein khilna,
Tumhare choone ka ehsaas hai,
Meri humsafar, mere chalne ki manzil,
Tumhari parchai ke paas hai.
Kya tumko pata hai?
Zamane se jeetne ki himmat,
Tumhare awaaz ki kashish hai,
Meri soch ki nason mein daud rahi,
Tumhari chahat ki khwahish hai.
Makhmali raat ki chadar mein,
Tumhare zulfon ki khusboo hai,
Samundar par leheron ki harkat mein,
Tumhari aankhon ka jadoo hai.
Kya tumko pata hai?
Zindagi ki madhosh dhadkane,
Tumhari sanson ki deewani hai,
Junoon ke har zarre ki tamanna,
Tumhari simat ti javani hai.
Kya tumko pata hai?
Asma mein suraj ki lali,
Tumhare hoton ki rangat hai,
Is nazm ka bekarar intezar,
Tumhara likha har khat hai.
Kya tumko pata hai?
Sharmati kaliyon ka phoolon mein khilna,
Tumhare choone ka ehsaas hai,
Meri humsafar, mere chalne ki manzil,
Tumhari parchai ke paas hai.
Kya tumko pata hai?
Zamane se jeetne ki himmat,
Tumhare awaaz ki kashish hai,
Meri soch ki nason mein daud rahi,
Tumhari chahat ki khwahish hai.
Monday, May 02, 2005
Every once in a while
My weekends are usually lazy replays of the other days of the week past. But the sudden rain had ushered in a great looking Friday evening which had `great weekend ahead' written all over it. Delhi acquires this uncharacteristic fresh beauty after every rain... but then that's the rain-and-Delhi-and-me speaking more than anything else. Saturday started like any other Saturday... I was working. Well, I was mostly helping S out with his work, but that is work nonetheless. Then suddenly, a very anorexic girl decided to faint in the corridor right outside my room. After all the flurry of activity that generated, died down (with the girl being carted off to the nearest hospital - she's alive though), I went back to helping S. I was all set to return home early, when S asked me to stay back a while longer... and then again a bit more... and a bit more. Helping a friend in need ensured by the time I left work, it was 6:30pm. In between all this, I had rustled up late night movie plans with B. And I had to be at his house by 8pm, so I was way late already.
Being late, however, did not change the fact that the day after was Mom's birthday. So I decided to shop for some pastries. I turned up at the nearby confectionery shop and got some chocolate truffle pastries (finger-lickingly delicious). Then I also stopped to pickup a couple of chicken-sheek rolls (need I say more). There was this interesting couple, also waiting for their order, while I waited for mine. Suave looking middle-aged guy, and a hep and relatively young girl (I am really bad at guessing a woman's age so I might be mistaken about that). They were having this technical bits-n-bytes conversation, while their double egg rolls were being deep fried. With the rolls served and eaten, they got up and went out the glass door. The girl lifted up the waste-bin flap and threw her paper plate in. And the guy - he decided to emulate Michael Jordan very badly and missed the waste-bin by miles. And then, with total callous disregard to the environment... walked away without bothering to clean up. I had half a mind to catch him and give him an earful, but my rolls arrived and I decided his girl would probably dump him anyway. So I rushed back home, dropped off bought goods and rushed to B's place. Met this total stranger on the bus, who was quite friendly and wanted my email. Barely made it on time, thanks to the awesome driving prowess of DTC bus drivers.
Then it was straight off to PVR Saket for Hitch in B's new car. Funny movie. Got back home late, n Mom was awake and waiting, as usual. It was five minutes past twelve, so a warm Happy Birthday hug put things into place, right away. Sleep.
5:30am, Sunday morning, I was thrown off my bed because we (me n parents) had to go and cleanup our `new' home at the other end of the city, where we would be shifting sometime soon. A 30 minutes drive in a cool Delhi dawn was quite charming, and dangerous, as I was half asleep at the wheel. Better part of the day was spent scrubbing wall paint off furniture and doors, negotiating with tailors about curtain colours and fixing the one broken tile on the bathroom floor. Mom seemed to be in an entirely blissful state, trying to tidy up the place - what a way to spend her birthday, but then that's Mom. Returned home dead beat. Stayed home till late evening, and helped finish off the pastries. *Happy Birthday Mom!* Then B called with plans for another movie.
And so we were back at PVR at 8:45 for the 9:15 show of Hazaron Khwahishen Aisi. B was a little doubtful about the movie, but he usually succumbs to my choice. Houseful! Dejected we made our way to Mark-Pi and had two plates of heavenly chicken momos. With our esurient spirits buoyant and satiated, we waited for that chance last-minute cancellation at the ticket counter, and voila - two tickets. Which turned out to be right in the center of the last row of Audi-2. The movie was good. And I mean good. It was a movie about a lot of things - deep things, heady things, but mostly it was a movie about love. Of many kinds of love, infact. B liked it too. It was also a movie about somethings everybody understands but nobody can explain. Like I said... love.
B drove me back home at midnight. Everything I do, Lady in Red, Take my breath away... Cool breeze. A fantastic music system in B's car. Empty roads. Super friend. Delhi on a rain soaked night. Home.
Every once in a while, clouds do have a silver lining. And then, there is a Monday!
Being late, however, did not change the fact that the day after was Mom's birthday. So I decided to shop for some pastries. I turned up at the nearby confectionery shop and got some chocolate truffle pastries (finger-lickingly delicious). Then I also stopped to pickup a couple of chicken-sheek rolls (need I say more). There was this interesting couple, also waiting for their order, while I waited for mine. Suave looking middle-aged guy, and a hep and relatively young girl (I am really bad at guessing a woman's age so I might be mistaken about that). They were having this technical bits-n-bytes conversation, while their double egg rolls were being deep fried. With the rolls served and eaten, they got up and went out the glass door. The girl lifted up the waste-bin flap and threw her paper plate in. And the guy - he decided to emulate Michael Jordan very badly and missed the waste-bin by miles. And then, with total callous disregard to the environment... walked away without bothering to clean up. I had half a mind to catch him and give him an earful, but my rolls arrived and I decided his girl would probably dump him anyway. So I rushed back home, dropped off bought goods and rushed to B's place. Met this total stranger on the bus, who was quite friendly and wanted my email. Barely made it on time, thanks to the awesome driving prowess of DTC bus drivers.
Then it was straight off to PVR Saket for Hitch in B's new car. Funny movie. Got back home late, n Mom was awake and waiting, as usual. It was five minutes past twelve, so a warm Happy Birthday hug put things into place, right away. Sleep.
5:30am, Sunday morning, I was thrown off my bed because we (me n parents) had to go and cleanup our `new' home at the other end of the city, where we would be shifting sometime soon. A 30 minutes drive in a cool Delhi dawn was quite charming, and dangerous, as I was half asleep at the wheel. Better part of the day was spent scrubbing wall paint off furniture and doors, negotiating with tailors about curtain colours and fixing the one broken tile on the bathroom floor. Mom seemed to be in an entirely blissful state, trying to tidy up the place - what a way to spend her birthday, but then that's Mom. Returned home dead beat. Stayed home till late evening, and helped finish off the pastries. *Happy Birthday Mom!* Then B called with plans for another movie.
And so we were back at PVR at 8:45 for the 9:15 show of Hazaron Khwahishen Aisi. B was a little doubtful about the movie, but he usually succumbs to my choice. Houseful! Dejected we made our way to Mark-Pi and had two plates of heavenly chicken momos. With our esurient spirits buoyant and satiated, we waited for that chance last-minute cancellation at the ticket counter, and voila - two tickets. Which turned out to be right in the center of the last row of Audi-2. The movie was good. And I mean good. It was a movie about a lot of things - deep things, heady things, but mostly it was a movie about love. Of many kinds of love, infact. B liked it too. It was also a movie about somethings everybody understands but nobody can explain. Like I said... love.
B drove me back home at midnight. Everything I do, Lady in Red, Take my breath away... Cool breeze. A fantastic music system in B's car. Empty roads. Super friend. Delhi on a rain soaked night. Home.
Every once in a while, clouds do have a silver lining. And then, there is a Monday!
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