:: L i F E ::

The Ant's Footslog

2010-05-10T04:31:00.005+05:30

The end is near.
So near, but not yet.
A trickle of courage to hold onto,
Waiting in dread. Agonized, helpless.
The distant mirage disjoints,
Drifting in hallowed stillness is the cube.
Hunger beguiled. An orphaned dice.
A tiny step more. Closer than before,
Yet, the distance is distanced.
A journey lost in translation,
A life fragmented in abstraction.
Remember, how it all began? Yes, I do.
Starry eyed. Fiery passion,
Taking giant strides. Her smiling adoration.
Reflecting within. The mind flitting across emotional webs.
The haze then shifts. A renewed vigor.
Ah! the whiff of sugary enchantment. Yet again.
A tiny step more. Closer than before.
The road less traveled. A path feared.
The end is near.
So near, but not yet.

Bollywood New Wave

2010-01-13T23:35:00.013+05:30

by ANUVAB PAL

In fall 2003, I was asked by a friend of mine, the director Manish Acharya, to co-write a film with him. It would be about a Bollywood singing contest in New Jersey. We were influenced by the movies of Christopher Guest and Woody Allen, and had lived in New York for a numbers of years. At some point, in various coffee shops in Manhattan, as we wrote, I asked Manish who our audience might be. He intelligently remarked that we shouldn’t write with audiences in mind but just try to tell a good story. That’s the sort of answer auteur film directors give at film festival Q&As and grave audiences nod in agreement. It had a sort of nobility to it. I was far more interested in a petty middle-class answer.

“Still, who?” I insisted.
“Whom” he corrected, adding, “New India. This is a film for new India.”

“Hm…” I agreed without understanding what the hell he was talking about. After all, as New Yorkers, we consumed a cinematic diet of IFC, Film Forum, HBO and Sundance, while in the Indian film world (essentially Bollywood), fiefdoms ruled. And these fiefdoms existed to create star vehicles for a handful (the Bachchans, the Khan quartet–Shah Rukh, Saif, Aamir and Salman, the Roshans etc.) of bankable superstars. Stories were loose, informal things that existed solely to move the star from point A to point B on his heroic journey. This predictable melodrama was either preachy (“love is better than arranged marriage”) or polemic (“Hindus and Muslims should get along”), and Non-Resident Indians loved it because, through familiar faces, these films gave them some comfortable, static idea of “home”.

Outside Bollywood, Indian directors such as New York- and London-based Mira Nair and Gurindher Chaddha, took a slice of Indian culture that the West would find appealing, and created films appealing to those sensibilities: Hollywood-influenced movies that examined upended notions of Indian matrimony through verite documentary (Monsoon Wedding) or soccer (Bend It Like Beckham). Into the early years of the 21st century, these were the two recognizable worlds of Indian cinema.

So as we sat in Union Square, writing Loins of Punjab, a comedy with a deadpan comic aesthetic with neither heartstring-tugging expatriate angst nor Indian culture made palatable to the liberal western film-goer, I was certain we were doomed. The Indians we were writing for—cosmopolitan, edgy, ironic, global, full of Bollywood pop trivia and American indie quirkiness—were too few to demand their own genre. I was completely wrong.

As I write this in the summer of 2009, Loins of Punjab has become the highest grossing English language comedy in India, and a cult hit in the United States. One might think that achievement doesn’t mean anything, and it probably doesn’t. But what it did show me was an audience that supported a new kind of Indian cinema. And with it, a new breed of Indian filmmaker.

Somehow, somewhere, someone said enough. The fiefdoms of old-school studios churning out regressive family sagas, the cartel of stars making unreasonable demands like stretch limousines during foreign shoots, silly Hallmark Channel soap conflicts, cheesy glamour, lazy storytelling, laughable dialogue that made us ashamed on airplanes when we read them subtitled, and the clichés of Bollywood (boy meets girl, coy dancing around trees, gratuitous wet sari scenes)… all, in the last seven years, somehow ended.

The “real” India, everyday India, demystified and de-glamorized, was no longer the domain of foreign filmmakers showing a slice of exotic life in an unknown culture to Westerners. It was time to tell modest, observed stories of a people, for those people, depicting familiar surroundings in neighborhood cinemas across metropolitan India. It was time to tell these stories without apology or fake Bollywood gloss. It was time, as the French auteurs called it, for a “new wave.” The difference, of course, was that the French new wave arrived fully-formed, articulated by a handful of European critics and academics who wanted a clean break from the existing French cinema.

The Indian new wave is a process of evolution more than revolution. It gradually evolved over casual chats among like-minded artists, creating together in a place (Mumbai) and a point in history (now), rather than in response to some desperate audience demand.

Traditional Bollywood movies like a David Dhawan’s Partner or Abbas Mastan’s Race still make lots of money at the box office so the new wave isn’t a financial overhaul of the system either. Many of the next generation filmmakers got their start assisting the old guard and some were born into old guard families.

However, they all exhibit a radically different world view, thinking, and moral compass. For the first time since Satyajit Ray, Indian movies exhibited complexity, shades of grey, sophisticated psychological dilemmas, nuance, and ambivalence. Of course, while it happened, we had no idea it was happening because we were in the middle of it, just trying to convince people that ours was not a comedy about pork and no lions were harmed while making it.

“Some of it came from a sudden burst of new talent in Bollywood, and some of it came from a sudden burst in new money. Many were foreign educated and studied film, which was rare in the industry. What’s interesting is how young they all are,” explained a Mumbai-based trade analyst at the Bollywood TV Channel, Zoom TV.

At the beginning of this new millennium, directors showed up in Mumbai and started making films India hadn’t seen before. Suddenly the likes of Vishal Bhardwaj (Maqbool), Reema Katgi (Honeymoon Travels), Kabir Khan (Kabul Express), Abhishek Kapoor (Rock On), Shimit Amin (Chak De India), Rohan Sippy (Bluffmaster), Anurag Kashyap (Dev D, Black Friday), Sujoy Ghosh (Jhankar Beats), Manish Acharya (Loins Of Punjab), Dibakar Banerjee (Khosla Ka Ghosla), Madhur Bhandarkar (Page 3), Farhan Akhtar (Don), Zoya Akhtar (Luck By Chance), Imtiaz Ali (Jab We Met), Rajat Kapoor (Mixed Doubles), Sudhir Mishra (Khoya Khoya Chand), Navdip Singh (Manorama Six Feet Under) and Abbas Tyrewala (Jaane Tu) were making widely varied films with fresh perspectives, all around the same time.

“A lot of these guys grew up on contemporary American and European cinema. Unlike the previous generation of Bollywood storytellers who didn’t know much beyond their immediate India,” explained Chako, a Times of India film critic. “But this lot was equally comfortable with the awful years of Bollywood, 70s through early 90s. So they could channel both, a western aesthetic coupled with what’s essentially Indian to their storytelling. They also understood irony from camp from pastiche and created an entirely new, very urban, Indian voice in film.”

Interestingly, a lot of the new wave didn’t come from film families—for a long time, India, like all closed economies, had industries controlled by powerful family businesses. Some, like Rohan Sippy or the Akhtars, did come from such families, but many came from varying professions—Sujoy Ghosh worked for Reuters, Vishal Bhardwaj was a music composer, Madhur Bhandarkar was a video delivery man, Dibakar Banerjee was an advertizing copywriter, Manish Acharya ran a software business. They were all urban, city people (which is why so many of their films are about urban dilemmas) and they had the technical skills and professionalism that the industry severely lacked. Many used story-boarding, foreign cameramen, hand-held guerilla shooting, documentary footage, and animation.

This New Wave of filmmakers also drew upon private experiences for their films, allowing for a range of stories to evolve, each portraying some unique aspect of India. Bhardwaj set Shakespeare adaptations in India’s rural, gangster-controlled hinterland; Imtiaz Ali made sweet little urban love stories, the Richard Curtis of India; Zoya Akhtar looked inward, satirizing India’s film business; Sudhir Mishra obsessed over India’s socio-political history; Anurag Kashyap channeled gritty European auteurs to tell stories of crime, terrorism and unrequited love; Acharya tackled the mockumentary; Sippy, the Guy Richie-esque gangster film; Navdeep Singh, the noir thriller set in Rajasthan.

“Not all of it was good and not all of it was original” Ankush Khanna, a film historian, said of the new wave. “But it is new. And it is speaking an entirely new language that Indian audiences haven’t seen before. Our society is in huge flux. Thousands of years of cultural order is undergoing a silent non-violent revolution as young people make different economic, social, and romantic choices than their parents. 70% of India is under 25. It will be interesting to see who among these lasts as original voices for this nation in rapid transformation”.

For old Bollywood, trying to understand and adapt to this changed (and continually changing) society was (and is) very difficult. The likes of Subhash Ghai, Yash Chopra, David Dhawan, Sajid Nadiadwala, Bunty Walia, Harry Bawaja had all made hugely successful box office hits through the 80s and 90s. Their movies defined the quintessential stereotypes of Bollywood: lavish song sequences with heroes (grown men) in thong bikinis being chased by models on a South African beach, remakes of Hollywood blockbusters like Speed, Hitch and Usual Suspects (all, inexplicably, set in foreign locations), evil men in capes playing villains and raping heroines. Some of these movies made the careers of Salman Khan, Govinda, Sunny Deol–huge megastars almost worshipped in small town India. Back then, the largely illiterate populace looked to film for a voyeuristic view of an unattainable lifestyle, and theaters were dirty places for sexual release. Now, in the new era of urban post-modernism, cinema is trying to mean something…and these stars are camp and mocked.

“I think the country has changed, I don’t recognize this audience” said 80’s megastar Mithun Chakraborty to the press. Chakraborty had starred in several seminal classics of the 80s, especially Disco Dancer and Dance Dance (India’s remake of Travolta’s Saturday Night Live). He voiced his bewilderment when his film Jimmy (starring his son, and also about a disco dancer’s struggle to fame) left cinemas the day it opened. In today’s India, Mithun’s films (he also did an Indian Bond trilogy called Gunmaster G-9) are watched by urban hipsters to laugh at over drinks. “It’s our Austin Powers,” explained a Mumbai DJ, “except they weren’t intending to be funny in 1981”. Mithun’s long time producer, the 80s legend B. Subhash (who also remade a Bollywood version of Tarzan, as a musical) doesn’t have enough cache left to get a film funded today. He wants to make a musical about the November 26th Mumbai terror attacks.

“The only producers from the earlier era who will survive are those who are trying to change. You need to bring in new writers and directors to make that happen” explained a studio executive at The Indian Film Company. “Look at Aamir Khan–he starred in terribly silly movies playing lovers in sailor hats. Today he’s India’s leading cutting-edge producer of the new wave. And look at Subhash Ghai. Once with the Midas touch, now critics say he’s lost the pulse of his audience.”

As a writer of alternative films in Bollywood, I see the studios’ daily struggle to be relevant as every Friday some new director releases a cult hit. I’ve been in script meetings for a Bollywood remake of Motorcycle Diaries, an adaptation of “half” a remake of Steve Martin’s Bowfinger, and I got offered a screenplay based on “a story about a murderer/singer/dancer in Paris”.

Clearly, producers are hungry for new material and simultaneously unsure of new ideas. Instinctually they recoil, but are worried the changing audience might think otherwise, so they second guess. “Today’s Bollywood is like the Jazz age America,” a magazine writer at Cine Blitz, India’s most popular film tabloid told me. “Everything is trendy, though no one knows the next trend”.

Into the middle of all this parachute-dropped Slumdog Millionaire, the global phenomenon which immediately made both old Bollywood and new Bollywood exhilarated and angry at the same time. Angry because new wave directors like Sudhir Mishra or Anurag Kashyap did similar (and arguably much better) films like Satya and Dharavi, on similar subjects — i.e. set in slums amongst Mumbai gangsters. Angry because no Hollywood studios swooped in with distribution deals that would have ensured a similar global (especially American) audience. Angry also because the term “poverty porn” was being thrown around as if India’s biggest cinematic export was its destitution. Exhilarated because Hollywood studios have flocked to India in the last few years, and Slumdog has cemented their stay.

The Hollywood suits arrive, not only to release their Shreks and their Batmans, but to fund and partner with Indian film companies, thereby granting the New Wave access to unimaginable money. It’s also a glimmer of hope for fading Bollywood stars—they see what’s happened to the almost retired Anil Kapoor (a post-Slumdog gig as a series regular on the hit U.S. TV show “24”), and the fairy tale of Freida Pinto, a previously unknown Mumbai model. Like India’s relationship to Britain, Bollywood’s relationship to Slumdog (a British production with Englishman Danny Boyle at the helm) is deferential and accusatory concurrently.

“It had to happen,” a famous actor who chose to remain anonymous explained. “New Bollywood was the next step,” he added, implying forces at work long before, cultivating the emergence of this new breed of directors.

In the mid 90s, Yash Raj (India’s largest film studio) opened the door to foreign locations in Europe. Big directors like Karan Johar played to Indian audiences in New York and London with sappy love stories set in those foreign locations. Then directors like Maniratnam and Ashutosh Gowariker came along and unleashed huge epic films like Yuva and Lagaan, revolutionizing Bollywood storytelling, and doing away with dreamy tones for gritty real ones. Then in the late 90s Farhan Akhtar made Dil Chahta Hai—a hip, urban, comic love story (and box office hit) that did away with pathos and melodrama for a Hollywood style slice of life film. All these strains merged to create a new wave. Our current Prime Minister, Dr. Manmohan Singh, the man responsible creating new India, the consumer-driven free market capitalist society which has allowed the new Bollywood to evolve, once said, “Victor Hugo believed you cannot stop an idea whose time had come”.

He was referring to the country’s transformation from a government planned socialist economy. But nowhere is this axiom truer than in Bollywood, where economic freedom has led to a freedom of ideas.

The Last Battle

2008-04-02T12:51:00.001+05:30

The grey sky wears a pallid haze
A faint eastern glow soaked in rain
I walk ahead, forlorn and so lost
A broken soul, an empty mind trenched in pain

'Twas the night, that hour of din
Blinded by hatred, fighting with blind compassion
Vanquishing my foes, spewing bullets in daze
I remember, those dying eyes and lolling heads so ashen

Death hangs in the air now, it moans and sings
Ravens and kites pecking at human entrails,
The echo of gunfires has subsided, the war's now won
Yet lost, a scared battlefield, as somewhere a mother wails

For the nation's glory, I butchered many a soul
Now, engulfed in ignominy, the soldier in me wanes
I mourn the death of a brother, I mourn the death of a son,
In the folds of silence, I now pray for peace, for love that remains.

[Writers Blend entry for the month of April, based on the theme 'War' ]

Guest Blogger: Thinker-Girl

2008-04-01T15:47:00.009+05:30

The most curiousest, most delightful thing happened to me yesterday.

When I talk about the Esbjorn Svensson Trio, I do so with the reverence that most Gods recieve. So there I was, sitting opposite this wonderful woman I had known for all of two days, mind-boggled when she told me that she "studied weet Eysbyern at the Royal College of Music". Yeah, she said that. And then she gingerly ripped another morsel of roti (swedish pianists are ambidexterous, forgive my sarcasm) as though nothing had happened! When she was done chewing the thing, she smiled at me and said, "I didn't know E.S.T was famous in India. I like his music too. Esbjorn always had a wonderful way of playing". I excitedly explained to her that the chances were likely that I was the only person in India who had heard of E.S.T. Before she ripped the next bit, she quickly said, "You have good taste in music."

Chew Cecilia, chew. While I drift into one of my mindtrips. My favourite pianist, wow. So I'm connected to Esbjorn Svensson. W O W!

What's that? Your brother's name is Esbjorn as well? Charming.

But, I mean, he's human too, right? Of course people would know him. But then again, imagine the odds of that - a swedish name, intonation unheard of in this country, my favourite pianist, Svensson! Unbelievable. And you, jazz-singing angel from the west, nordic energy come to stir my love for music anew, indifferent to all this veneration, look at you! The web of life is so intricately simple. Six degrees of separation afterall then. Or less.

Ah! listen to Vineet in the other room. He chooses the piano over lunch.

My second favourite without a doubt.

"Yes, he IS a musical genius in the making, isn't he?"

He'll be my Svensson someday...

Hope For Change

2008-03-27T15:58:00.001+05:30

Unfaithful

2008-03-20T13:09:00.009+05:30

by David Guer

"Here". With tears streaming down her face, Dawn, my wife of five years, stormed into my office at work and tossed a list on my desk. "I need you to stop at the grocery store on your way home. I have to pick up the kids."

"What's wrong?" I approached her, but she waved me away.

"You never talk to me, and you expect me to tell you what's wrong? Forget it!"

"Dawn, please. Sit down and tell me why you're so upset."

"Not here. Later." She left before I could argue further.

I didn't try to stop her. Dawn knew. Somehow she'd discovered the secret I'd concealed for months. I'd fallen in love with another woman.

Dawn and I had been high school sweethearts. I couldn't wait to marry her. But our marriage soon began to unravel. Close ties to her family, who lived nearby, constantly interfered with our time as a couple. Dawn didn't see the need to separate from her parents and put me first. She ran to them when we had a disagreement. If we went out for dinner and a movie, she invited them along.

Over time, I began to feel like a child waiting to join a kickball team, raising my hand and shouting, "Pick me! Pick me!" Jealousy grew, poisoning our marriage.

In a heated argument one night, I demanded, "If I asked you to choose between me and your parents, whom would you choose?"

Without speaking she answered my question.

Four years into our marriage, Dawn and I had drifted apart. I'd grown weary of being rejected, emotionally and sexually. Her excuses for refusing my sexual advances ranged from fatigue to lack of interest. One night in bed, I massaged her back and legs, knowing it was a turn on to her. She responded with a perfunctory kiss on the lips.

"Not tonight, David. Maybe tomorrow." She rolled over and went to sleep, leaving me dejected and hurt.

Before long we were having sex only once every couple months. I envied my married friends who described frequent, healthy sexual relationships. As my resentment grew, I began to wonder what I'd ever loved about Dawn.

A change of scene
Needing a change, I enrolled in a local community college. I met Stephanie my first semester. We attended several classes together. I learned her father worked for the same company I did, and Stephanie and I both had a child the same age. She was stuck in an unsatisfying relationship with her live-in boyfriend; I was disillusioned in my marriage. We connected instantly, sharing long conversations over lunch, in-between classes, and sometimes even during class.

Second semester, Stephanie and I didn't have any classes together. Deprived of the opportunity to see and talk with each other, we started to chat over the Internet. I also created a new e-mail account strictly for our correspondence.

Our instant messaging began as a way to communicate during class, similar to the way I'd passed notes as a kid. But the sessions grew more frequent, and soon I was chatting while at my job and late at night while doing homework. Our physical separation provided a false sense of security when our conversations and e-mails turned gradually more flirtatious.

Stephanie stood out from other women I knew. She was free spirited—intelligent, funny, and carefree. But most important, she was attentive and non-judgmental. As our friendship grew, so did my romantic feelings.

Inside, though, I was conflicted. Though I knew I was breaking my vows, I felt Dawn's rejection justified my feelings for Stephanie. I often cried out to God through journaling and poetry. I knew he'd forgive me if I repented. But at the same time, I blamed God for allowing my marriage to fall apart. And frankly, I wasn't ready to repent.

The great divide
Sensing the growing chasm between us, Dawn sought ways to spend more time together, clearing her calendar of events planned weeks in advance. She made certain we ate supper together and cooked my favorite foods. I stubbornly resisted her efforts.

"How was your day?" she'd ask when I came home from work.

"Fine," I'd reply, then ignore her. Although I knew I should work on my marriage, I was still angry about Dawn's loyalty to her parents and her sexual rejection of me. I wanted to hurt her as badly as she'd hurt me.

Months earlier I'd planned a romantic, 5th-anniversary trip to Cancun. As my relationship with Stephanie intensified, so did my desire to get out of the trip. One week before we were to leave, Dawn and I had a heated argument.

"We may as well cancel our trip to Cancun," I said. "I don't want to waste the time or money when all we do is fight."

Shocked, Dawn began to sob.

I cancelled our reservations the next day.

Four weeks passed. One day at work an instant message from Stephanie popped onto my screen. "I need to tell you something, but I don't know how."

Replying back, I urged, "You can share anything with me."

"It's really personal and I don't want to look foolish."

"Okay," I said, "if it makes you feel better, send me an e-mail."

Sure she was going to confide her feelings toward me, I logged onto my e-mail account. I read her message, savoring every word.

"The last several weeks have been great," she wrote. "I know you're married, which makes this a lot harder." My heart pounded in my chest as I read on. "I've realized I have feelings for you. I often imagine what it would be like to kiss you."

Elated, I replied back, "Me too."

For the first time in months, I felt needed and wanted. I looked forward with anticipation to kissing Stephanie. A few weeks later, at a remote picnic spot, we shared our first kiss. My heart said I'd found paradise; my head screamed, What are you doing? Although we never progressed past kissing, each time we kissed the pull to go further strengthened.

As I continued to withdraw from Dawn, she became angry. "You touch that laptop more than you touch me," she complained.

"Welcome to my world," I muttered, remembering her sexual rejections.

"David, I've tried. Won't you ever forgive me?"

"You've pushed me away for years. It's too late to fix things."

I thought about Stephanie, how she gave me the attention I craved. She soothed my wounded ego with compliments and love notes, filling a void in my heart. I began to believe she was my soul mate. I was in love.

Walking a tightrope
Late one night I was instant messaging Stephanie, when Dawn sat up in bed.

"What are you working on?"

"Homework," I replied.

A message from Stephanie popped up, and I quickly minimized it.

"What was that?" Dawn asked.

Adrenaline rushed through my body. "An Internet advertisement."

I knew my sneaking around was wrong. I buried myself in work and school, no longer wanting to be home. Fearing my relationship with Stephanie would be discovered, I limited my contact with family and church friends. I knew I should end things between us, but I wasn't strong enough.

Six weeks had passed since Stephanie and I admitted our feelings for each other. One night after skipping class to be with her, I returned home to receive a call from Alex, a family friend. He asked if I'd meet with him.

"I've seen changes in you," Alex told me when we got together. "Your priorities have shifted. You're investing far more time in school and your friends there than in your wife and son." He proceeded to share how, as a young husband and father of three, he'd cheated on his wife with a female college instructor. "David, I can see my past living out in you."

For some reason I confessed my relationship with Stephanie, and that I was ready to leave Dawn and our son, Drew, for her. Alex listened patiently, making one request—that I allow him to arrange for Dawn and me to meet with a marriage counselor. I promised I'd think about it.

Secrets revealed
The next day, Dawn confronted me in my office. Alex must have told Dawn about Stephanie.

I stewed as I drove home from work that night, bracing myself for the confrontation to come. How dare Alex tell Dawn!

When I arrived home Dawn's face was puffy and tear-stained as she prepared supper. After an uncomfortably silent dinner, I tucked Drew into bed. Walking downstairs, I found Dawn sitting on the couch, waiting. I sat on the floor and said, "Is there anything you want to ask me?"

"Who is she?" Dawn asked. "How long has this been going on?"

I told her Stephanie's name and that we'd been involved for six or seven weeks.

"Do you love her?"

"I think so," I admitted. "I'm not sure I can end the relationship. How did you find out?"

Dawn started to cry. "Alex told Mom and Dad. When I stopped by their house this afternoon, Mom was crying. They didn't want to tell me what was wrong, but I guessed."

It figures, I thought angrily. Once again Dawn's parents had come between us.

I felt I was on trial as I confessed everything—that I'd become emotionally involved with Stephanie through e-mails and instant messaging, and that the affair was on the verge of becoming sexual.

I hoped Dawn would give up on us. Since I didn't have the courage to end our marriage, I wanted her to do it.

When I revealed that Stephanie's mother attended the same woman's group as Dawn, her control snapped. "What?" she yelled. "It's her?" Eyes flashing with anger, she ran to the basement. Grabbing a plastic baseball bat, she beat it against the stacks of Rubbermaid containers and cardboard boxes.

"You're nothing but a liar!" she wailed loud enough for me to hear her upstairs. "How could you betray me like this?"

I stood in the kitchen, torn between anger and shame.

You drove me to it, I thought bitterly. You chose your parents over me, so I chose Stephanie over you.

Dawn finally came upstairs, red-eyed and exhausted. "What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I don't know."

"I'm willing to work through this," she said. "But it's your decision. Either you end your relationship with Stephanie, or it's the end of our marriage."

The next five days were the darkest I've ever experienced. My secret was out. Our family and church friends knew what I'd done. Inside me, a spiritual battle raged. I replayed the notes, the cards, the conversations, and the physical attraction that drew me to Stephanie. Though ashamed, I didn't want the fantasy to end.

A few days later I received a letter from a respected friend. I wept as I read her loving admonishment. "I fear that if you turn your back on God, Dawn, and Drew, you'll forever be haunted by deep regrets and wounds that will never heal completely. Yes, God forgives, but we must bear the 'blisters of the heart.'"

I wept most of that night. Dawn stayed with me, comforting me.

The next day I knew what I had to do. I e-mailed Stephanie that I'd decided to work out things with Dawn and was ending the relationship. "Please don't contact me anymore," was my final statement.

Stephanie responded angrily. "I wish you'd made that decision earlier so I didn't end up hurting people I care for!"

Two days later Dawn and I entered marital counseling. As we talked, I was able to make Dawn understand how deeply she'd hurt me. "I felt as if you loved your parents more than me," I confessed. "I'm so tired of feeling rejected. So I decided it was less painful if I pulled away from you."

"I'm sorry I made you feel that way," she replied. "I'm completely committed to fixing our marriage, whatever the cost."

As we worked to bridge the distance between us, physical love became a catalyst for our healing. "I need to be close to you," Dawn told me. "I feel as if we're becoming one again."

While it took just weeks for my heart to stray, restoring our marriage took much longer. At times I questioned if staying with Dawn had been the right decision. When we fought, I'd recall the good times Stephanie and I had shared, and I was tempted to pick up the phone or e-mail her.

Dawn had doubts as well. "I still don't trust you 100 percent," she confessed nearly two years later. "Sometimes when we fight I wonder if you're still sneaking around."

More than five years have passed. Rather than involving her parents in our disputes, Dawn now seeks counsel from two godly women. They help her see when she's right, when she's wrong, and how to grow in her role as a wife.

Though my job requires that I correspond with colleagues, male and female, through e-mail and instant messaging, I limit my conversations to work-related topics. If a conversation drifts to a personal tone, I end it. I also meet with six other men to share, study, and pray on Sunday mornings.

As Dawn and I continue to rebuild trust, we're committed to being honest about our feelings and thoughts, with God and with each other. We still have our tough times. But with the support of friends and our commitment to God and each other, we're growing to better understand, know, and love each other, as God loves us.

Hotel Chevalier

2008-03-15T09:06:00.008+05:30

"Whatever happens in the end, I don't wanna lose you as my friend.
I promise, I will never be your friend. No matter what. Ever."

Surely Something, Dr. A !

2008-03-13T01:53:00.024+05:30

Oh, Dr. A
Oh, Dr. A
There is something (don't go 'way)
That I'd like to hear you say.
Though I'd rather die
Than try
To pry,
The fact, you'll find,
Is that my mind
Has evolved the jackpot question for today!

I intend no cheap derision,
So please answer with decision,
And, discarding all your petty cautious fears,
Tell the secret of your vision!
How on earth
Do you give birth
To those crazy and impossible ideas?

It is indigestion
And a question
Of the nightmare that results?
Of your eyeballs whirling,
Twirling,
Fingers curling
And unfurling
While your blood beats maddened chimes
As it keeps impassioned times
With your thick, uneven pulse?

It is that, you think, or liquor
That brings on the wildness quicker?
For a teeny
Weeny
Dry martini
May be just your private genie;
Or perhaps those Tom and Jerries
You will find the very
Berries
For inducing
And unloosing
That weird gimmick or that kicker;
Or an awful
Combination
Of unlawful
Stimulation,
Marijuana plus tequila,
That will give you just that feel o'
Things a-clicking
And unsticking
As you start for celebration
To the crazy syncopation
Of a brain a-tocking-ticking.

Surely something, Dr. A,
Makes you fey
And quite outré.
Since I read you with devotion,
Won't you give me just a notion
Of that shrewdy pepper-up potion
Out of which emerge your plots?
That wild secret bubbly mixture
That has made you such a fixture
In most favoured s.f. spots!

Now, Dr. A,
Don't go away

Oh, Dr. A

Oh, Dr. A

My Own Private Idaho

2008-03-07T01:12:00.009+05:30

Providence divine wears a semblance of derision
Deified and revered, alas! humanity's blinded vision
At His slight behest, Time sprints to oblivion
But such a frailty as mine, yet strong, scales his own eon

Hopes lay scattered, each bit mirroring a broken soul
A fountainhead's societal dream to fulfill, life's quarter did I troll
The palette stained with colors, the pregnant canvas awaiting a stroke
But the dream fleets away, a dark haze skirts my mind as I smoke

Mirth and sorrow, rage and passion, enveloping my solitary existence
Yearning for Their love, but each passing day nurtures strong resistance
Friends and foes, such a one sided coin I flipped with ease
A few harsh lessons, my innocence plagued like an incurable disease

As seconds trickle through, each rivulet of life meanders to a culmination
The fraternity sails by, bidding farewell instills a sense of elation
Seated on the bank, as I gaze at ripples resonating in unison
I see Providence divine, wearing that semblance of derision

An Ophidian Tale

2008-02-26T18:12:00.010+05:30

Download the song here >> Naagin - The Lady Cobra

Fast Car

2008-02-21T15:15:00.004+05:30

"You will weep and smile
And see heaven in the headlights"

A Wonderland Fantasy

2008-02-11T21:19:00.000+05:30

[From the mail archives]

Hip-Hop Police / Evening News

2008-02-08T16:09:00.000+05:30

Chamillionaire takes on multiple roles in two new videos from his sophomore album, Ultimate Victory. First he plays a perp (alongside old-school icon Slick Rick) who is arrested by the Hip-Hop Police. In Evening News, the rapper is an anchor and field reporter, taking jabs at America’s idea of newsworthy headlines. Did anyone else get a Dave Chappelle vibe while watching Evening News ?

Guest Blogger: Anupama

2008-01-30T11:02:00.000+05:30

And none will hear the postman's knock

Without a quickening of the heart.

For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?

~ W.H. Auden ~

An aluminium letterbox hanging inconspicuously near the electricity meters. An address book in my shelf. My writing pad and my favourite Parker. The post office opposite my school. The 5-rupee Indian postage stamp with a picture of a Leopard Cat on it. My Camlin glue stick which I wouldn’t go to school without. Bits of paper. Memories.

At a time when teenage turmoil had thrown me into consuming confusion, these letters were paper boats that stood the roughest storms and delivered me to the shore. At a time when the flock around me was alienating me, a few birds chose to take me under their wings and helped me fly higher than ever before. At a time when most were becoming frogs in the well, I found bits of paper that fluttered in with perspectives of different worlds. Each a Hitchhiker’s Galaxy. Each a small universe on its own. Together they formed my universe, a world where I thrived and grew from a tender bud into a sunflower. A sunflower that found sunlight streaming in through the white pages.

Over a course of 5 years I received plethora of letters in envelopes of all shapes and sizes – small blue ones, long white business envelopes, khaki envelopes, pretty Hallmark and Archies envelopes. Over time I learnt to recognize the hand-writing on the envelopes and know who had written to me just by looking at my name through the dirty glass window of the letterbox. Over time I realized who had enough time to sit and write a letter to miles-away-me and sign it off ‘Affectionately’. Over time I found true affection through that dirty glass window.

I learnt more through my letters than through all of my textbooks. I debated about the existence of Neutrinos, heard the latest buzz from colleges in Chandigarh, learnt how to recognize embassy cars and about life in Saudi and Japan, learnt how to write my name in Arabic, had a peep into the cultures of Lakshadweep, Manipur, Goa, Pondicherry, the Andamans and many such states in India, poured out teenage angst in my letters and learnt how to deal with those crises, I grew up with some of these friends – through school, through junior college and college - without meeting them more than twice in about 7 years yet relating better to them than to anyone else around…I found true friends through the India Post seal.

I was 16 and just out of school dealing with the novelty of college when my father suffered kidney failure and was in the hospital for days together. For the first time in my life I was afraid that I might lose him, I was lost having to pretend to be brave being the elder child and yet longing for someone to hold me and let me cry. When the friends around me heard the news, I do not remember anyone even keeping a hand on my shoulder just to say that they were there. And then I remember two of my far-away friends sending letters by express mail offering comfort, relating similar experiences when one of their parents was in a bad state of health and how they dealt with it. They called frequently to check how I was doing and I was able to stand tall in that period of my life only because I had my friends backing me irrespective of where they were on the map. I owe them more than they know and their letters have been the pillars of my life. It was a time when I found strength in fragile papers.

Today, with the intrusion of e-mail and instant chat, I keep in constant touch with these friends yet, in the flurry of HRUs and BRBs, I miss those days when I used to be up till 3 in the morning writing letters, drafting and redrafting my replies, sending and receiving pictures and Christmas gifts, saving money to buy the best paper cards to send to my beloved friends and preserving the ones that they had sent. I miss being down with cold and fever and fishing out old letters to read as pastime and feel warm. I miss craning out of the balcony at 3 PM to see if the Postman had come and running down to my aluminium letterbox as soon as he left to see if someone had written to me. And I miss the words…"Dearest Anu"

Guest Blogger: cK

2008-01-28T17:28:00.000+05:30

Listen to Cigarette Smoke by Arctic Monkeys

Hear My Voice

2008-01-27T14:10:00.000+05:30

Download the song here >> Voice

Unbreakable

2008-01-03T19:05:00.000+05:30

She lay in ruins. The Angel. The valley wore a desolate look as the wearied sun longed to disappear over the horizon. The bleak landscape resounded with her incessant sobbing. The demons had long been gone. Her hapless outcries had been vehemently suppressed by their demonic exploits. A crime so heinous that left her shattered. Her modesty knifed at mercilessly. Her soul hid itself in a coccoon of ignominy. The Angel lay still in a pool of blood, wide awake, tears meandering down her cheeks only to fade away...

Read my complete article at Writers Blend >> Unbreakable

Change

2007-11-22T10:06:00.000+05:30

“Change moves in spirals, not circles. The sun goes up and then it goes down. But every single time that happens, what do you get? You get a new day. You get a new one. When you breathe, you inhale and you exhale, but every single time that you do that you're a little bit different than the one before. We're always changing. And it's important to know that there are some changes you can't control and then there are others you can.”

“Such an inevitable constant it is.”

[Half Nelson, 2006]

Guest Blogger: d SINNER!!!

2007-11-18T22:23:00.000+05:30

Meenakshi opened the door quietly. A blank expression marked her face. Within a second her face became a canvas, a multitude of expressions came and went. Agony. Pain. Helplessness. Then it went blank again. She held her duppatta to her face, afraid if Riya would wake up hearing her sob. She sneaked inside the room, tiptoeing towards the bed where her only daughter lay!

She ran her fingers through her messy hair. She looked beautiful but ill and the marks on her face were rather obtrusive. How cruel could 'He' be, Meenakshi thought. Or maybe 'They'. Her hand reciprocated, caressing Riya's forehead but her eyes wandered elsewhere. She felt as if the remnant energy in her was sapped empty by a parasite. She felt sick as she got up and sat on the chair lying next to the bed.

An hour went by. She woke up hearing the doorbell ring. As if in a trance, she walked towards the main entrance. It was Riya's father, Alok! He came in and didn't even look at Riya. She knew it was hard for him too, so she let him be. After a fleeting fifteen minutes, he emerged from one of rooms. He glanced at Meenakshi, too many questions lay unanswered in his mind.

Alok: How's she?

Meenakshi: She is sleeping now.

Alok: Did she eat anything?

Meenakshi: Yes. A little.

Alok: Did you speak to her about it?

Meenakshi: No.

Alok: Didn't I ask you to? Meenakshi, she needs to be taken to the police station! Don't you realise it's a police case now?

Meenakshi could fathom his anger spliced with frustation. She sensed it. It was not always that Alok used to call her by her name.

"Don't you want to...."

Alok: What?

Meenakshi: ...see her, atleast for a moment?

Alok: No! No, I cannot.

Meenakshi: It's been a week since you came back…

Alok: I know. I know! But I can't...

He couldn't stand it any longer. The pain and anguish was unbearable. He quickly made his way to the other room.

It was 4'O clock in the evening. The maid was doing her mundane chores in and around the house. Meenakshi kept moving around from one room to another. She was so restless that nothing comforted her. Sometimes she would peep into Riya's room, only to find her sleeping. Trying to distract herself went in vain. She tried watching TV for some time, ran a few errands and even tried conversing with the maid about obscure things. But inevitably, a thousand questions clouded her mind.

Meanwhile Alok entered the room. Meenakshi wasn't aware.

"Wake her up".

Startled, Meenakshi turned around.

Alok: We need to report this to police and then we need to take her to the doctor again.

Meenakshi: Allright then.

Alok: But..But...why did you let her go?

Meenakshi: It was her birthday, Alok.

Alok: She could have invited her friends over here. It was your responsibility to keep a lookout on what she was doing, where she was going! You could have told her what to do, and what not to do. You should have disciplined her, after all you are her Mother!

He fell silent. He didn't want to say anything much. Rather he couldn't. But both knew that it was too late. And Meenakshi knew she was responsible.

She sank down on the sofa. Everything came back to her in a flash. It was Riya's birthday and she was turning sixteen. She had demanded a cell phone as a birthday gift. Alok argued on this subject with her and Riya, before leaving on a business trip to New York. He made no qualms about throwing a plethora of excuses at her.

"Why does she need a cell. She needs to concentrate on her studies now. These are crucial years and they make or break one's life. Doesn't she already chat a lot with her friends through the landline. Such a distraction should be avoided"

Meenakshi had strongly objected to Alok's thoughts.

"Girls of her age, need cell phones now. She is grown up enough to have one. Think about it this way. It will be quite easy for her to stay in touch with us, especially when we both are working and moving out of station, so often."

Riya was on her own but she did try to make her dad understand. But it didn't quite serve the purpose. He left for NY the very next day and Meenakshi, after her office headed straight to a shop to buy her daughter a birthday present. Riya had asked her permission to go to 'Alley', the famous discotheque in town to celebrate her birthday with her friends. Meenakshi didn't argue on this. She had alway seen Riya as a responsible child. But then she shuddered at the thought of what happened that night. If only Riya had been equipped with a cellphone before, things would have been so different! She could have bought her a cellphone instead! But why didn't she? She had only herself to blame.

It was decided that Meenakshi would pick her up at twelve from the club. But she reached late at the night club, only to find Riya nowhere. She hovered around the place like a madman, frantically searching for her daughter. She checked out every place around but Riya was nowhere in sight. The club wore a deserted look. The dark streets had an errie feel, with street lights casting ghostly shadows here and there. She tried reaching out to Riya's friends but she got the same reply from everyone.

"She was waiting for you, auntie".

Meenakshi cursed herself. How could she be so careless, she thought. The grim image of Riya's unconscious face, lips smeared with cheap lipstick, tangled hair held together by a gaudy ribbon, swarmed across her mind. She closed her eyes and tried to fend off the thought. The police had told them that their daughter was found in a shady hotel in a red light area, but the convict had escaped. She was found after two long weeks, unconscious and tied to the bed post. Time and again, such a thought tormented her. But now, she couldn't do much. Everyone around, knew what had happened but no one talked about it. Alok nudged her and told her to wake up Riya. But Meenakshi sat still. He understood her silence and proceeded to wake Riya up himself. She felt a bit relieved. She wanted him to go and talk to her. He stood beside Riya's bed quietly. Meenakshi knew what Alok was going through. She could see his eyes watering but he tried to conceal it. He touched Riya's hand. Riya started sniveling. He bent down and kissed her forehead, her hand held tight by him. Both of them felt strange when suddenly Riya got up in a daze, only to undress herself slowly.

Aghast and helpless, he ran out of the room, fighting back his tears and leaving Meenakshi behind, only to realize the untold!

Dancers In The Dark

2007-11-14T18:03:00.000+05:30

I gazed silently at those nimble pair of legs which moved in haste. A few steps forward, then a quick flip. A moment later, bending on the gravelly surface and writhing back and forth through a hoopla, without so much as to touch it. Pushing it aside the next moment, sprinting forward and taking a gravity defying somersault again. A young girl of the same age, fidgeted nearby, playing a small dhol tied to her neck and singing to the tunes of popular bollywood numbers. Another kid belonging to the same clan looked on, waiting for his turn next. I felt as if every single act of theirs, was smeared in a monotonous semblance. But then, it was their conditioning which blurred such an axiomatic display to a large extent. Helplessly I watched, however trying not to, at times. A sight as such made me dwell earnestly on the cruelties meted out to such pitiable young souls, clinging to a parallel world soaked in abject poverty and hopelessness....

Read my complete article at Writers Blend >> Dancers In The Dark

The Last Humanist

2007-11-14T11:01:00.000+05:30

Milton: Guilt...it's like a bag of fucking bricks. All you got to do...is set it down. Let it go.

Lomax: I can't do that.

Milton: Who are you carrying all those bricks for? God? Is that it? I'll tell you. Let me give you a little inside information about God. God likes to watch. He's a prankster. Think about it. He gives man instincts. He gives you this extraordinary gift, and then what does He do? I swear for His own amusement, His own private, cosmic gag reel, He sets the rules in opposition. It's the goof of all time! Look but don't touch. Touch, but don't taste. Taste, don't swallow. Aha! And while you're jumpin' from one foot to the next, what is he doing? He's laughin' His sick, fuckin' ass off! He's a tight-ass! He's a SADIST! He's an absentee landlord! Worship that? NEVER!

Lomax: "Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven"...is that it?

Milton: Why not? I'm here on the ground with my nose in it since the whole thing began! I've nurtured every sensation man has been inspired to have! I cared about what he wanted and I never judged him! Why? Because I never rejected him, in spite of all his imperfections! I'm a fan of man! I'm a humanist. Maybe the last humanist.

[The Devil's Advocate, 1997]

Once Upon A Love

2007-11-13T18:01:00.001+05:30

That was a time I first fell in love

But now I wail, I lament
'Tis sad how I lost so much time
To compass my content

The day wherein I saw too late
Oh, the follies of a lover
The moment I felt such loss
As care shall never recover

That fateful night, the minute of mishap
Makes me thus to plain
The doleful fruits of a lover's pursuits,
Which labor lose in vain

Doth make me solemnly protest
As I in pain, parted from this clove

No time, year, day or hour

Nor a minute, good to love

Indian Potpourri

2007-11-11T00:55:00.000+05:30

Tamils are always proud to be Tamizhs; Quite courteous (that's what they think, at least!). They speak yenglish but sorry, no indi (Hindi). Saar, what da??? The plebeian Madarasi (chennaisi...now huh?) is an ardent fan of kireeket matches. Their counterparts in Mumbai think they live in America but speak Hinglish like..."are you sure ki Sujata aa rahi hai or I'll go akela!" And they take great pride in making stupid mistakes in Hindi Grammar. Hypocrites? ahem, probably the best in the world.

Thamizhs, are verrry lecky to have simble neighbors in the Keralites who are a komblex race of peoblle (they migrated around 2000 B.C. from the middle east, I guess; and now even the Sheikhs feel wary of them!) but they have excellent GK, eat a lot of chooclyte, own 99.998765% of tyre shops in the world and form 99% of nursing community.

Trudging behind the kerals is the Telugu Desam, who are totally againesht flaunting their wealthu to the woruldu, though they occasionally come out withu brick red shirtsu and parrot green pantsu with pleetsu (pleet). Worustu, no?! But they (think) are greatu in CICSu, Microsu and COBOLu! Generally sane peoplesu (and so you can always findu them judgingu, probhingu, queschioningu othersu ...)

The Canadians (err, excuse me), the Kannadigas aor (are) the coolest lat dobun south but if there is political unrest in Hersogovnia oare (or) an ebola virus outbreak in Zaire, they bash up the Tamils in Karnataka. Damn! Cauvery crusade! Talking of the great Rajkumar, if a fly sat on his nose, they would burn the entire city of Bengaluroo to kill the fly! Dishoom! To hell with Silicon valley! I-ron, firshtu, girlu, Lasht Bussu, roadu, crickeatu, filamu are some of their favourites.

Maharashtrians are a conservative, rather confused, complex lot-kar. -Kar? that's because gavasakar, tendulkar, bahulkar...so on, so forth. Take your pick. Confused? that's because sitting pretty in the southern part of India, they would ask the other person "err, are you from Maharashtra or from south India?" and genuinely wonder as to why the other person takes time to answer the question! They like the principles of pheejix and their favourite character in the alphabet is Zay (God only knows where that came from!). Though soft natured, peace loving people but they elect the Shivsena to rule them. Phew!

And right there next to the Maharashtrians are the Gujjubhais. They like to keep kes in the benk and their favourite past time is eating snakes (snacks!) like paav bhaji, masala papad and pijja at the local snake bar. They gobble down palak sev as if their life solely depends on it and believe in the brotherhood and sisterhood of man and woman (everybody is either a bhai or a ben!!!).

Stray further eesht and you meet the Oriyas in the land uf Udissa - the land of irron ('r' unsilent) where sombalpuroa and Bhubaneshbara are big towns. The people are bery cordial and if you are Vikram they bill soorly ask you B or Bhe. They do not sout, sam or soot but occasnally bawsh their phace at the wasbashin. James Bond Mohanty in our colleze had a roll nomber jero, jero, sebhen. LOL.

Bong Bong Bengalees are bery bery similor, but or bery proud oph Subas Chondro Boash and Shoatyojit Roy (WTF?! I know a director by the name Satyajit Ray who was quite a prolific genius). A friend of yours spots you and yells "ki Boka*****" or an unknown bystander greets you with a cacophonic "Dada" (I use to habe a friend by name, Dada. Still wonder...what his name was!) Bot I most conphess, Roshgollas are bery goooood, though!

Bihari kids are supposed to be the smartest kids in India (if not in the universe?!). How we wish they grew up the same way. But Biharees are bery phond of Laloo and Patna. "Kaa babua, isse bhadiya tumre pass kooch hai ?! SPIT. SPIT.

UPites and MPites are busy going to ischool and studying metals to make lots of ishteel. Loads of it!

Punjabis are the cherubic sorts but aggressive, mind you! I was asked, "Oye, Rotti ShottiKhayega?" I replied "No". Pat came the reply "Tage itu, yaar!" By Godu! Surjeetu, what happenedu, oi?! Then of course, everybody's a paappe or a kaakke. That my friend is Punjab for you.

Kashmiris are a peaceful lot living in the valley of diverse cultural imprints (Kashmir called Cashmir by many. May be because of the amount of cash spent to keep it in India?!) I know Roja (or Roza?) was shot (C'mon, I mean filmed!) somewhere nearby.

But at the end of the day, wherever you are on this planet...whether it is in Sunnyvale, CA; Birmingham,UK; UmmAl Quwain, UAE or Serangoon Road, Singapore...nudge yourself and ask them who they are and you'll get just one answer- "INDIANS".

[From the mail archives]

A Scanner Darkly

2007-11-10T02:22:00.000+05:30

The Way I See It

2007-10-26T20:07:00.001+05:30

Art. Life entrapped in the eternal frame of a fusion of multifarious colors. Fixating compelling but transient visions in my mind, empowering me to prudently entangle the complex fabric of Life, thread by thread. With each soft stroke of my brush, an unbridled sense of joyous pride touches my soul. Suddenly, I feel at one with my creations. Resonating in unison. And as I silently gaze at them, my innate creative indulgence catalyzes my thoughts more and more.

To persevere. To procreate.

Guest Blogger: Jiggs

2007-10-24T03:46:00.000+05:30

“Being an aquarian, the first thing that crosses my mind is Art. Art is something which is innate to a person. The definitive way of expressing one's thought process and connecting with the outer world. It can be rendered in various forms, be it frolicking with a multitude of colors, in the nimble footed dance steps, the soothing tones from a musical instrument or just penning down one's perspectives in a coherent manner. It is, to put it simply, an outlet for emotions which are buried deep within us. Most often this brings out the best in us. It surprises us sometimes, when we least expect it do so. Quite unconventional but appreciated by a few.

Writing has been an essential part of my life. It has become an outlet for all the things which have been bottled inside me for a long time. It's been a while, that I discovered this 'talent' of mine (Yes, I like to call it so :-), which I always knew I had but never nurtured it completely. It came to me in full bloom when I was confronting one of the so called 'bad phases' in my life. And yes, it definitely helped me. It gave me the strength to come out of it unscathed and see things in a different light. I gained a better perspective of looking at things and started penning down my thoughts with ease. Submerged in essaying my views, I was really overwhelmed my the 'magic of words'. Day in and day out, ideas transcended my mind and coalesced on paper, catalyzed by a plethora of words, time and again.

Then blogging happened. And I was hooked to it instantly! Nowadays, its like 'if it happened to me, then its on my blog for sure'. Writing gives me happiness and a sense of joy pervades my mind. Sometimes when a good post comes along 'I literally jump with the excitement'. It's akin to a shell where I can conceal myself when things around are in a bad shape and gives me the much required succor when I need it the most. It helps me bounce back with a renewed zeal and enthusiasm every time. In the company of my writing and my blog, neither do I feel the pangs of loneliness nor do I feel left out in a solitary confinement.

Call it philosophy or plain conviction. I call it 'Aditism'. I can ranter on and on about my beliefs and things I adhere to. But rather than injecting the reader with an overdose of philosophy, I might as well stop here. Atleast for the time being and harp on something else.

History tells us about the likes of Leonardo Da Vinci, Galileo Galilei, Charles Dickens, Franklin Roosevelt, Wolfgang Mozart. Illustrious figures, quite noted for the kind of work they did. On a lighter note, two more names can surely be added to the above aggregate. Abhishek 'ShAkE Inc.' & Aditi 'Jiggs'! No pun intended here, mind you ;-)

Ingenuity is a second name for an Aquarian. There is no denying this fact. I, being an aquarian know this rather too well. Working on the aesthetics aspect of my blog with another aquarian who goes my the moniker of ShAkE Inc. a.k.a Abhishek, has been a very stimulating experience. When two such people revel in a creative endeavour as we did, the end result has to be explosive.
My blog 'Writing Pad' bears testimony to this fact rather well. Talk about a blog getting 'pimped'! Really LOLzz.

His creative self coupled with the perfectionist streak, patiently dealt with my constant influx of requests, endlessly for several hours until the work was finally done. He has miles to go and lot more of his virtuosity is yet to peel off. But the world shall reckon this creative genius in times to come. That's one thing for sure.

Guess I have been the lucky one. But definitely it was quite an experience. And I do hope to see much more of his ingenuity flow in days to come.”

No Ifs. No Ands. Only Butts.

2007-10-21T20:19:00.000+05:30

Rockolution

2007-10-21T01:08:00.000+05:30

“Something inside me
Has opened up its eyes
Why did you put it there?
Did you not realise?
This thing inside me
It screams the loudest sound
Sometimes I think I could

BURN BURN BURN

Burn this whole world down”

Confessions Of An Artist

2007-10-11T19:47:00.000+05:30

Visions in my head
Colors surround me
Mind exorcised, soul enchanted
Freezing life for eternity

Colors satiating stark silhouettes
A breath of life infused!
Gazing through the looking glass
I pause, I reflect

Oh! the beauteous joy of procreation
Oh! how lovely, how so pure
I revel in such a consummate bliss
Never to let go

Stimulated from the depths of my soul
Enveloped in a passionate aura
Like soaking up the warmth of the sun
Like plunging in the unfathomable sea

I close my eyes
Renewed vigor, a new drive
I begin again
Never to stop, never to cease

Visions in my head
Colors surround me
Mind exorcised, soul enchanted
Freezing life for eternity

Mr. Mittal Says...

2007-10-11T11:27:00.000+05:30

“........I visited Jamshedpur over the weekend to see for myself an India that is fast disappearing despite all the wolf-cries of people like Narayanamurthy and his ilk. It's one thing to talk and quite another to do and I am delighted to tell you that Ratan Tata has kept alive the legacy of perhaps India’s finest industrialist J.N. Tata. Something that some people doubted when Ratan took over the House of the Tatas but in hindsight, the best thing to have happened to the Tatas is unquestionably Ratan. I was amazed to see the extent of corporate philanthropy and this is no exaggeration. For the breed that talks about corporate social responsibility and talks about the role of corporate India, a visit to Jamshedpur is a must. Go there and see the amount of money they pump into keeping the town going; see the smiling faces of workers in a region known for industrial unrest; see the standard of living in a city that is almost isolated from the mess in the rest of the country.

This is not meant to be a puff piece. I have nothing to do with Tata Steel, but I strongly believe the message of hope and the message of goodness that they are spreading is worth sharing. The fact that you do have companies in India which look at workers as human beings and who do not blow their software trumpet of having changed lives. In fact, I asked Mr.Muthuraman, the managing director, as to why he was so quiet about all they had done and all he could offer in return was a smile wrapped in humility, which said it all. They have done so much more since I last visited Jamshedpur, which was in 1992. The town has obviously got busier but the values thankfully haven’t changed. The food is still as amazing as it always was and I gorged, as I would normally do. I visited the plant and the last time I did that was with Russi Mody. But the plant this time was gleaming and far from what it used to be.

Greener and cleaner and a tribute to environment management. You could have been in the mountains. Such was the quality of air I inhaled! There was no belching smoke; no tired faces and so many more women workers, even on the shop floor. This is true gender equality and not the kind that is often espoused at seminars organised by angry activists. I met so many old friends. Most of them have aged but not grown old. There was a spring in the air which came from a certain calmness which has always been the hallmark of Jamshedpur and something I savoured for a full two days in between receiving messages of how boring and decrepit the lack lustre Fashion Week was.

Jamshedji Nusserwanji Tata had created an edifice that is today a robust company and it is not about profits and about valuation. It is not about who becomes a millionaire and who doesn’t. It is about getting the job done with dignity and respect keeping the age-old values intact and this is what I learnt.

I jokingly asked someone as to whether they ever thought of joining an Infosys or a Wipro and pat came the reply: "We are not interested in becoming crorepatis but in making others crorepatis." Which is exactly what the Tatas have done for years in and around Jamshedpur. Very few people know that Jamshedpur has been selected as a UN Global Compact City, edging out the other nominee from India, Bangalore. Selected because of the quality of life, because of the conditions of sanitation and roads and welfare. If this is not a tribute to industrial India, then what is? Today, India needs several Jamshedpurs but it also needs this Jamshedpur to be given its fair due, its recognition. I am tired of campus visits being publicised to the Infosys and the Wipros of the world. Modern India is being built in Jamshedpur as we speak. An India built on the strength of core convictions and nothing was more apparent about that than the experiment with truth and reality that Tata Steel is conducting at Pipla.

Forty-eight tribal girls (yes, tribal girls who these corrupt and evil politicians only talk about but do nothing for) are being educated through a residential program over nine months. I went to visit them and I spoke to them in a language that they have just learnt: Bengali. Eight weeks ago, they could only speak in Sainthali, their local dialect. But today, they are brimming with a confidence that will bring tears to your eyes. It did to mine.

One of them has just been selected to represent Jharkand in the state archery competition. They have their own women’s football team and what’s more they are now fond of education. It is a passion and not a burden.

This was possible because I guess people like Ratan Tata and Muthurman haven’t sold their souls to some business management drivel, which tells us that we must only do business and nothing else. The fact that not one Tata executive has been touched by the Naxalites in that area talks about the social respect that the Tatas have earned.

The Tatas do not need this piece to be praised and lauded. My intent is to share the larger picture that we so often miss in the haze of the slime and sleaze that politics imparts. My submissions to those who use phrases such as "feel-good" and "India Shining" is first visit Jamshedpur to understand what it all means. See Tata Steel in action to know what companies can do if they wish to. And what corporate India needs to do.

Murli Manohar Joshi would be better off seeing what Tata Steel has done by creating the Xavier Institute of Tribal Education rather than by proffering excuses for the imbroglio in the IIMs. This is where the Advanis and Vajpayees need to pay homage. Not to all the Sai Babas and the Hugging saints that they are so busy with. India is changing in spite of them and they need to realise that. I couldn’t have spent a more humane and wonderful weekend. Jamshedpur is an eye opener and a role model, which should be made mandatory for replication. I saw corporate India actually participate in basic nation-building, for when these tribal girls go back to their villages, they will return with knowledge that will truly be life-altering.

Corporate India can do it but most of the time is willing to shy away. For those corporate leaders who are happier winning awards and being interviewed on their choice of clothes, my advise is visit Tata Steel, spend some days at Jamshedpur and see a nation’s transformation. That is true service and true nationalism. Tata Steel will celebrate 100 years of existence in 2007. It won’t be just a milestone in this company’s history. It will be a milestone, to my mind of corporate transparency and generosity in this country. It is indeed fitting that Ratan Tata today heads a group which has people who are committed to nation-building than just building influence and power.

JRD must be smiling wherever he is. And so must Jamshedji Nusserwanji. These people today have literally climbed every last blue mountain. And continue to do so with vigour and passion. Thank god for the Tatas!”

[Thank you Mr. Mittal. Exemplifying the glory of my hometown in a manner as such brings a gleam to my eyes. Born and brought up in the cradle of fervent industrial growth amidst lush green environs, I harbor an unbridled joyous fervor. Difficult to suppress. Impossible to let go. Call it Jamshedpur, Jampot or simply Jam......it's my home. My Town. And I'm proud of it.]

Office Buzz : Do The Doodle!

2007-10-09T01:13:00.000+05:30

One of those snoozy afternoons. Trying to avert the soporific allure by doing what I do best.

Suddenly out of nowhere.

Boss : So, what's happening?

Me : uh..huh...(bit rattled, turning around). Oh, well...nothing much (trying to conceal the sheet of paper and promptly building up a 'I'm busy at work' demeanor)

Boss : NOTHING MUCH?!!! The reports are due since yesterday. What about th... (glances at the sheet of paper)...oh I s-e-e! So doodling again, eh?

Tries to play peeping-tom and makes a herculean attempt to gaze at my objet d' art.

Me : (putting up a brave front) No actually...actually, was working on the reports and...(quickly folding the sketches and casting them aside)...and was stuck on one of the scripts. But I am trying....

Boss : Hmm...I s-e-e (apparently miffed). So you are stuck. And you need help, don't you?

Me : Ummm...Ya...I g-u-e-s-s so (threw a swift 'need some more time' look at him)

Boss : (bends down) Then Mr. Picasso, you should try Google not doodle! (a pause and then his voice cracks) 8:30 PM is the deadline. No more extensions!

Whizzes off to his cabin in a huff.

Muffled, I stare at the screen.

Damn! There goes my artistic fervor down the drain. A dreamy afternoon wasted.

So much for deadlines. Boo-hoo :-(

Breaking Free

2007-10-05T02:02:00.000+05:30

No rack can torture me
My soul's at liberty
Behind this mortal bone
There knits a bolder one

You cannot prick with saw
Nor rend with scymitar
Two bodies therefore be
Bind one, and one will flee

The eagle of his nest
No easier divest
And gain the sky
Than mayest thou

Except thyself may be
Thine enemy
Captivity is consciousness
So's liberty

Phildickian Gnosticism

2007-10-03T02:50:00.000+05:30

“I write about people I love, and put them into a fictional world spun out of my own mind, not the world we actually have, because the world we actually have does not meet my standards. In my writing I even question the universe; I wonder out loud if it is real, and I wonder out loud if all of us are real.”

I saw the door open. A gentle push. The light flittered incessantly but I could see him. Reclined on his chair, with his eyes wide open. Something was amiss. I sensed it.

"Are you alright, Mr. Dick? ", I enquired.

He lay still.

"Mr. Dick......".

"Huh...uh...err...nothing, nothing at all ", he replied.

"But something's wrong with you. I have a feeling ".

"Well, its actually...actually...."

He halts and gives me a queer look. I stand there trying to read his thoughts.

"I...I am having strange visions. Things which I shouldn't be seeing. Things unknown..."

Maybe it was the effect of the prolonged medication that he was undergoing. But I was not quite sure.

"What is it that you see? "

"Vesicle Pisces ".

Vesicle Pisces? I hadn't heard that before for sure. What could that be? I pondered frantically.

"I experienced an invasion of my mind...by a transcendentally rational mind, as if I had been insane all my life and suddenly...suddenly I have become sane now ".

"I see Jesus. The ancient Rome. Thomas. Does all this make any sense to you. Tell me...does this have any religious significance? "

I didn't have an answer. I shook my head in dissent.

"I don't seem to be myself. I...I feel like I'm somebody else. But who? Who can I be...? "

He rambled on. His face swept with undulating emotions of anger & exhilaration. This was strange. For a moment, I thought I knew him. The other moment, I didn't. I stood there, fixated on him.

"VALIS. GOD. I see it. I see it now."

He turned to me and said, "Leave me alone ".

I couldn't do much. I had to leave. As I inched towards the door, I glanced back at him. I wondered what had befallen this great writer. The greatest of all times. The man who seamlessly bridged the gap between alternate history and science fiction in his writings. The man who brought forth the ideas of shifting universes and made complete sense out of surreal fantasies. The same literary virtuoso was now not in touch with reality. How pitiable. The effect of drugs and intermittent bouts of schizophrenia had taken its toll on him. However the fact remained. His paranoiac self was a genius. A genius whom the world will remember for eons. Only time will tell.

[During the period of February and March of 1974, Philip K. Dick encountered a series of visions, which he referred to as "two-three-seventy-four" (2-3-74). He described the initial visions as laser beams and geometric patterns, and, occasionally, brief pictures of Jesus and of ancient Rome. As the visions increased in length and frequency, Dick claimed he began to live a double life, one as himself, "Philip K. Dick", and one as "Thomas", a Christian persecuted by Romans in the 1st century A.D. Despite his history of drug use and elevated stroke risk, Dick began seeking other rationalist and religious explanations for these experiences. He referred to the "transcendentally rational mind" as "Zebra", "God" and, most often, "VALIS". Dick wrote about the experiences in the semi-autobiographical novels Valis and Radio Free Albemuth.

Resorting to such an overt dramatization comes easy when one reels under the profound effect of his writings. I call it the 'PKD Syndrome'. Try running through his literary works and you shall know better.]

Through The Looking Glass

2007-10-01T20:01:00.000+05:30

Echoes, Silence, Patience & Grace

2007-09-29T06:06:00.000+05:30

Growl....Grohl....Growl!

Foo Fighters make a much awaited comeback to the rock scene with their new album 'Echoes, Silence, Patience & Grace'. David Grohl and his team display exemplary sonic skills, yet again. Expanding on their signature sound, the band infuses alt-rock with folk seamlessly this time resulting in a sound which veers upon eclectic and a bit aggressive at times. The perfect mix of soft and loud rhythms, it grows on you as you listen to it. Have to admit...this is the band's most mature & well balanced composition till date. Heady stuff all the way. Hmmm...."Radio friendly unit shifters".....anyone?

“ I'm the voice inside your head
You refuse to hear
I'm the face that you have to face
Mirrored in your stare
I'm what's left, I'm what's right
I'm the enemy
I'm the hand that will take you down
Bring you to your knees

So who are you?
Yeah, who are you?
Yeah, who are you?
Yeah, who are you?

Keep you in the dark
You know they all pretend

What if I say I'm not like the others?
What if I say I'm not just another one of your plays
You're the pretender
What if I say I will never surrender? ”

From My Art Diaries : The Female Nude...Art, Obscenity & Sexuality

2007-09-28T02:47:00.000+05:30

“The true work of art is but a shadow of the divine perfection”

Are you appalled? Or rather, do you feel yourself positioned in a 'perpetual state of shock' at this juncture? If you ever found it an arduous task to differentiate a Ruben's nude from a Playboy pinup....then my friend, you are looking at the wrong place. My apologies. From a common man's point of view, I do understand your conservative predicament. But alas! my outlandish self. Time and again, the inherent eccentric streak in me compels me to undertake such avant-garde strides. You say weird, I say valorous.

The artist in me has always been beguiled by the female nude form. Well, it does sound rather unconventional and maybe a tad schlocky. But hey! Try gazing through an artist's looking glass, and you shall know better. A layman will mostly visualize the 'female form' and it's 'nude' as two completely separate identities. As a result, this premise basically makes him treat the female nude just as a means to satiate the male libido. I strongly differ here. Looking beyond the obvious, I realize that the nude does not simply represent the body. In fact it's the body's analogous self, to be precise. The embodiment of both as a single unit, emanates the very definition of beauty. A beauty so virginal, so divine! Beauty which inspires an artist, having a clear cut understanding of such a complex phenomenon, to come out with extraordinary pieces of art work. Describing it through mere words, I believe, is an attempt in futility. Well, of course one can. But the real connect comes when one defines it through the medium of art. While depicting it's sonsie form in it's subtle, enshrouded contours....an artist actually 'negotiates' his innate aesthetic ideologies with this female form. This in particular, can be aptly termed as the 'complete sensual experience' which doesn't veer towards the obscene or provocative. Quite strange, but true. The understanding of this very intertwined relation, helps an artist clearly make a distinction between 'aesthetic' and 'obscene' and so makes it easier for him in the complex representation of the female body under an unassuming aesthetic category.

Thus I opine. But the inevitable question is...do you concur? If that artistic streak prevails in you, then you shall. Or atleast you will try to. As for the others...I pity them.

[My endeavor to portray these vignettes involved pencil/pen sketching & a subtle usage of B&W watercolors ]

Indian Cricket 4.0

2007-09-26T00:43:00.001+05:30

Fireworks. Jubilations. Oh, how gleeful one can be!

From an obscure horizon, India has finally bounced back. Never before has Indian Cricket been so impregnable and dauntless. An irrefutable force to reckon with? The world knows better now.

On the night, after the India-Pakistan game, as I shook hands with the zealous revelers waving the Indian flag and engaged in a light holler signifying India's triumphant win in the Twenty20 World Cup finals...I felt proud. That quaint feeling in one corner of my heart was never felt all these days. It returned that day, yet again. To be frank, I have never been an ardent follower of the game, in the viewing sense per se. And with India's ever swerving fortunes, my cricketing loyalty has shifted endlessly. Now on, now off. And I, for one, prefer undertaking the physical rigors of the game. Whenever, wherever.

Well, so it was Monday night. And the big game was on. While the entire nation sat glued to the idiot box watching the Indian heroes sweat out in the greens, I was sitting in my near empty office. Glued to my machine, engaged in a never ending blitzkrieg of 0s & 1s, I rambled over my pending tasks and crucifying deadlines (Phew! The less said about my workaholic self, the better). Checking the score at intermittent periods was the usual norm all these days during the Twenty20 World Cup. I did catch a fleeting glimpse or two of some of the significant matches though. As I said, I had never gone gaga about watching India playing. But somehow this time, my attention was transfixed on the way India was performing of late. What I heard, and a bit of what I had seen in the past few days, India was definitely on a roll and how! Infectious, to say the least. And then at that moment, I couldn't resist the rising urge. I gave up.

DAMN! TO HELL WITH THE DEADLINES.

Within minutes, chucking aside all official hokum, I scourged for the live streaming of the ongoing match over the internet. And there it was. Right there. Cricket at its very best. Faster, zippier and gripping than I could ever imagine. With the onset of the new format, Cricket was now high on thrills. A revolutionary approach to the game, in which one has to hit right at the word 'Go', can never get a purist's nod. For he believes that this will ruin the technique and the very finesse of the gentleman's game. Those cover drives, long drives, late cuts and fine leg glances would be a thing of the past now. For him, the new rules of the game can spell doom, not to mention rewriting old ones.

But we care less. Fact is...with Twenty20, cricketing boards are raking in the moolah, world over. Real big money. There is no denying this fact. More so, every die hard cricket lover on the face of this planet is going ballistic over such an edge of the seat entertainment. So the question is...will anybody pause and muse over what a purist thinks? Oh, Puhleeez!

Not even for a moment, I could take my eyes off such an adrenaline packed sport. The usual technique for batsmen to hit the ball along the ground was tossed right out of the window. In fact, the ball persistently following the long trajectories as a result of incessant hard hitting displayed by the Indian batsmen, all over the ground. Those murderous onslaughts over the cow corner, reverse sweeps over the keeper's head and swift hoicks over no man's land, made sure the ball was kept busy all the time. In such a short version of the game, the perfect connect between the bat and the ball coupled with some brawn, is all that is required to keep the fours and the sixes raining. The crowd definitely needed some headgear to ward off 'injuries', I felt.

Guffaws. Lol.

Led by the gutsy and intrepid captain Dhoni, the new India is an opposition team's nightmare. It showed clearly in the players' body language and the dotty approach to the game. Pathan, RP Singh, Sreeshanth, Yuvraj...each and every one in the squad was a live wire on the field. The usual lackadaisical approach was long gone. Such an overnight transformation was tough to digest. (I reflected over Yuvraj's 6 sixes in an over during the India-England Match. Whoa! What's gotten in them? I pondered). With every passing moment, the Pakis seemed to be burdened with the relentless Indian attack and not long after, they crumbled completely. As Misbah lofted the ball over the wicket keeper's head straight into Sreesanth's hands, the cacophony & fervor amongst the crowd was remarkable. Truly, the win was a much required shot in the arm.

Sigh...An arduous wait of 24 years was finally over. The entire nation rose to applaud the new world champions. This was all that a cricket crazy India cared for. A long cherished dream fulfilled.

As for me, it's a new found craze to watch India play again...and yet again. And with a format such as Twenty20, I know rather well....cricket will never be the same again.

Guess it's time I kept aside my 'Die Hard 4.0' DVD for now. Action has a new name. Call it Twenty20 or India. I choose both.

Imaginer La Galerie

2007-09-24T13:46:00.000+05:30

Images speak louder than words. There is no denying this fact. In a muted sense, they leave an indelible impression on our minds. Well, I couldn't help but put together this assortment of colorful imagery depicting India in all its grandeur. Needless to say, quite invigorating.

And on a lighter note...here is India 'Ad'wise. Definitely, some out-of-the-box thinking!

An Inconvenient Truth

2007-09-17T03:31:00.000+05:30

Look at these images. Captivating or plain vapid? If you subscribe to either of the views, look closely again. You will find that these images have a deeper meaning underlying their facade. A meaning which portrays today's growing divide between the rich and the poor, the world over. The choice of subjects and the comparative price tags intelligently depict the clash of materialism and impoverishment. Hard hitting and thought provoking. An inconvenient truth, indeed.

“But I, being poor, have only my dreams
I have spread my dreams under your feet
Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams”

William Butler Yeats

Staying Young...demystified!

2007-09-17T01:40:00.000+05:30

“I was young. Now I'm not. Sad, how life takes it's toll on us”

If you are the kind of person who thinks like this, think again. Albeit, in a new direction. Positive thinking and an optimistic outlook can surely make a marked difference in your life. But what happens if you do so? Well, you stay young in your mind, heart and soul.

This ain't a funda. It's an all pervasive universal truth.

And here is a simple 10 pointer guide on how to do so:

1. Throw out nonessential numbers.
This includes age, weight, and height.
Let the doctors worry about them. That is why you pay them.

2. Keep only cheerful friends.
The grouches pull you down.
(Keep this in mind if you are one of those grouches!)

3. Keep learning.
Learn more about the computer, crafts, gardening, whatever.
Never let the brain get idle.
"An idle mind is the devil's workshop".
And the devil's name is Alzheimer's!

4. Enjoy the simple things.

5. Laugh often, long and loud. Laugh until you gasp for breath.
And if you have a friend who makes you laugh, spend lots and lots of time with him or her!

6. The tears happen.
Endure, grieve, and move on.
The only person who is with us our entire life, is ourself.
LIVE while you are alive.

7. Surround yourself with what you love.
Whether it's family, pets, keepsakes, music, plants, hobbies, whatever.
Your home is your refuge.

8. Cherish your health.
If it is good, preserve it.
If it is unstable, improve it.
If it is beyond what you can improve, get help.

9. Don't take guilt trips.
Take a trip to the mall, even to a foreign country, but NOT to where the guilt is.

10. Tell the people you love that you love them, at every opportunity.

Elevator Silence

2007-09-16T02:53:00.001+05:30

“There are times when silence has the loudest voice”

An interesting metaphor in English is 'Elevator Silence'. It's the sound you hear when you enter an elevator full of strangers. If you were speaking to a companion before you entered the elevator, you terminate the conversation the moment your feet enter the elevator. Other people who enter the elevator, mobile phone to the ear, snap the mobile shut with a curt "I'm entering the elevator. I'll call you back". And as the elevator makes its way upward or downward, six or eight or thirteen people as the case maybe, glance, look, or ogle at each other. The strangers stare at each others shoes, then at the button panel to check whether the button for their floor has been pressed, then look above the door to see the digits representing the floors change ...2-3-4-5... then stare back at the people opposite them, then do not stare at those standing next to them, then stare at the fan on the ceiling, then stare at the sign which says "OTIS elevators; maximum capacity: 13 persons; xxx kg". They mutter something to themselves but do not speak an audible word.

And then for those brief moments, the only moments you'll get in today's world, there is silence. Total, absolute silence. Not a word is spoken. If somebody coughs he excuses himself. And silence again.

In the office building, away from the hum, murmur, and din of ring tones, photocopiers, fax machines, keyboard taps, mouse clicks, coffee mug clinks, and human voices, the silence of the elevator provides succor to the modern man.

In the apartment block where he lives, modern man finds that away from the roar and noise of the TV, answering machine machine, utensil clangs, vaccuum cleaner buzz, switch clicks, air conditioner hiss, spouse's voice and the traffic beyond the balcony, the elevator represents his true sanctuary.

But why is silence to be found in elevators? Is it born of xenophobia? Is it political correctness? Is it our need to guard our privacy? Our effort at confidentiality? Or is silence a side effect of the claustrophobia that is inside all of us?

From another perspective, perhaps we don't choose to be silent. Perhaps, silence chooses where she dwells.

Silence nowadays is indeed found in few places, other than hospitals, churches and graveyards. Birth, Baptism, Burial.

Beyond this cycle and beyond these corners, silence struggles to find a place for herself in our world. So, she just about manages to squeeze herself into crowded elevators. And the elevator remains her only real refuge. The sanctum of silence.

[Excerpt from the mail archives]

Twenty Something

2007-09-16T00:05:00.000+05:30

“I woke up. I realized I had changed. And so had the world”

It is when you stop moving along with the crowd and realize that there are many things about yourself that you didn't know and may not like. A sudden feeling of insecurity creeps in. You wonder, where you will be in a year or two and then suddenly get scared because you barely know where you are right now.

You start realizing that people are selfish. Maybe those friends, that you thought you were so close to, aren't exactly the greatest people you have ever met in your life and that the people you have lost touch with are some of the most important ones. What you don't recognize is that they are realizing this fact too, and aren't really cold, catty, mean or insincere. In fact, they are just as confused as you are.

You look at your job. It's not even close to what you thought you would be doing. Maybe you are looking for a job and realize that you are going to have to start right at the bottom. Such a thought scares you.

Your opinions have strengthened. You look at what others are doing and find yourself judging more than usual because now you realize that there are certain limitations in your life. You are constantly adding things to your list of what is acceptable and what isn't. One minute, you are insecure and then the very next, secure.

You laugh and cry with the greatest force of your life. You feel alone, scared and confused. Suddenly, 'change' is an enemy. You try and cling on to the past with dear life, but soon realize that the past is drifting further and further away and there is nothing to do but stay where you are or move forward.

You get your heart broken and wonder how someone you loved so much could do such a thing to you. Sometimes you lie in bed and wonder why you can't meet anyone decent enough whom you want to get to know better. Maybe you love someone. Maybe you love someone else too and can't figure out why you're doing this. From the inside, you know that you aren't a bad person after all. One night stands and random hook ups start to look cheap. Getting wasted and acting like a moron starts to look pathetic. You go through the same emotions and questions over and over again and talk with your friends about the same topics because you seem to have become indecisive. You worry about loans, money, the future and making a life for yourself... and while winning the race would be great...right now, you'd just like to be a contender!

I'm sure that every soul who reads this will relate to it. We are in our best of times and our worst of times, trying as hard as we can to figure this whole thing out. It's a state of confusion and chaos.

Call it the "Quarter-Life Crisis".

[Excerpt from the mail archives]

Stoned...Am I ?

2007-09-14T16:01:00.001+05:30

“And with the early dawn
Moving right along
I couldn't buy an eyeful of sleep
And in the aching night under satellites
I was not received
Built with stolen parts
A telephone in my heart
Someone get me a priest
To put my mind to bed
This ringing in my head
Is this a cure or is this a disease? ”

Trainspotting!

2007-09-12T21:11:00.000+05:30

George looked on. His unflinching gaze never wavered. It was there...right in front of him, all that he could ever imagine. His prurient mind ruminated frantically over the endless possibilities. But at that very moment of uncertainty, something inside told him to stop right there. He stood still, juxtaposed with conflicting emotions clashing in his mind. A split second later, he decided to take the plunge. Such a plunge which would send him spiraling down headlong into the bottomless pits of self destruction. Right at that very moment, a junkie was born...in an insatiable world of drugs, this was his new beginning. The beginning of an end.

"First time, eh?...I know it, man. I F***ING KNOW IT...hah! Damn...you gotta try this. This, this right over here...it will blow you away. Like a dream, man...yeah, just like a F***ING dream!". Jack was his usual self. Yelling, gesticulating, extolling the virtues of drugs & propagating his twisted take on 'life'ism to one and all. Droopy eyed, crisscrossing wrinkles all over his forehead...he bore the sign of a broken man. Living in a phantasmagorical world of his own, he really cared less about the very world he belonged to. In fact, nothing. His carefree self was quite satiated with this seemingly parallel existence. Jack knew this fact, albeit unknowingly.

George seemed perturbed. He looked around. All he saw was a swarming bunch of people exhibiting a similar streak of behavior such as that of Jack. A guy staring at the wall without causing his eyes as much as to blink, a couple making out...quite oblivious to their surroundings, a young girl having an engaging conversation with an inconspicuous being. George closed his eyes. For the first time, his understanding of his immediate surroundings seemed to fail him. But he couldn't get over this strong unrelenting urge. He opened his eyes and looked at the symmetrically segregated equidistant long lines of the 'white dust'. It was now or never. He knew he could do it.

"HEY, C'MON HERE...I KNOW YOU WANNA DO THIS, MAN!", yelled Jack. This was the final whistle, thought George. As he transgressed his thoughts which seemed to hold him back, he bent down and took a quick sniff...then fell back on his seat and closed his eyes, yet again. Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing at all. For a moment he thought he knew himself. Or did he? Seconds later, this feeling changed. Time, stood still. A sudden realization creeped in that he had traversed to the other side. Finally, a new world...A new awakening! For the first time in his life, this pregnant feeling made him look beyond his life's trials and tribulations. The demise of his parents...the unexpected breakup with Sarah...all faded away, in an instant. He didn't want to stop at this tempting juncture. Shedding all his inhibitions, he snorted more. More and more. The poison spread in his blood akin to an enemy infiltrating the oppostion stealthily in the silent cover of night. The world around him faded into a wavy haze of garish colors with the surrounding clamour inadvertently supervened upon by the pulsating heavy beats of Gravity's Rainbow submerging his head. The music made a whole lot of sense now. Swaying back and forth, George was now completely under the control of this intoxicating sensation. Powerful and heady. He couldn't let go of it. And he didn't even try...

George shivered in fright. Wide-eyed, he tried to look again. Nothing lay in front of him now. As if in a flash, everything had changed. It was like waking up from the dead. Two long years had gone by. Jack was dead. And so were many others who were in the terrible grip of this poison. George's crave for drugs had ruined him. Broke and homeless, he wandered the streets aimlessly until rescued. He underwent rehabilitation. Those two arduous years had been a living hell for him. George knew this too well. Giving up drugs was like giving up his life. But he did and now...he was reborn. Reborn again as a man who knew the true meaning of life and his existence. A new beginning, awaited him.

“I’ve seen the needle and the damage done,
A little part of it in everyone.
But every junkie’s like a setting sun”
Neil Young

Bare Beginnings

2007-09-07T03:06:00.001+05:30

It's time. The wait has been inordinately long. Somewhere, something was holding me back. An inexplicable force inside me. Inside my head, inside my soul. It's still out there, trying to overpower my mind. Seemingly arduous to fight back but fight back, I will.

As the wise say, 'To err is human'. I concur. But don't we get a second chance to rectify those mistakes? Sure we do, but not quite often. Sometimes we just don't get it at all. That's Life. That's the cruel world we live in. Life takes its toll on us and we flow with it. But the craving for that second chance remains in our mind. The chance to redeem a soul. The chance to make a difference.
As I reflect now, I realize I have lost somebody. Someone dear to me. An integral part of my life. But who is this 'somebody' ? Do I know him ? Where is he ? Or is it...is it in fact, 'Me' ? I really don't know. No, not at this point at least. But I do intend to find out. Come what may, I will find him. He is lost somewhere in the sands of time but he is out there. Waiting, for that second chance to make things right again.
A long journey lies ahead of me. A journey of self realization, along a path strewn with adversities. But I won't give up. I will not bend down. And I will not look back. I realize, it's time.