Soliloquy

A Surreal Tale

2009-05-09T03:41:00.000-07:00

I was there. I was there a long time ago. And I was waiting. I didn’t remember what I was waiting for. There was a sense of desperation and a bit of urgency in it but I was patient. I looked around and discovered that I was in a square. The walls of square were painted in colour of barren landscapes devoid of any vegetation and they extended, as if, from inside of me. It was then that I realised I was in a corner. I believe a lot of time had passed since I settled in there. I say this because I could see the cobwebs of time around me.

I could see edges of the square from where I was sitting. All of them were covered in a shade of dark. It seems the only source of illumination in the square was a hole and that served as my window to the outside world, though there is very little that I could see and I must confess my sight is a bit impaired. From this hole I could see the rays of sun entering into this melancholy square and creating wonderful patterns in the air out of mere particles of dust. I found this amusing and wanted to smile but then realised that I should be sad, I didn’t understand why.

I had this sinking feeling that I was unable to comprehend. I was not sure if it was originating in my stomach or in my head. The endless solitude of the square was only aggravating it. Probably I should have gotten up and walked around a little, and found someone to talk, but something told me, it was against my nature. I therefore remained silent and kept on waiting.

Someone walked in. Or did I conjure it? I saw someone walk out of darkness. I could not see the face, it was blurred. However, I established from the smell that it was a girl. She did not notice me at first and kept on circling the square, reciting a poem that I could not hear. I looked intently at her. She seemed lonely but I was not sure. I wanted to draw attention towards myself, but then realised that it has been so long that I have not spoken; I wasn’t confident that I was capable of it anymore.

After a long time she noticed me. I wasn’t aware till that moment how I look. When I witnessed her body twitch on seeing me, I realised that I was ugly. Somehow she controlled herself. She then sat down very close me and brought her face near to me. I could still not see her face properly but I could make out her lips and her nose. Her smell was now overwhelming. She looked at me with curiosity and I felt like I was under scientific examination. I was confused and did not know what to do. I spit at her. This angered her and she raised her hand. She looked so furious that I thought she would squash me. I was frightened. Then suddenly she lost interest. She again started circling the square but now I realised that she was crying. I wanted to console her but did not know how to. She then sat down at the corner opposite to mine. The darkness slowly consumed her and she disappeared.

It must have been getting dark outside as the light coming through the hole had dimmed. It was then that it entered through that very hole. It flew around looking for someone to tell the tales of the outside world but probably found it very dark in here. It finally landed besides me and I quickly realised what I have been waiting for. I devoured it, my prey - the lovely moth, into pieces and felt the satisfaction that I so desperately needed.

Well, you see, if you hear intently then even someone like me, an eight legged solitary hunter, at corner of your room, has a tale to tell.

Old Man

2009-05-01T12:10:00.000-07:00

He was a very old man. He was so old that everyone had forgotten his age, his past and even his name. He himself had no recollection of anything that he had known in his life. All he remembered were the basic things like eating, peeing, shitting and occasionally talking. He lived in a house that was as old as him, but that was only everyone's guess because no one really remembered anymore which one was older. The dead, who could have told, were least interested in life of old man, whatever was left of it. The living shared this disinterest and were so busy that they had no time, even for pity. A very few, who could have cared to collect the pieces of his memory and put them together to get a sort of vague picture, grew disinterested by the fact that all pieces were so scattered that it seemed the old man himself was never really interested in his life.

The old man was so thin and wasted, emaciated to his bones, that whatever skin was left hanged freely from his skeleton. It seemed that only a little and indifferent adhesive held his body together. They would have betted on time when his body would break down or melt away or simply disappear, had they been not so busy. His face had many wrinkles and it was impossible to iron them out even in one’s imagination. He would stay in bed, for long periods of time, sometimes as if in trance, sometimes as if dead, due to which he had developed bed-sores all across right portion of his body. But he was also quick to surprise the onlookers, who thought he had stopped breathing, by jumping out of the bed with such energy that no melancholy old soul, they thought, could possess. Somehow he had a lot of hair on his body and head, which in contrast to his to rest of his being, looked relatively younger and seemed to possess a promise to outlive the old man himself. The very old room in which he usually stayed was decorated, by very few who cared, with his old belongings so that he could remember, and perhaps tell them, his own forgotten name. However to the old man his possessions were new toys every day, every minute and every second. The people who dared to enter the room, even when they willed otherwise, generally found a pungent smell that they could not relate to anything and even after they had cleaned every inch of the house the smell remained. Thus they came to associate this smell with old man himself.

Yet, if the rumours are to be believed, the old man once had a childhood. He never saw his mother, it is said, and lived with his father in a forgotten country. He even played with the wooden toys and carried a slate tugged under his arm to the school. He played with girls during dusk and would retire to his home only after it was so dark that it was impossible to play juvenile games like hide and seek. He would sleep by his father's lap who would narrate to him stories of some forgotten Gods and would wake up at dawn by music of an old gramophone. He probably wasn’t very good at studies and was devoid of any passion to excel at anything. It is also said, that soon after entering into his adolescent years he had wife. Though not much is known, they think that she is the one responsible for preserving him over all these years and her absence is the reason that he is a decaying fossil today. She loved him but they are not sure how much old man loved her because it has been so long that he has not shown himself being capable of any emotion, let alone of love. There is absolutely no evidence whatsoever to relate any of charismatic characteristics to him throughout his years, instead it is easy to realise that he has always been like this – melancholy, lonely, garrulous at times and above all old. Maybe this is not the true image of his childhood, his adolescence and his life in general, but so it is rumoured, by those who did not care and did not remember.

A very few who did care, but did not remember, didn’t ever look into past because they knew that it was forgotten. For them he was a new person every year, every month and every day. From November to February, when skin of the old man would turn pale white, they would find him lying on bed in shape of Z. The old man would look and feel and smell like a block of ice and even weigh like that – for they found him quite heavy while changing his clothes and cleaning him. After February and by onset of spring he would be full of spite. He would pee while they changed his clothes, would spit the medicines they offered him and curse everyone who happened to cross him. After May and with onset of summer he would cry. He would wail like an injured and abandoned animal in middle of a desert. Even though they closed their doors and windows the vapours of his pain would sweep through and that is how, those who cared, a very few of them, became insomniacs. July, which marked the start of monsoon and a season of happiness, would be for the old man a season of unexpected injuries and illness. They wondered whether the old man actually inflicted these upon himself and they never really witnessed him fight any illness, yet they knew he would linger on. For whatever was left of the year the old man would laugh. He would sometimes laugh at them and sometimes into the open air - nothingness and vast emptiness. Sometimes they would laugh with him, sometimes at him and sometimes they would cry and while crying they would often forget whether they were crying at his misfortune or theirs. At times he would even try to recall some forgotten poem but almost always lost the meter and then the words midway; the only thing that would leave his toothless mouth was hot air with a smell of decaying stomach and fermented skin.

Why do we care? - they sometimes questioned themselves. Is it because of love or disgust? Is it because of pity or fear? Whenever they questioned they either got no answer or many conflicting ones. In the end submitted them to hope that this state of affair was just transient.

They all wondered whether such a life was worth living. They had always though that old man never did anything significant in his life but still they wondered how a man, as old as he, could live on without memory of even the most insignificant pleasures he had ever felt. Maybe he never felt any pleasure, they reasoned, maybe it was always spite. They even wondered how fearless the old man would be as he had no notion of death even when he was so close to it. They all believed that he was an exception, an anomaly of nature. They had all forgotten that they were all cursed, right when they were coming out of the womb, until they all became him.

Their Irony...

2009-03-20T23:07:00.000-07:00

Envy other's life but in chains are we,
wonders my wife and hazel eyed she.

As the night ends...

2009-03-14T09:58:00.000-07:00

Never thought would have, such a paucity of friends,
Alone would stare through wine-glass, as breezy night ends.

Betrayal of the Fittest - II

2009-02-15T02:03:00.000-08:00

Written 2 years ago when I was less wise :-)

She was the melancholy that was there in his heart. He wanted to possess that little child, uncorrupted yet seductive child, to whom the world had been cruel so far. He wanted to be that prince who had rescued a trapped princess from an unknown dungeon. ‘They lived happily ever after’ was how he would have loved the story of life to end; the nostalgia had never really left him. But if he was ever to receive a tight wake-up-call-slap from destiny, then the time could not have been better than this. It was morning of ninth April. Outside it was still dark.

He had a simple choice to make. Either to go ahead with the commitment which he had made in past, or to walk out of it and return to the known jungle of uncertain future. If he decides to stay, he would have to live with a lie, in a make belief world, that he has love of his life. Yes, it would be a lifelong pain, but in a way he will be proclaimed a hero – by his own self and by others (if he dared to tell anyone). He would be doing a selfless deed; preserving sanctity of a commitment. But what if he decides to walk out of it? What a cowardly act it would be! Messiahs of love, all the Romeos and the Juliets, would walk out of their graves and punch him on face. Yet his pain would be relived. He would be guilty, true, but he would not be lying to anyone, least of all to himself. Ironically, his honesty would also heal his ego by returning him his hero status once more.Those were tough days, very tough days indeed. He remembered how he would sometimes feel that maybe a belief in God would have prevented such fate. Then atleast he would have feared a final trial, the afterlife. The set norms of God would have made his decision much simpler. Only if the God would have seen that mischievous smirk!

In the end, he chose to be selfish. Ironically, it was nostalgia – of his old life as singleton – that shaped up his choice. But the shadow of devil did not leave him. His thoughts did not end, they continued to haunt him:

Time is the culprit. I should have said this long back, at the beginning, it was in my heart.I was inexperienced, lame. She provoked me. I resisted, but failed. I was hungry. I wanted sex. I wanted more than sex, I wanted love. It was first time a girl had accepted me. I was overwhelmed.I committed.

His every attempt to rationalise his act, his existence, would end in guilt and yet he felt no remorse. As the days passed by, he realised that it was becoming more and more important to put an end to this guilt. So he did opposite of what he would do when he was in love. In love, to make himself feel that the girl he loves is the best he could have ever desired, he would concentrate on one very unique and desirable feature of her’s. It could be anything, her smile, her eyes or even more subtle features. Then, in the window of his mind this girl would personify it, and he would worship it with religious intensity; no other person in world possessed such a beautiful thing that she had.It wasn’t easy at first but when he tried it wasn’t difficult either.

"She, his fairly land princess, wasn’t looking for love, he tried to establish, just marriage. She wanted security, an illusion anyway."

“That’s why she was not interested in real me. Over and above all, she tried to invent guilt in me.”

He remembered how she would often mention trifle details and say “Look how much I am doing for you”. He was used to such methods, for even his parents have used it many times. He admitted that such factually correct statements do create a lot of guilt. This is their sole purpose. All his pain for her ended with one statement:

“It was not worth!”

Drunken Thoughts

2009-02-15T00:20:00.000-08:00

Just 2 Kingfisher Strong

What if you find someone in absolutely same predicament as you. What if the person is undergoing a similar agony. This is what I felt:

1. I felt love - no before you become apprehensive, let me allay your fears. This is not the usual love, that is much talked about, and yet ironically it is the most the most common love. It is the love one has for oneself, the narcissism in its purest form. I felt as if I had allocated a portion of this love to this person. After all did she not represent me in her feelings, in her predicament!

2. I felt an urge to destroy her - I have always believed that out of new lows, out new predicaments arrives a new success. There can be only one winner, or very few at least. If this person has a similar predicament then she may share my throne. Destroy her now, that was the urge.

Writer - He and I

2007-09-15T08:12:00.000-07:00

W. Somerset Maugham, Preface to Collected stories Volume 2 -

There is a point I want to make about these stories. The reader will notice that many stories are written in the first person singular. That is a literary convention which is as old as hills... Its object is of course to achieve credibility, for when someone tells you what he states has happened to himself you are more likely to believe that he is telling the truth than when he tells you what happened to somebody else. It has besides a merit from storyteller’s point of view that he need only tell you what he knows for a fact and can leave to your imagination what he doesn’t know or couldn’t know. ........But the I who writes is just as much a character in story as the other persons with whom it is concerned. He may be the hero or he may be an onlooker or a confidant. But he is a character. The writer who uses this device is writing fiction and if he makes the I of his story a little quicker on the uptake, a little more level headed, a little wittier, a little wiser than he, the writer, really is, the reader must show indulgence. He must remember that author is not drawing a faithful portrait of himself, but creating a character for the particular purpose of his story.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from the underground -

The author of these Notes, and Notes themselves, are both, of course, imaginary. All the same, if we take into consideration the conditions that have shaped our society, people like the writer not only may, but must, exist in society. I have tried to present to the public in a more striking form than is usual a character belonging to the very recent past, a representative figure from a generation still surviving.

Franz Kafka on being a writer, "Letter to Max Brod." (Qtd. in Corngold 73) –

But what is to be a writer? Writing is a sweet, wonderful reward but its price? During the night the answer was transparently clear to me. It is a reward for the service to devil. This descent to the dark powers, the unbinding of spirits by nature bound, dubious embraces and whatever else may go on below, of which one no longer knows anything above ground, when in the sunlight one writes stories. Perhaps there is another kind of writing, I know only this one; in the night, when anxiety does not let me sleep, I know only this.

Air Pressure!!

2007-09-10T12:34:00.000-07:00

There are two types of silence in this world. One, in which you hear nothing. stillness. The other is in which you hear every one's voice, whispering, all around you. It is quite similar to passive smoking. You inhale everyone's suggestions, ideas, advices, quarrels, love troubles. All types of stories mix up with your own as you try to turn page of that stupid '100 ways to do something great' book that you picked at the airport because your boss wanted you to read it, most probably because that was the only book he had read after becoming your boss.

I was seated somewhere in middle of that airplane. The blinding glare of right wing had already compelled me to half close the shutter of that small window. There was not much to see outside of that window anyway. I have always observed that clouds are more interesting from ground than they are from 30000ft. While I am looking up at them they fuse and diffuse into all kinds of shape but while looking down I just find white sea, shapeless.

There was nothing much interesting inside the plane too. To my left was an ugly mulatto girl who was feigning sleep just to crawl over me every now and then. This was also the reason I had kept the window shutter half open, so that I can direct my attention outward whenever the need arises.

The air hostesses were also a disappointing lot. They were the reason I had picked up this airplane for travel, even though fare was a bit over reimbursable limit according to my company policy. Their brochure flaunted many blondes in red dress. Hope, of a madman, to spot at least one desirable woman among this crowd had clouded my decision. In reality, most of these hostess girls were in their early twenties. They wore white shirts, red skirt and some of them had red jackets on. All of them had small firm breasts, their skin tanned and hair pulled back. Maybe as a teenager I would have found them attractive but somehow today I did not.

So as this relatively boring flight, attained relatively boring height a not so unusual fear grew inside me. What if we were to hit a bird (or superman) and explode in sky? If I were to imagine such a situation while lying on my bed, as I presently am, I would have definitely thought like this - "How will I be remembered if I died? How will people whom I love feel? will they be able to live without me? Oh my God, I don't want to die". However, at 30000ft none of this occurred to me. Somehow, this fear elevated my desperation to find a "desirable" woman, whom I could hold tightly as the plane explodes.

My brilliant thought process was suddenly interrupted by an explosion of another kind. It seems that the lunch served by the undesirable hostess wasn't well accepted by my stomach. As this monstrous metallic bird dived in and out of the clouds, the frequent explosions inside resulted in frothing outside. Now, before any of my ugly co travellers could acknowledge this by sound or smell, I had to run to the toilet. Yes! The seatbelt sign was on. If I go down with pale face, the hostess would not trouble me with questions but the source of unpleasant scent would be well established in the plane. So I walked up to the toilet door, with my little finger scratching inside of my ear - as if air pressure has numbed by hearing senses. The hostess was also too lazy (undesirable) to shout more than once. I slowly turned the little handle and I was inside. Heaven!

Windmill of Goddesses

2007-09-06T13:00:00.000-07:00

London did not turn out to be as I had expected. I had measured it differently in my mind. Everything turned out to be incorrect; Buckingham palace had shrunk, London eye had stooped, Thames was too slimy, London Bridge was just a connecting road. In spite of that I ended up clicking some six hundred photographs and I am glad that most of them have turned out to be good. So even though the trip was a disappointment to me, it will surely seem to be a great tourist destination to whoever will view these pictures. Irony, Illusion.

However, I do not wish to write a travelogue. It is some uncontrolled, unbearable and unrationalised emotions that I need to dispense of through this blog. After all not everything that happened was unexpected.

It was night time when bus stopped at Piccadilly. Just like before every big moment I have had in my life, this time too my bladder was about burst with excitement. So I went straight to the subway public toilet and got rid of unwanted stuff. Then it was time. Like a solitary hunter I searched for my den, as if it was my nostalgia from past life. I found it. It was named 'The Windmill' - The exotic night club for men. I do admit, I was bit afraid that 'night club for men' might be a gay club, but a little observation alleviated this fear.

I was aware that it will be costly affair. But I was ready for it. I would have gladly worn pound bills all over my body; pound shirt, pound pant, pound socks, pound shoes - so that Goddesses could snatch it all away from me. I gently handed my credit card to an old guy at reception, priest if I dare call him, who seemed to have lost some of his memory.

After hanging my coat in the cloakroom, I walked up the stairs to hell. Through the small window in door, I could see what I had wished for. I am not sure whether it was my puzzled look or the custom of the place, a blonde opened up the door for me to enter. Then I saw it all, tried to swallow the whole scene in a gulp and coughed. There were blondes, brunettes and redheads all over the place. The room itself was not a large one; at one side was the dance floor and on the opposites a long bar table. There wasn't much furniture, just five or six round tables. Most of the people were hanging around at the bar area.

Oh! Yes, I forgot to mention, I did have a beer before coming to this place. Why? To provide myself a sense of detachment that can induce patience, which I now believe, is a virtue most important in love and seduction. And this was the temple of love, or so I thought.

She was a Brazilian, the girl who first approached me. Kissed me. I am not unused to advances made by girls, but never to this degree and that too on first meeting. I'll call her Camellia (don't know whether it is Brazilian name) because I do not remember her real name. She did speak something into my ear, but her name never reached by eardrums. I was completely absorbed in the hot air from her mouth that touched my skin. She came close, very close indeed; I could smell every particle of her skin. I was tempted to touch and I did. She was soft, like feather. I moved my little finger down her naked back, exactly down her spine and she shivered. In this simulated environment, I was the perfect seducer. I smiled.

The way she talked it seems, she had been waiting for me - since eternity in this club. The Goddess of lust was ready to entertain me at my wish. I did not want to disappoint her. She wanted money, I had it. I wanted love, she had it. Ah! Never has a relationship been so easy.

She took me to the table. Did some movements - I won't really call it dance. Then slowly took off her bra. Flaunted her breasts near to my face. I would have touched them but the fear of bouncer prevented any embarrassment. Then she got rid of whatever was left on her body. There she was, reborn, right in front of me.

I was aroused but I felt a void. I did not understand it then, I do not understand it now. Was I not pleased by this display? I certainly liked it, desired it. Maybe even after all my rationalising I found it all too easy. There was no chase. Everything was coming off rather easily. I took out few pounds and gave her in fashion of movies.

I had last drink of night. A few more girls stopped by. One had very cute face. The other was quite fat, though her countenance I could not make out. There was one more, she was ready to take me home with her. 'What will you do whole night, you have no girl?' she said. 'I have my drink', I said in stupid manner. With a smirk, she left. I was alone again. Through my solitude, I looked one last time at the whole place. There were two girls dancing at the corners and florescent light was all over.

All this I was thinking over the adjoining bar table when another girl, with flat buttocks, passed by - 'Are you the shy one?'. 'Yes', I said.

Who am I?

2007-07-20T16:19:00.000-07:00

When do you see me? everyday, everywhere? nowhere?

Am I art or poetry? Or profanity of that maniacal? Is that you?

Am I a greek legend. daughter of Morpheus? girdle of Aphrodite?

Are you restless? Is that because of me?

I can read your mind. I know your memories. Am I lying?

Are you hurt? or are you playing to attract attention?

Are you searching for me? Am I God or your destiny? I could be your failure too.

You see me, don't you? on those wild nights or those placid evenings.

Are you drunk? you did this to accept me? or forget me? I am not your habit? Am I?

Are you lying - to yourself? What are you hiding - is that me?

What is that crawling up your skin? Why are your hands trembling? what are you afraid of? Is that me?

Do you hear me? Am I music? or is that you crying?

Ah! what is that sweet scent? perfume of my hair?

Can't you touch me? Oh! I am soft. You like me? Am I lust? Kiss me.

Do I seduce you? Is your ego hurt?

Hate me, love me. You cannot leave me. Am I your shadow?

Do I confuse you? I give you power though. Do you love me?

I cannot die, I was never born.

Betrayal Of The Fittest - I

2007-06-02T09:03:00.000-07:00

The day he was to marry the girl of his dreams, he woke up with an unfinished dream. It was not the irritating sound of his alarm clock, he had hated from his college days, which interrupted his troubled sleep. A deafening blast followed by cacophony of old female voices, perhaps song of a forgotten land, brought him back to reality. It was the day that he has been waiting for all his life, the day that she has been waiting for all her life, the day that perhaps all the people responsible for bringing him to insanity, to life, have been waiting for all their lives.

He was born under the sign of Libra sun. He was the product of holy confluence of two very pious Hindu Brahmin families. There was a family lore that one of his great great grandfathers – a true believer - had abdicated his family life and set out for Himalayas, in search of God. His family, were proud descendents of this man of God. From the day he was born, he was looked upon as reincarnation of great soul of his great great grandfather. The prince child he was, loved by entire family. On the day of his Naamkaran (Hindu naming ceremony), families near and far visited him. As he lay on his mother’s lap, wrapped in his warm clothes with his mother’s smell, people formed a queue around him. On their turn, as per the ceremony, they would whisper his name into his ear. “Nikhil, Nikhil, Nikhil.....” this was the name that reverberated through his ears and reached channels of his small child brain. That was the name by which he will be known for his entire life.

However, the day on which he was born, Nikhil Pande forgot to cry. He did not cry long enough to make nurses anxious. But once he started, he did not stop, even to this day, the day of his marriage.

Lying on his stomach, on a low bed, he curled his hands around his face, in an attempt to cover his eyes and ears. It was the unusual position that he would vainly try to get into even when he was a boy and his friends would shout his name from the street, inviting him for the Game. The striped pyjamas that he wore were similar to the uniform of prisoners and he had been infamous about these in his hostel because of his habit of wearing these all the time, to even most formal events. But that was a long time ago, before he had been rejected by Jiya.

'Jiya! Ah! What a comedy my life has been', he thought. There was a time when he was inexperienced, though by no standards he considered himself to be experienced now, in matters of love. But then he was a virgin, trying to cover up for what he had missed since the inception of puberty. There were girls, many girls indeed, whom he had admired and lusted over but by sheer chance he had picked Jiya. Then to fill the abyss, he had surreptitiously dedicated all his emotions, capable of being categorised as love, to her – the ultimate goddess, Jiya. The comedy of errors was realised, after a lot of watershed, that the categorisation itself has been lame. For first time he had experienced insomnia of unrequited love, of any type of love. Till that time he had considered it as de facto, that the first girl he would propose to would be his bride, his princess in the fairyland where the moon shines its silver all day and birds sing only for the honey couples.

Today however was a different day. He knew that before he would yet again sink into myriad thoughts about his life, it was time to get up and get ready, for the most important day of his life.

As he stepped outside the room, he realised that it was already a sunny day. Mid June is a very hot time of year in most parts of India. Nikhil hated this season; he hated heat and sun. He had always preferred cold silent nights to dusty hot days. He would always go to sleep late at night and would get up late in morning. He hated sleep because he did not want the day to end. Sleep would mean start of next day, another day, new day, same monotonous day. So in his attempt to save the day, he would lie awake as long as possible, even when he had nothing to do. It was not always like this though. There was a time when he was a child – in those good old school days – when his mother would wake him up early, would help him bathe, help him with his tidy dress and send him off to school bus. By the time he was back from school, his lunch would be ready and he would have a nice tranquil sleep after that. In evening after some play, his mother would help him with his studies and then kiss him goodnight at an appropriate time. However, the day she relinquished her control, everything changed.

‘It is still early, and it is going to be a long day anyway’, he thought. He came back into the room, closed the door, shut the curtains on the window and got back into his bed. It was not possible to sleep because of all the noise, so with dreamy eyes, he realised that his thoughts were once again wandering to his past.

There was a knock on the door. Maybe somebody shouted his name too. Reluctantly he got up and opened the door. His mother entered, with a smile which reflected the satisfaction that had touched her soul when her son had agreed to finally marry a girl and live a peaceful life. “Get ready beta. Ladies’ sangeet will be over in an hour or so. Everyone will be expecting you then”. She was right, there was no point procrastinating now. His mother took out from the closet, a newly purchased Kurta-Pyjama – which was in compliance with all the standards set for honourable families regarding their marriage outfits. He then promised his mother to meet her in half-an hour in the hallway and gently shut the door behind her. Without wasting another minute he went into the bathroom. After emptying his bowels he flushed the toilet. The vortex of toilet instigated him to masturbate and he happily followed wish of his body. As the stormed stirred inside him, it hued to form images of all the female friends he had known and ended with an explosion, which at the pinnacle was delectation and a second later, guilt. He then stood under the jet of shower and washed his body and silently watched the soap flow down the drain. He did not sing, did not hum, did not think. Then he was ready!

Nishabd

2007-05-01T16:20:00.000-07:00

Generally I don't write such poetry. But I could not resist it. It just kept flowing out.

TAPTI GARMI ME PYAR KE MAUSAM ME BHEEGA KARTE THE
TUMHE JAANE BINA, TUMHAARI YAAD ME KHOYA KARTE THE
CHAHAT NAHI THI KISI KE LIYE LEKIN
TUMHARE EHSAS KE LIYE TADPA KARTE THE
ISHQ HI ZINDAGI HAI, AISA HUM SOCHA KARTE THE
PAR ZINDAGI NE HUME HAMRE HI RANG DEKHA DIYE
HASA KARTE THE, ROYA KARTE THE,
HUME TANHAYEE ME TUMHAREE TALASH THI
PAR JAB TAK MILE TUM,
HUM US TANHAYEE SE HI PYAR KAR BAITHE THE

Poetic message

2006-10-21T12:24:00.000-07:00

Originally composed as an SMS to someone but the intentions were completely misinterpreted.

Sometimes I pity you,
I pity your heart.

For you belong to abode of clouds,
but live like corpse covered in shroud.

You might have been Queen of the Byzantine,
but like a pauper you survive.

I wish I could alleviate your dolour,
and help you escape from this melancholy moor.

Short Story

2006-09-04T03:55:00.000-07:00

I intend to write a short story of which these are few opening lines.

“It is ironic that unrequited love finds solace in melancholy of our hearts.” Nikhil was looking down at his glass of red wine when he repeated his clichéd remark. It was second time in his life that he had tasted wine and he vividly remembered how he had lost his Wine virginity. Though it had been a year since his maiden drink, the striking similarity of milieu unlocked his closely guarded masochistic self. His friend Vivek, although Nikhil considered him his mentor, was seated opposite to him. Separating them was an old wooden table. Chitranjan had, after some effort, aligned the table alongside bed on which Nikhil had carelessly thrown himself. Chitranjan, a self proclaimed connoisseur of Indian delicacies – food and women, served the pieces of mutton which threesome had prepared during last few hours. As Nikhil chewed the leg-piece he could hardly see Vivek’s face through misty undulating clouds rising from his burning cigarette. The room was dimly lit with the candles, which was Nikhil’s idea of “building up” a euphoric moment. Reek of wine and mutton, coupled with slow-paced melodies originating from Chitranjan’s computer only added to this effect. Three of them were aware, at least for now, that their consciousness will evaporate along with the ephemeral candle wax.

There were many memories that have been constructed in this room. Not all memories were pleasurable, not all sad and definitely not all of them real – as some were constructed under heavy dose of alcohol. Three of them had laughed, cried, danced, puked and pissed. They had shared tales, imaginary and otherwise, from dawn till dusk, sometimes going even further. Many a time they had tried to construct the expressions on face of a stranger who would have interrupted their orgies.

Yet, at this very moment Nikhil’s thoughts wandered, not into the wilderness of their past but into much more placid college days. He remembered how he had chased the love of his life, or so he thought at that moment, on dusty streets of his college campus. He would go out for morning, evening, afternoon and night walks only to catch a glimpse of her. Even when he had befriended his love, he had scrupulously hidden his feelings from her. He remembered the first day when they had met, at corner of their college cafeteria. She was clad in white salwar, her hair falling over her shoulders. In that moment he felt the eternal bliss which some may call love but it was also an insidious virus that would cause him much misery. On the brighter side, as Chitranjan used to say, it also made him more mature.

Vivek sneered at him, “Nikhil, don’t be such a loser. There are better things and people in life”. Vivek realized that it had been him who had actually convinced Nikhil about being candid in life – at least to his own self. Honesty is the prerequisite for becoming a great artist: this has been his motto. He would go on to cite the great writers like Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Albert Camus to prove his point.
“It’s not about being a loser, in fact I am totally over her”, continued Nikhil, still looking into his glass of wine. “You may say that my love was not true or pure or whatever, but I loved her and I have had my share of pain. There is only a threshold of pain that one can bear before one has to amputate his feelings. And once removed it is better not to reincarnate those feelings, otherwise it will become a pernicious disease. I don’t know whether it was selfish or circumstantial on my part but I am definitely over her.”

(to be continued....)

On Roads Of Delhi

2006-08-20T20:09:00.000-07:00

Voice of the captain, conflated with electronic noise, confirmed that the final moments of touchdown have been delayed yet again. This was third such announcement in last half hour. In spite of slight sprain in my neck I continued looking out of the window of Boeing 737. Delhi dabbled with jewels - orange, green and white. At some six kilometers above sea level, I tried to conjure up the contours of capital of India, to which I was returning after almost ten months.

My excitement received a gush of hot air as I approached airplane doorway, where the conditioned air of the plane escaped into stillness of the IGI Airport. Outside the airport, by now drenched in odd smelling sweat, it took me few seconds to locate my parents. They were already rejoicing. After all it was long due homecoming of their son, first time since he had joined Wipro Technologies.

Although I have long ago learned to live outside the protective shell of my parents, and at times even rebelled against them, it was always a pleasure to return to it for brief moments. And this was as brief as it could possibly get, for I was here on only five days of leave. My dad raced his car, through this scorching heat and I realized how strikingly different it was from bumpy rides on Pune’s roads.

There were many stories to tell and we stayed up all night discussing them. Next day, that is Sunday, I woke up late. It seems my parents had already prepared a mental list of things-I-must-do-here. They are very well aware of my procrastinating habit and were accordingly prepared with their “continued insistence” (it’s a euphemism). Plan was put into motion late in afternoon, starting with a visit to Nana-Naniji’s house. While returning I saw a placard pasted on rear of a car which said “Truth is God”. I was unable to refrain myself from analyzing it. Truth, I thought, is as much a matter of perception as God is. Discrete but powerful thoughts bombarded me, although there was no epiphany that I had been waiting for. I would try to recollect all those thoughts about God, my atheist views and my camouflage as a believer (in front of my parents) in detail in some other article.

Meanwhile our car halted at traffic intersection. While we waited for traffic lights to turn green, beggars pullulated in the street, most of them waving our national flag. It made me wonder whether patriotism to them has any significance. How can the artificial emotions like patriotism ever overwhelm emotions aroused by hunger? I doubt they even know the structure of the world or India’s position in it. I wonder if they are aware of notion of nation, their area of interest limited to dirt laden streets of Delhi.

Next we passed through an old road with conventional bazaars swarming on each side of it. Pedestrians and cattle had restrained the traffic movement and air was filled with honking of luxury cars and screaming of vegetable hawkers. In this cacophony another idea occurred to me. It was a simple revelation of the human nature. I elegantly named it “The Subway Syndrome”. I observed that in spite of a well constructed overhead bridge, people preferred crossing the road filled with speeding vehicles. To climb up the staircase seemed like a mammoth effort to them. Replace the overhead bridge with a subway and you’ll see everyone using it. This is despite the fact that in both cases you have to climb up and down. Only the order is interchanged. This reveals how much importance we give to immediate goals while neglecting long term goals. It also shows how much our irrational self dominates our rational self, leading to unreasonable decisions.

We returned home late at night. And as I settled beside my computer I experienced a déjà vu. This was my routine ten months back, chatting and reading on my computer. And for no special reason I started penning down this short article.

Pedantic Wisdom

2006-07-25T06:31:00.000-07:00

“There is no use of reading books and gaining theoretical knowledge because there is no substitute to practical knowledge that comes through experience”

I have been seriously pissed off by this bromide. Amazingly, I have been listening to such remarks quite frequently these days. This belief is nothing but pure ignorance coupled with rationalization for laziness.

First, lets start with what experience you are talking about. “YOUR” experience? Well, let me inform you, as if you don’t already know, that books can provide you with plethora of experiences of other people, who have been through situations – better or worse than you. I am unable to prognosticate any harm that may come by learning through experiences of others.

People don’t want to believe that what took them years of experience to learn can be gained by hours of reading. This sounds like waste of their efforts. Their knowledge is their treasure, something they have toiled for. It is this wrong attitude towards reading that is cause of their troubles. But I would still say that such people may be reformed and made to understand the meaning of reading. There is another group of people who are too lazy to read anything. They feel it is better and more comfortable to disparage those who read. Through their frivolous banter they discourage all kinds of reading experiences.

Most people don’t understand what reading is really about. All their lives they have only read what their parents or teachers have considered necessary, so that they can get good marks and make it through some entrance exams. Let me introduce all such disillusioned to the world of Reading. I categorize reading into two types. First is, what I call, Pleasure reading. This is what people enjoy in their leisure time. Reader may not be interested in gaining any particular knowledge but rather in some titillating story to ease off his/her senses. Then there is this other kind of reading and I call it, chasing the idea. This is actually the most misunderstood kind. A French philosopher once remarked (these are not his exact words though), “When a first foolish or wise idea comes to me, I chase it and let myself be seduced by it until the next one arrives”. Reading books is actually about discovering new ideas. Idea may be a very simple one. In fact a book of thousand pages may provide you with only one simplistic idea, but that idea may change your life forever or the way you look at life. You may ask, why we fail to discover such simplistic ideas on our own? There are many reasons to it but I believe the most important is our ego. We suppress a lot of emotions to satisfy our ego and while doing so we suppress many ideas. Ideas help us build attitude and our attitude towards our goal is what finally determines whether we’ll achieve it or not. This is what I believe. Experience, approach, process are all necessary ingredients of success. But the most important is attitude, which is slowly constructed by metamorphosis of ideas. And there is no better substitute to acquiring ideas than reading books.

Happy Reading!!

Winners & Underdogs

2006-07-17T06:34:00.000-07:00

It’s quite amazing to observe nature, especially from a comfortable distance. I am not sure why we provide fig leaf of covering to our true emotions but this is exactly what I realized while watching FIFA world cup matches. There is a strange order. We disparage those who are established winners and rally behind the underdogs.

Every person has his share of failures, weaknesses that he is unable to overcome and many desires that remain unfulfilled. In this sense, we see the underdogs as our alter ego. This is because underdogs generally fail and we do know it. So when they fail, we feel that we are not the only losers around. It makes easy for us to rationalize our failures.

But I think there is more to it. It seems that the underdogs somehow personify Hope. There is “If he can, I can too” kind of feeling.

Every one desires to win even though failures are almost unavoidable. But there are only few who acknowledge their failures. And even fewer actually analyze their failures to understand their weaknesses. Rationalization of failures is definitely an easier task that confronting them head on.

Life – A Twisted Interpretation

2006-07-06T06:08:00.000-07:00

What is our purpose in life? When this thought first occurred to me, I wasn't sure how to answer it. May be I have a lot of free time and that’s why I am thinking about such abstract topics. But slowly and unconsciously, I started to solve this puzzle. I have tried to keep influence of external information, which I believe had potential of corrupting my developing thoughts, to bare minimum. Also before reading on, remember that even though I have mentioned God at various places in this article, I am myself an Atheist (or a liberal atheist). The metaphorical God has only been used as a device for storytelling purpose.

Every living organism has just two definite purposes in life. First is to eat and the other to have sex. Said in a more formal way, food and procreation. Both are major and direct purposes of life because they are necessary for holding on to life itself. No one can surely live without food and without power of procreation (ya sex!) entire humanity will be doomed as there will be no one replace the dying generation.

But maybe God was not content with giving these direct purposes, or more probably, was afraid that Humans may not find these purposes attractive enough, or may simply refuse to follow and eventually self destruct. Maybe that’s why He invented pleasure. By giving us five powerful senses to experience this pleasure he made sure that we’ll enjoy our quest to fulfill two direct purposes (of food and sex).

But He overlooked two inevitable consequences. One was suicidal nature that this pleasure may develop. The other was the indirect purpose he gave to Humans in this process. That is the purpose to satisfy the five senses. Thus pleasure, which was supposed be an easy path to fulfillment of direct purposes, became a purpose itself. I’ll call all such purposes, to attain pleasure, secondary or indirect purposes of life. The secondary purposes serve quite a useful meaning for a person who remembers what his primary (or direct) purposes are. The desire for secondary purposes, while neglecting primary ones, may lead to dire consequences.
It seems for a long time God was satisfied by the model explained so far, for this level of abilities are found in animals as well. It took Him a while to understand that something had been left out, but when He did realize it, He created Man. And He put an additional ability in men – Ability to Reason.

Necessity of this ability must have been felt in order to strike a balance between primary and secondary purposes. But the error has a habit of creeping even into best of the intentions.

Anyway, continuing with my biblical story, most of the people would agree that it is human mind that mainly differentiates animals from human beings. Mind is the generator or the source of Ability to Reason. It has the power to imagine and discover the hidden incentives that may be unfathomable to simplistic animal brains. To elaborate, it is quite common among animals to have multiple sexual partners. Even though licentiousness is not uncommon among humans, they have the ability to think about a hidden incentive, love. Although love is considered irrational by many, but the underlying philosophy of love is very much rational. Irrational, if I dare say so, is only the process of choosing the right lover.

It may seem probable to a human being that if he can subdue his lubricious nature and loyally befriend a single person, then he stands to gain considerably from such a friendship. Under this circumstance there is an incentive for him to avoid being a philanderer. Furthermore, he may reason, that by choosing a partner of opposite sex he can fulfill his primary (or direct) purpose of life. Thus such a relationship is extremely beneficial as it promises fulfillment of all – direct and indirect – purposes of life.

Thus contrary to Vox Populi, marriage is a result of individual reasoning rather than a cultural necessity.

Reservation-My Views

2006-07-06T06:06:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the consequences of human action are so eerily surreal that evanescence of the motive is the only apparent thing. Logic, in such aphotic circumstances, provides a solution, an epiphany, which justifies the consequences that are often unintentional. The issue of reservation illustrates this very fact.

Reservation, at this moment, is considered more of a political rather than social imperative. Most people are not convinced that politicians have shed their venality and are working towards greater good. They believe it is a gimmick and may be it really is.

Reservation has been an experiment in the Indian history, though not a scientific one, because it lacks statistical data. There has been no formal conspectus to prove whether the experiment has benefited anyone and more importantly, to what extent. Isolated rags to riches stories are not of interest to any scientific mind.

I am not writing this to discuss mundane comments and solutions but some interesting stuff that has come to my attention. For instance, a young medical student from Patna was interviewed by a TV channel. In spite of apparent gaucherie, he put forth a relevant point - Isn’t paid seat concept synonymous to quota regime, a kind of rich-class-quota per se? The question made me realize the extent to which our education system needs a makeover, the urgency of such an action and complete lack of political will and wherewithal.

Vox Populi presently is to provide reservation on economic basis rather than caste. But this is not a pragmatic solution. This is evident from the fact that even in the present scenario, where a lot of people belonging to lower caste have primary education, a significant number of seats remain vacant. If the economic basis is considered, those in worst state of destitution should be provided most seats. Result would be exacerbation of present situation because there is even less probability of finding primary educated individuals in most economically backward class.

Though a lot of solutions are being cited by media to tackle the issue, they more or less require complete restructuring of education system. Obviously political class lacks incentive for carrying out any such excruciatingly difficult task. Little out-of-the-box thinking reveals a better alternative. The power of Globalization has long been overlooked by Indian bureaucrats even though astute entrepreneurs have utilized it to their advantage. The answer then is to take the help of global forces i.e. allow foreign universities to set up shops in India. It will serve dual purpose. One, it will increase the total number of seats and second, it will ensure enforcement of quality.

A possible trade off the government will have to make is not to intervene in functioning of these universities, thereby keeping them fully autonomous. Definitely, a government regulatory organization will be needed to stop fraudulent entry but it will be far easier task. More importantly it can be carried out without affecting status quo, i.e. while grating quotas. Therefore the political motives will not be affected and any possible pernicious consequences will be avoided.

Finally to conclude, contrary to original motives and conspicuous consequences, quota regime may prove beneficial if adequate complementary steps - like one mentioned here – are taken and the scheme is kept less ambitious and time bound.

TRUTH - A REALIZATION

2006-07-06T06:03:00.000-07:00

" Believe those who seek the truth
doubt those who find it "

I don't remember who said these these lines but I do remember reading them in a national daily because they sparked some unusual feelings within me. It triggered an unusual yet a complicated debate between my unconscious mind and rational self. Though I doubt I remember the exact contents of this intrinsic conversation, I will try to reframe it here.
"Truth" held a special significance for me and a quest to seek it even greater. It wasn't just the "knowledge" of everything but rather "understanding" of things that I more closely associated with this quest. Science, as I believed, was my vehicle to reach this destination. Science was the most fascinating and promising tool ever at my disposal. There was a time when I firmly believed that science will one day strip naked all secrets of life and universe - the "understanding" I desperately seeked.
The realization that science is not truth but rather a distortion of truth was heartbreaking. The "Betrayal of Science" was the most disheartening thing that has ever happened to me . In some ways it was analogous to losing love of my life.
Soon philosophy became my new fascination. But just like any other "rebound love" I was only looking for "qualities" that science lacked. The result, as one may expect, was another disappointment.
The much awaited enlightenment finally came during my attempts to converge the properties of science and philosophy. I was not the first one to attempt it but when I understood its significance, years of dust cleared in an instant.
The fallacy of my assumption that science can provide an equation for truth was as bad as my premature heart break. The distortion that science provides, is in many ways good than bad. Although this distortion allows to view only a part of the whole picture, it induces practicality. Moreover, the distortion is not a means of inducing errors but rather a method of prioritization. Accepting a particular model is not from perspective of - right or wrong, true or false, good or bad - but rather the goal that it achieves.
It is this single, most powerful realization that has helped me transgress from a scientist and philosopher to - AN ENGINEER.

The song of crab: End of Innocence

2006-07-06T06:01:00.000-07:00

The music is dying, so am I,
In dark tunnel, I see no end,
my faith is gone, my love is lost.
Even the feeble hope I ever had,
is flickering, to breathe its final air.
My dream’s broken,
innocence ripped apart,
all I am left with is a broken heart,
and emaciated soul.
The colours are fading,
and memories dying, so am I.

I am no phoenix to rise again,
for my ashes be wet,
with my own tears.
I have no touch of the Midas,
To turn my sorrow into glitters.
But I’ll drink the shadow that I see,
of your face in my red wine.
I know this pain will be my bane,
But in the end set me free.
I faintly see the bats flying,
‘cause time is dying, so am I.

In mild breeze.....

2006-07-06T05:58:00.000-07:00

In mild breeze, at the ocean’s feet,
through lighthouse window, towards the creek.
I saw her, my love, sitting on a lonely rock.

And as I walked towards her,
she greeted me with a lovely smile,
I love you – I told her – from my heart and soul,
and will give anything to be with you, even for a while.

But my words, wearied her smile,
and with the angry ocean, spitting its waves,
She said – Its not the destiny for us to pave,
that beautiful road and walk even a mile.

As the night darkened and crabs came out,
I saw in troubled waters, many silhouetted ships.
“Why don’t you love me?” – I wished to shout,
But there were no words,
and only the tears drenched my lips.

Then she started to leave on a journey unknown,
I pleaded – give us a chance,
to be together for a lifelong dance.
But she left, without a care how I feel,
cutting a wound that even time won’t heal.
Now only as a painful memory she remains,
to linger on as the time slowly wanes.

Poetry

2005-09-19T02:43:00.000-07:00