Life for rent

Heard this song a long time ago. Saw it again on youtube today. Felt as if a someone was slowly hammering away at preconceived notions of many things in life. As if someone was holding a big placard saying "Think!!" to everyone racing down life's road with their tunnel visions. As if picking up a broken mirror and holding it up to you so that you can stare at your past and understand where you were and where you are. As if saying life makes more sense if you pay attention to the details and then step back to look at the bigger picture. Getting engrossed in the details to block out reality or scanning over the surface to ignore what you see doesn't help.

Take it away Dido. You can say this better than anyone else:

I haven't really ever found a place that I call home
I never stick around quite long enough to make it
I apologize that once again I'm not in love
But it's not as if I mind
that your heart ain't exactly breaking

It's just a thought, only a thought

But if my life is for rent and I don't learn to buy
Well I deserve nothing more than I get
Cos nothing I have is truly mine

I've always thought
that I would love to live by the sea
To travel the world alone
and live my life more simply
I have no idea what's happened to that dream
Cos there's really nothing left here to stop me

It's just a thought, only a thought

But if my life is for rent and I don't learn to buy
Well I deserve nothing more than I get
Cos nothing I have is truly mine

While my heart is a shield and I won't let it down
While I am so afraid to fail so I won't even try
Well how can I say I'm alive

If my life is for rent...

- Dido, Life for Rent.

Open letter to Times Now

Times Now did a show on "26/11 - one year later" which was telecasted on 22nd Nov, 2009 1400 hrs IST. This is an open letter version of the mail I sent to them after watching it:

Dear Sir/Madam,

I watched the coverage on 26/11 that Times Now telecasted at 2 pm on 22nd Nov, 2009. I could relate to Mr. Arnab's comment on the collective anger arising out of the thought that we are sitting ducks or soft targets for the terrorists. I appreciate Times Now making a consistent effort in making the common man rethink about what he might have forgotten.

But frankly speaking, I was hoping that the show could question more about the road ahead than reliving the terror through the eyes who saw it. Where do we go from here? Every debate show that I've watched on Times Now, be it the Newshour or something else, always progresses from being a bold question to a constructive and hard hitting discussion. You have an idea, your expand upon it, ask all the necessary unpleasant questions, you gain clarity, and then, when its ready to be pushed to the next level, the clock strikes 10 and the debate ends.

Can't Times Now do a show or discussion, which in the end creates a summary of the issues discussed, suggestions taken and submit them to the Government, with a fixed deadline on the Government replying what they think about it and how do they proceed to fix it? Can't the Government conduct simple polls on a regular basis through the Internet or other media on what the citizens think about various issues?

As much as we might have progressed in the speed and efficiency of dissemination of information through the media, there is not a single channel which is in lockstep with the Government. There is a need for a clean and a simple feedback loop between the people and the Government. The media is the bridge.

You have on your board the best minds who are willing to fix things. They have the intelligence to work out solutions. But their words are just thoughts hanging in air if they are not converted to actions - and actions by the people in power. Please give this idea a thought.

--
regards,
Saurabh.

If you think this raw idea of having a back and forth transfer of information between the Government and the people is worth implementing and if you have the ability to spread it, please do so. It can be a simple blog post reiterating what I said or what your thoughts are on creating a medium of interaction between the people and the Government. You can even mail a link to this post or write your own thoughts and send it to someone who can take it to the next level.

This one thought will not serve its purpose unless it multiples in proportion and sharpens in form by being read and thought upon by others, and acted upon by those who can pull the right strings.

Thank you.

Unwanted visitors

When life is monotonous, even grief is a welcome event.
- Maxim Gorky.

Thoughts - tucked away,
Or buried alive in the graveyard of time.
I can still hear them gasping for breath.

Memories - long forgotten,
Or embraced with a sinister smile and slashed in their sleep.
I can still hear the gurgling in their throats.

Feelings - gently turned away,
Or rudely ignored in spite of their incessant pleading.
I can still feel them crouched against the door.

Moments - never looked back upon,
Or distorted repeatedly like a disfigured doll.
I can still see beyond that mask which hides those gashes.

They conspire and confront, and derive a guilty pleasure,
The unwanted offsprings of an unforgiven past.

The mundane of today - a luxury of tomorrow,
A luxury which shall soon cease to exist.
And while we mourn what time took away,
The present too, shall slowly decease.

The past will seep into wishful yearnings,
Unsatiated desires reborn as hungry ghosts.
Lying the the dark, yet hogging all the spotlight,
Like demons and goblins, slowly gnawing at the host.

Appreciate what seems to be granted and savor each bite,
For today you surely can, but tomorrow you only might.

An evening at the traffic signal

The lane opened up into a busy road. It was 5:15 pm and the traffic was trickling in. He walked slowly, the tap of his walking stick followed by a soundless step. As he walked by the old Parsi buildings, he looked up to each flat, thinking of how different life would be for each and every one of those occupants. Each flat, a world in its entirety. He looked longingly at the bench near the petrol pump; no one was sitting there. He had front row seats to the evening vehicular chaotic cacophony.

The fading 'Mumbai Traffic Police' sign on the bench said that he wasn't allowed to sit there. But he knew that the traffic constable wouldn't mind. He looked at the constable, standing on the raised platform in the middle of the road - the confused conductor trying to synchronize his disobedient instruments - vehicular traffic. The constable looked at him and smiled. He was used to seeing the old man come down every day between 5:00 and 5:30 pm, sit on the bench for an hour or so, stare at the road, watch the vehicles, smile at times, sigh at times and then go back.

The old man walked up to the bench, frowned and murmured something to himself while he took his time sitting down. He looked at the traffic. The persistent honking of cars, the screeching of rubber against the road, the rising and falling engine groans with the shifting of gears - he felt that the entire noise was directed at him. He listened to all of them for a while and then disconnected the earphone from his hearing aid, as if pressing the mute button on an invisible remote control.

He sat there, eyes fixated on the zebra crossing. After a while, the green man on the traffic light flashed and a bunch of feet shuffling over the crossing broke his gaze. Zebra crossings - he found them very interesting. Even if the colour of the roads was changed from black to white, the zebra crossings would stay as they were - black stripes with white gaps instead of white stripes with black gaps. Zebra crossings - concrete piano keys. He wished someone would fix them so that when you stepped on them, each strip would play its corresponding note. But the disordered stomping of feet would only add to the discordant sounds. Only if there was a traffic rule which said that you can cross streets only if you play a melody while doing so - that would be nice.

He would play the first two lines of 'Happy birthday' if he were to cross the streets then.

1 1 2 1 4 3

1 1 2 1 5 4

That's all he remembered from the notes he and his sister crammed when they were kids. He'd play the 1 1 2 1, get off the crossing and walk up to the 4 and play the 4 3. Similarly - 1 1 2 1 - get off the crossing and do the 5 4. That would be fun, he thought.

The signal blushed and the vehicles slowed down. Bikes gunned their engines, snarling like impatient beasts pulling at the chains. Beggars, eunuchs, flower-sellers, windshield cleaners, walked up to the vehicles with an expressionless face, did what they had to and then disappeared. He always wondered where do they come from. They are never anywhere near the road when the traffic is moving. But as soon as the lights turn red, they appear out of thin air, do their job and fade away. Its as if they hide in the roads and when the time is right, they emerge from their concrete coffins, play their part and bury themselves in the road again.

That thought made him feel as if someone was clawing at the gravel beneath his feet, pushing the lid of his coffin, wanting to resurrect. He raised his feet reflexively, shook himself out of it and cursed his senile mind for playing tricks on him.

He looked at the vehicles. As a kid, he and his friends would sit on the window sill and count cars as they passed by - earning 5 points for a red car, 2 for blue and 1 for white. Red cars were hard to spot in that age of Ambassadors and Fiats. He smiled at the thought that the Fiat was also called "Premier Padmini". But even now, as then, the vehicles never stopped. They kept passing by, forever and ever. As if there was this machine at the far end of the road, churning out vehicles on an assembly line - frustrated office-employee included. One end of the machine spits them out, the other end gobbles them up, makes minor changes - the colour, inmates and then the other end disgorges them again. Maybe our lives are like that.

He knew that he was being absurd - thinking stuff that made no sense, twisting reality as he saw fit. 'I am a strange old man', he said aloud to himself and smiled. He always wanted to say that. Old age like childhood, permitted him to have his flights of fancy, the only difference being that as a child these thoughts did not end with a lingering feeling of an unknown sadness. Maybe it was the feeling of knowing that he could not share these thoughts with anyone. Of being invisible. But then as long as doesn't tell anybody what he sees, they will just walk by, look at him, ignore him or maybe think he is just another old man staring at the road and wondering how life passed by so soon. Maybe its better that way. Maybe it isn't.

Tucking away concrete piano keys, beggars resurrecting from the road, vehicle producing-consuming machines in a lonely corner of his mind, he got up from the bench, nodded at the traffic constable - as if thanking him for letting him sit there, walked back and slowly disappeared into the darkness he came from.

She smiled

She stood by the window - wondering why the twilight sky blushed at her? Why the evening breeze doesn't stop caressing her face? Why can't these birds stop chirping and leave the sky as empty as she wants it to be?

She stared down and saw a lonely lane. And she thought - that's more like it. An alone deserted lane. Where no one cares to come. Even if someone does, they don't want to stay. The lane is not that bad. Maybe it is. Maybe it deserves to be isolated and stay unnoticed - like a ghost who can never assert its presence.

She looked up to the sky, watching the moon desperately try to peek out of the clouds - trying to assert its presence again and again, but the clouds trying their best to cloak the moon. But they also know that they can't hide it forever. The clouds are gathering. Out in the distance, a faint sound of thunder can be heard. Soon enough, the lightning flashes start ripping the rain clouds occasionally. Again the dark night and the lightning fight against each other to assert their presence. The drizzling rain slowly grows in strength.

She wondered - How different is she from them? She too, is trying to assert her presence in the life of someone who wants to treat her like a lonely lane, who wants to cloak her light, who wants to be the lightning streak and sees her as the dark cloud.

The rain drops lined up on her window sill looked at her. She looked back at them.

She acted on impulse and ran out of her house. She stood there, staring at the sky, her face having the look of a person who has always engaged in transactional emotions - where every feeling has an ulterior motive and every good deed is done to lay the foundation of future favors. Her actions were backed up by selfish purposes and her thoughts, full of contingency plans. Her day to day life was a series of "if-this-then-that-else-that" decisions.

She tried to reason the rain.

Why would it rain with such strength precisely at a time when she needed a force larger than life to dwarf her sorrows? Why did the wind rush out through the sheets of rain to embrace her? Why did the rain drops mingle with her tears and try to make them invisible? Why did the trees dance wildly without a care in the world, as if telling her to let go? Why did the branches sway and spray cold rain droplets on her face, while the wind touched every one of them, as if wiping her tears? Why did the fresh wet soil sink beneath her feet, as if cushioning her fall? Why did the petrol rainbows glisten in the muddy puddles, as if telling her to not to fade out when she hits the dirt?

She had no answer.

She smiled, because she knew that they will never ask for anything in return. And they smiled back at her because they made her see someone beyond herself.

On Archie's marriage and fake reality

Who will Archie Andrews marry? - That's the million dollar question. Everyone in comicworld is looking forward to the wedding of the century. Archie - the guy who like every other comic character is still the same age as he was in the 80s, is going to get married. Who will it be - the rich kid Veronica or down to earth Betty? Given the current acceptance of society, he might even have Reggie or Principal Weatherbee to eye upon :). Rumors are flowing around the internet alleys that he will marry Veronica. An interesting link sent by a friend campaigns for Veronica:

Rediff movies

Given the current state of daily affairs, it is obvious that Archie will marry Veronica. To understand why, I shall have to travel back in time giving an analogy of the past and the current state of media entertainment.

I'd hate to see Archie end up with Veronica but I guess its a norm now to go against the obvious or to introduce shockers just for the petty sake of not seeming trite. Reminds me of the cheap thrills offered by Indian reality shows. It has plunged to the depths of creating an unspoken agreement between the entities on either side of the screen - I show you what you least expect and you watch me for that. They sell what we buy rather than the other way round. We buying what they sold - that was the real deal during the heydays when national television dictated entertainment.

I still remember elders and children alike lapping up DD National stories of Buniyaad, Malgudi days, Nukkad, Circus, Army and others (if you still remember them). Sunday mornings, when entire streets would be deserted because they were playing Mahabharata on TV. Come 1030 am and all building flats idiot boxes would sing in unison the title track of Mahabharata. Older women wielding prayer beads sat cross-legged in front of the magic box from which God himself would address them, infrequently interrupted by Nirma and Gold Spot ads.

Mythological soaps were the senile mind's crack cocaine and Ramanand Sagar - their producer, was the creator of creators and destroyer of destroyers. Not to forget the gangs of kids, who while sitting quietly in straight rows, would marvel, gaping open mouthed and wide eyed at the cheap special effects where Arjuna shoots one arrow and it gives birth to a hundered flaming projectiles. In the era where Xboxes and Playstations did not exist, bows and arrows made by dismantling kites were the weapons of choice. Counterstrike, Half life, Halo - these shootout games did not even come close to real life combats between 10 year old kids playing Rams and Ravanas.

National TV had it all (or rather it decided what "all" is) - sleuths like Karamchand and desi miniature VH1 dosages of Chitrahaar. The best part was that it bonded minds across classes. We had vegetable markets where vendors and buyers alike would discuss how good last night's Karamchand's was. Grocery stores where the shop boy and the customer would be humming in their mind the same last night's song on Chitrahaar. Daily news - a show which almost the whole family would watch - the absence of multiple channels posed no threat to conflicts of interest. Kids like me watched the news because we had a crush on some anchors - Salma Sultan - the gorgeous lady with a rose tucked in her dense hair locks and Sarla Maheshwari - I still remember her hidden smile.

The box has now become a multiheaded monster. The multiplicity of channels and the entertainment overload seems like Dark Ages compared to those days when watching cartoons was a privilege and going out to the movies was an event. The shows told stories, the actors did not need controversial statements or clinically crafted events to pump up their popularity figures. They did not try to bend the rules or distort reality in order to gain the audience's favour. But now with so many predators hunting for a piece of our mind, the hunter needs to think like the hunted and do exactly the reverse.

So, Archie marrying Ronnie shouldn't come as a surprise. If he would have walked down with Betty - then what?? The freckle faced boy and the homely girl walk into the dappled sunset and live happily ever after? End of story? Archie buried in the archives?? We certainly don't want that, do we? Who cares if we stretch it beyond its elasticity limit? We have mouths to feed, mansions to maintain and private jets to fuel. Say what sells.

Archie + Ronnie opens up a host of future avenues -

1. Ronnie might be the victim of a tragic car crash and on her death bed tell Archie to name their girl Betty (a la Kuch Kuch Hota Hain) and then an improbablistic combination of fate, luck, doctored scripts give birth to a comic page where in the last box - Archie cuddles up with senior Betty and junior Betty hugs both of them. Picture Perfect.

2. They might be what Ekta Kapoor needs to create an animated saas bahu epic tearbomb - this time to numb the already corrupted teenage minds.

3. Their internal feuds and constant clash of ideals, which would lay a good foundation for divorce might even land them up doing guest appearances in Boston Legal and other similar shows.

4. If there is a Bhojpuri movie equivalent in Hollywood we might see Archive v/s Veronica movies (on the lines of those cheap Jap Godzilla v/s King Kong movies. Cheesy but highly entertaining). Coming soon to a cinema near you - Archie ki anarchy. followed by a sequel to that blockbuster - Veerappan ki Veronica. Even Betty might sell out and join the gang in Bhayankar Betty.

So go ahead, dump innocence and marry money. I'd like to write more but my hands are shaking and its getting darker. It seems I haven't had my daily shot of reality TV. Embrace me virtual reality, manipulate my mind and carry me in your arms on a roller coaster ride to the numbing depths of unwanted entertainment.

If you liked this article and want that I win this reality show of 'Braindead Bloggers', please vote for me. It doesn't matter if you voted or not in the National General Elections. Vote for me now. NOW, NOW, NOW! Otherwise I will lie on the road, kick and scream and hold my breath till my face turns blue. And yea, by the way I also love my audience and I wish for world peace (sarcastic crooked smile). My voting code is "COMFORTABLY_DUMB". The voting lines are open as long as you can spend your hard earned money on strangers like me.

His eyes are glazed and his face wears a wooden smile. The television magically transforms electrons to images and hypnotizes him for hours. His mind is like a chained animal whose hand is caught in a bear trap kept above the TV. The animal struggled and screamed to get it out but soon the invisible hand of the cable ghosts sedated and quietened him. Now he is one of them.

The camera zooms out of the drawing room, outside the window where the skies are starry eyed and the summer breeze is caressing palm trees. But everyone is holed up in their houses up watching the finals of some dance show. The camera zooms out further revealing a forest of houses with a flickering faint glow radiating from each house window. The machines win.

Who are you?

Is this who you are?

Is this who you shall ever be?

Is this who you are?

Is this all that is there to see?

Is this who you are?

Can life not get bigger than this?

Is this who you are?

Is ignorance really bliss?

Is this who you are?

Do you really want to walk that road?

Is this who you are?

Will you just sit and stare and wait to implode?

Is this who you are?

Destroying focus, but desiring precision,

Is this who you are?

Craving consistency, yet changing decisions.

Is this who you are?

Numbing your mind, not fighting the urge,

Is this who you are?

Sinking deliberately, yet hoping to emerge.

Is this who you are?

Thinking empty thoughts, when your mind goes blind,

Is this who you are?

Seeking false hopes, when there's nothing left to find.

Is this who you are?

Caged by choice, yet pulling at those chains,

Is this who you are?

Need to break free, but not minding the reins.

Is this who you are?

Finding fake solace in reading hollow words,

Is this who you are?

Making your own tracks, but following the herd.

Is this who we are?

Is this who we shall ever be?

Is this who we are?

Is this all that is there to see?

Is this who we are?

Will this haunting feeling never ever cease?

Is this who we are?

Will we sit back, relax and enjoy the disease?

Lost world

He stares sadly at the gloomy sky,
She traces cloudlines while swallows fly.
He sees a sun trapped in a black shroud,
She sees a sunray behind a rain cloud.
He sees an old tree fight the mighty wind,
She sees an old man dance and his arms swing,
The gushing wind and the booming thunder,
Make him flinch and make her wonder.

An angry rain, a sky so shattered,
Slapping thunderbolts, The shackling of fetters,
A screaming sky, lurking lightning streaks,
You've hoarded it all - what else do you seek?

Briefcase over his head, crouches and he huddles,
She runs out in the park, splashing in the puddles.
He sits and he watches, slicing sheets of rain,
She catches all the raindrops, all his miseries does she wane.

He wants to, he gets up, rain drips through his black suit,
He tries to, but he sits down, he stares at his big boots,
He feels like, He needs to, breeze caressing his harsh face,
He turns back, doesn't think twice, he quickens his slack pace.

No joy without reason, no dancing in the first rain,
No feeling like a small kid, they'll think that he is insane.
He tries to please them first, he tries to blend right in,
He acts like they all do, he sticks to a strict routine.

He's a rich man, has a big house, has earned it through crime,
But he's a rich man, has a big house, and that's just very fine.

He sits back and he looks out, as he drives through that same place,
Fresh wet soil, green carpet, red flowers and a pretty face.
She's sits by the oak tree, sparkling sunshine in the riverstream,
Searching faces in small clouds, her childhood like a pure dream,
He wants to, he needs to, just run out and play,
He slows down, but his cell rings, and then he drives away.

Radar blips

Time.

Gaining. Loosing.

Utilizing. Wasting.

Seizing. Throwing.

Cherishing. Lamenting.

Remembering. Forgetting.

Sleeping. Waking up.

Capturing. Escaping.

Holding on. Letting go.

Destroying. Creating.

Chained. Unchained.

Caged beast. Free bird.

Satiated. Hungry.

Numb. Feeling.

Flowing. Stagnated.

Ignoring. Listening.

Thinking. Following.

Careful. Reckless.

Trying. Waiting.

Fighting. Surrendering.

Confirming. Questioning.

Hunting. Hunted.

Living. Vegetating.

Eitherways, the moment is gone. As you read this. As I write this.

Alive

Today I talked with a friend from my college days. Usually our conversation starts with the usual how is it going, followed by news of our common contacts and then steers into small talk about work, music or life in general. But this time, we talked because he wanted to bounce his ideas against someone. Maybe the reason why he called sprouted from his underlying fascination of knowing that different people have different takes on life and his desire to know why the world is the way it is. People's thoughts - thoughts shaped by experiences. Experiences of the mundane which might seem extraordinary to others and vice versa.

What I found most intriguing about our conversation was his raw instinct to be as alive as he possibly can. Its been more than 3 years since we graduated and I have had my share of living with a practical and/or an impulsive approach towards life. The meaning of being practical is pretty impractical to many of the people I know. Of course, it is the lack or the presence of my current experience that propels me in the direction that I am going.

For me practicality consists of doing something, getting feedback and making changes if required and then going back to the doing something cycle again. More of a see, sense, analyze and fix loop. It isn't a standard templatized way or a set of rules or goals by which an individual should abide by in order to gain the so called "sense of security" in life.

Society shapes up an individual - agreed. But only in the parts which are common to all the members of that society. And it is these common threads that are misinterpreted for a single uniform way of living. No one can understand anyone in and out. Life is not right or wrong, 0 or 1, white or black. It is all individualistic. We need to expand, imbibe, analyze, keep or throw away what flows beneath every experience in life.

Why haven't I had any feelings which I cannot name? There is always a name to back up feelings - happiness, anger, kindness, hatred, love, etc. or a combination of any of them. Why can I not feel something which I don't know? Is it because such feelings do not exist? But feelings cannot exist perennially. They are all fleeting. Feelings spring into existence when events occur. The occurrence of events is limited by the environment we inhabit and our ability or inability to make things happen.

The gist of what I think he thought - Our lives are limited by our experiences. Our ability to feel is limited by our experiences. Our ability to express what we feel is limited by our experiences. We are limited by our lives. Our lives are limited by us. Screw this limit. Go beyond it.

Thinking about it is going to help in merging fragmented thoughts to create action plans. But that is as far as thinking goes - in just charting plans and not implementing them. But the best part comes after thinking. Think. Thought. Now what? - whine or engage - engage. Go back. Think. Thought. Now what? - whine or engage - engage. Go back. And the loop continues - refining, sharpening, clarifying everything - one frame at a time. But it is extremely important to know when to stop and what level of quality to achieve.

My questions to me and anyone who is reading this are - Are you doing something about it? How badly do you want it? What price are you willing to pay? Do you really want it? Is this chain of thought a product of the current circumstances or an ingrained part of you? Is this thinking just a temporary behavior because of the lack of joy in other aspects of life? If you could get all that, would you still want more?

Many of us may never know the answers to these questions. Many of us, without even asking these questions may get the answers without any effort. But answers never make sense until they connect to the right questions. Are we asking the right questions? And if we are, do we really want to know the answers?

Even as you read this, we are running out of time.

Going....

12:18:19 am,

12:18:20 am,

12:18:21 am,

going...

12:18:23 am,

12:18:24 am,

12:18:25 am,

gone.