Nascent stages

Bang-a-lore I

2011-12-24T20:51:00.072+05:30

Disclaimer: All references to Khali imply him to be "The Great Khali" - Great as in The Great Wall of China and not as in grated cheese. Please check the update section after reading this article for further explanation.

It's been around 2 years since I've been living in Bangalore. Bangalore - or as I fondly like to call it "Bang-a-road", ever since I started driving - is the mecca of software developers or as some of my friend's parent's call us - Kam pooter Injaan neers. Okay, I admit it - they are not my friend's parents - they are some of my relatives. All right, all right - they are not my relatives - it's that suppressed voice in my head that takes a sadistic pleasure in the dehatiaization of every possible Angrayjee word.

Bangalore is a great place - the people are friendly, the weather is pleasant and the opportunities are ample. (Turns back to his PR agent - "That's all I am supposed to say so as to insure myself against the backlash of the natives, right ?") :) Nah - seriously - this is just a collection of a few random observations that I made during my stay in the city.

Avi summarized London in "Snatch" (watch it if you haven't) as:

"You know: fish, chips, cup 'o tea, bad food, worse weather, Mary effin Poppins... LONDON."

If he were to travel to Bangalore (I'm sure he'd assume that all Indians wear turbans, do part-time snake charming, have a holy cow in their 2 BHK flats and eat nothing but Curry and Chicken tikka all the time), he'd describe it as:

"You know: bananas, coconuts, filter coffee, bad food, worse roads, Randomword effin Halli... BANGALORE."

Which brings us to the substitution of Randomword in the previous sentence. Most of the areas in the city are suffixed with the word "Halli" - Marathahalli, Kodihalli, Amruthahalli, Kammanahalli, etc. - Halli means "village" as per google translate (subtle hint - the machines are taking over - I couldn't ask the hoard of my Kannada speaking friends - I had to resort to the big daddy of search engines)

If Khali were to be honoured with an area named after him, it'd be named Khalihalli. A. R. Rehman would even do a spinoff on that and we'd see Khali dancing with Aamir, Soha Ali Khan and other midgets to the tunes of "Khalihalli hain... Khalihalli...".

Same goes for Halle Berry - Hallehalli. Sounds more like the title of a Yash Chopra movie song - something on the lines of "Holay holay..." from "Rab ne bana di Jodi (Foster?)".

"Hallehalli se Halle aati hain,
Halle Khali ke paas jaati hain,
Holay Halle, Halle Khali,
Khali Halle, Beer belly?
HalleHalli... KhaliHalli...".

Hallilujah.

Bangalore - the place where you can buy bananas even at a paan-ki-dukan. In fact, paan-wala-uncle will cheerfully offer you a kela in lieu of the change that he posseses but doesn't want to dispose of. Kela khao beta.

Bangalore - where autorickshawalas shamelessly charge you in the dollar equivalent of the rupee fare. They practice occult religions which involve doing indescribable things to appease the all mighty Meter deity - who in the modified word's of Jules from Pulp fiction: "will strike upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to switch me on, read me and charge the customer accordingly."

Recent studies have shown that the autorickshaws in Bangalore have evolved to the point of treating fare meters as vestigial organs. The obsolete meters have long been replaced by advanced techniques like mentally calculating fare by resorting to Professor Rick "The Ripper" Shaw's famous equation:

tf = td_km x f_pkm + roc

where

tf = total fare
td_km = total distance in kms
f_pkm = minimum fare per km
roc = rip-off coefficient

roc, a number which is as enigmatic as PI - is one of the driving forces behind the rupee deprecation, fiscal deficit and other cool sounding economic terms which I don't understand. roc is a randomly fluctuating 3 digit number > 100 whose value is decided at runtime and depends on a variety of factors, some of which are:

1. How blue does the driver feel today?
2. Which brand of IMFL tickles his majesty's fancy?
3. How close from the destination is the cinema hall running his favourite pelvic-thrusting gravity-defying chick flick?

And the most important of them all - does he like your face?

Me: "Bhaiya, Marathahalli chalte ho?"
Rickwala: "200 hoga saar (sir - for those who are not street enough)."
Me: "But meter se toh 50 hota hain?"
Rickwala: "Meter se nahi jaata saar."

Move on. Go to Rick-2.

Me: "Bhaiya, Marathahalli chalte ho?"
Rickwala-2: "200 hoga saar."
Me: "200 kyun - 400 le lo."
Rickwala-2: "Saar, kyun mazaak karta?"
Me: "Shuru kisne kiya?"

And then - I got back home, took my friend's bike, drove it to their site of organized crime, contorted my face into as badass an expression as I could muster and revved the engine in front of them like any other guy would do in front of a girls hostel, minus the prospect of giving a lift to one of them rickshawalas.

In your face you prickshawalas!

But they didn't react. The collective rick mob leaned lazily on their yellow-black extortion vehicles, smiled wickedly, bared their multichromatic teeth at me and pointed in a direction which held an open, pothole-ridden, dug up bang-in-the-middle patch of land that they so wrongly call "road" in Bangalore.

It was just the beginning.

End of Part I.

UPDATE:

I received the following threat call a few minutes after publishing this post.

In the dead silence of a chilly winter night, my phone's creepy ringtone sang - "Tu mera supermaaann... main teri laydee...... " (search for "govinda superman" on youtube if you haven't heard this cult classic)

me: "Hello?"
the-other-guy: "Guwahaaa Buwahaa kraaawhoo glacckaa?"
me: "Dude, You might want to spit out that plastic doll you are chewing and then speak."
the-other-guy: "Guwahaaa Grekoo kook kook glop glop Khali!"
me: "Khali?"

Halli shit!! Khali was on the line! I quickly searched the android app store - downloaded and installed the Khalislator - an app which translates
Khalistonically encrypted words into decipherable English and talked with him.

Khali: "I read your post. My name is not Khali. It's The Great Khali - Great as in the The Great Wall of China and not grated cheese. Fix it in your post or else, I will Punjabi plunge you so hard, so hard that ummm ... errrr..... grrowwwll!! glaaah!! blaawaaah!! Glaawahaaah!"

And the line went dead. Maybe the foam at his mouth drooled into the receiver and short circuited the internals.

In the interest of prolonging my existence on this planet and not getting so hard a Punjabi plunge that glaaah blawaaah and other indescribable things may happen to my body parts, I have added a disclaimer at the top.

(Interesting point: The Great Khali reads my works. Score!)

Random writeup

2011-08-20T03:38:00.024+05:30

A friend sent the following:

"What they call reality, is a pretense my friend,
You lose yourself in figuring out the trend,
You decide in the wake of emotions,
Decisions, like emotions, are never permanent!"
-- Rajni Mishra (Copy-(left, right and center))

I took the last line and came up with this:

Futile emotions are never permanent - the mind always finds better tenants to replace them.

What was otherwise a bright, peaceful day is suddenly transformed into a cold, dark night as the storm clouds of doubts swirl ferociously in the sky of the mind. Memories, silently contemplating the events that triggered them are startled by the thunderclaps of skepticism. Eyes shine out over the hill. It's time. The storm has awakened the wolves of the past. The angry wolves gnash their teeth in eager anticipation of tearing the memories apart and reconstructing them as they please. It's better to leave before the wolves sniff them out.

Their only hope is to join forces with the current thoughts. They summon the present and a bar materializes in the distance. A faint glow and a dying chimney smoke guides their way. This is their only shot.

Like strangers to their own town - they enter, all soaked in the bar of floating thoughts, with a troubled look on their face and a resigned weariness in their eyes. A friendly conversation with the bartender represented by the current thought and a drink of remembrance satiates them. Loosens them up. Relaxes their nerves. And then they want to know what is going on in the town of your life. Not much has changed since they last visited you.

The memories make small talk with the rest of the crowd. Try to blend in. But there are some futile emotions who have made a permanent residence by the pool table of life. They neither want to play the game nor do they want to leave their spot. All they do is stand by the pool table, with the cue stick of decisions in their hand and a confused look on their face.

They stare at the rest of the bar. And when their eyes meet someone else's they quickly turn around, and try angling the cue stick from multiple directions at the solid and stripe choices scattered on the table. They neither think nor do they analyze the game at hand. All they want to do is take or pretend to take blind shots. It's their primal urge to show that their presence is justified.

They look at those old memories with cold, harsh eyes. It's their joint. No stray memory can walk right in and steal the attention that they have been shying away from. The memories smile and the emotions wince. For these memories, however old that they may be, have come back to remind the bartender about the events that they represented. And as the bartender listens while the memories close in, the once hazy, wrinkled, bedraggled memories become clearer in sight and sharper in contrast. They now represent experiences, not merely a chain of events that they were born from.

The futile emotions break a bottle against the table and walk towards the bartender. The experiences summon the current thoughts and all the fragmented pieces fuse together, growing in size, while the intimidated emotions, not wanting to test the patience of these forces, start withering away.

These experiences offer the emotions a parting drink, which the later stubbornly refuse and angrily shake their fists in the face of experiences while they disappear in thin air. The bartender hands over the cue stick to the experienced players and gets back to work. Behind him is sign on the wall which says:

Futile emotions are never permanent - the mind always finds better tenants to replace them.

Outside the bar, the howling ceases, followed by a sharp whiplash and a whining sound, which is soon replaced by the chirping of birds.

Morning

2011-04-25T22:27:00.018+05:30

I woke up early today and saw the sun rise. It had rained yesterday night. I could feel it in the air. Yet today, the skies were clear. Thin layers of clouds acted as colourful blinders on the window of a vast sky - a sea of blue, a strip of grey and a line of pink - they all laced the stages through which the sun broke out, preceding its arrival with magnificent shafts beaming out of the corners of stray rain clouds.

It started out as a brilliant red, morphed into a golden orange and transformed into a throbbing yellow disc, gaining intensity with the passage of time. While it underwent this transition, its rays touched falling leaves, withered branches, chimney smoke and flying birds. Nature unfolded its presence with a grace, one which man can never replicate.

A soft cool breeze wafted in, bringing with itself memories of the days gone by, and reminding me that these days too, will one day be yearned for.

Self inflicted distractions

2011-04-17T17:07:00.015+05:30

We live our lives. We deal with personal and professional issues. Everyday.

And, we have our dreams. That thought which makes you forget everything and focus, if only for a few moments, on the future that it may bring, if you put in the efforts to achieve it. For some it may be as simple as waking up early in the morning and going for a jog. For some, as grand as striking out and making it big in their field of interest. But we all aspire to break the monotonicity (if any) and seek continuous improvement in our lives.

Stop reading if you cannot relate to what is written in the previous paragraph.

We did not choose our dreams by looking at the current state of our lives. We shouldn't expect our lives to be smooth enough to give us the time, space and opportunities we need to pursue them. In all probability, both of them will be in conflict with each other. Everyday life will bring with itself events which will urge you to defer the efforts you chalked out to live the future you wanted to.

This isn't life putting stumbling blocks on your way.

This isn't life doing what it can to make you give up on your aspirations.

This is life asking you - how badly do you want it?

And it feeds on your answer.

Somewhere, someone who scripts the day while you sleep, smiles and shakes his head gently and wisely as he sees you zooming into what doesn't matter and pushing yourself away from the things that do. Life will keep on upping the ante, throwing things your way till you learn to differentiate. And when you do, the trials and tribulations won't stop. They will always be there. It's just that you will know what to focus-fix-and-move-on and understand what to ignore.

As I write this, I am reminded of something I read on The Onion quite some time ago. O is known for its satirical take on life. But this article is nothing short of a thinly disguised wake-up call:

Open minded man grimly realizes how much time he has wasted listening to bullshit

“Time is all you have and you may find one day that you have less than you think.”
-- Randy Pausch, The last lecture

By The Window

2010-12-06T00:57:00.013+05:30

Saw a facebook profile pic of someone sitting by the window. Thought if I could come up with a piece to describe it without brooding over it for a long time. It's sad that the one for whom this was written will never come to know about it.

But then, my work borrowed a moment from someone's life. Maybe someday, life too will borrow a piece of my work without telling me.

Here's to mutual imitation:

Sitting by the window,
Staring at the street.
Letting others know,
Yet staying discreet.

Gazing through the grill,
Guarding her thoughts.
I see her by the sill,
More often than not.

You ask

2010-11-22T00:13:00.069+05:30

You ask what good is this life.

Aimless days embraced with open arms,
A piece of paper decides a life's plan.

Blinders preferred, mediocrity sought,
Creativity dictated, clamping thoughts.

You ask what good is this life.

The suffocated smile and pretend to breathe,
Warriors retreat and swords are sheathed.

Social acceptance - the primary concern,
A moment's hesitation - a lifetime to yearn.

You ask what good is this life.

What good is this life?

You hide from yourself,
This question is your mask.
You feed it upon itself,
When all you do is ask.

Influenced by Dinah Washington's "Bitter Earth": Youtube - Bitter Earth

Started tech blog

2010-10-19T16:59:00.004+05:30

Was pending since a long time. Now the challenge is to be consistent at it:

Curiosity heals the cat

Different opinions, similar thoughts.

2010-09-09T00:02:00.022+05:30

Just when he thought it was all over, the fat lady hit the highest pitch of her voice and smiled as the bearded guy joined her. They started all over again. He looked towards her with pitiful eyes. But she was still immersed in the Opera, her eyes fixated on the two singers. It's not going to get over soon - he should have stayed behind faking a stomach ache like he did last time.

She watched him from the corner of her eye and smiled slightly. She patted his hand, as if telling him - you'll survive this one. If I could get through Die Hard 4.0 last Sunday, you surely can muster enough courage to live through an infinitely more civilized display of human emotions.

He drummed on the arm rest remembering how Bruce Willis killed a chopper with a car in the tunnel scene - now that was something worth watching. Shaking his head in disagreement, he looked up to her but she didn't respond.

He saw her eyes moistening and her mouth slightly opened - the way it was when she used to be in deep sleep or concentrating on her studies. They were enacting a death scene on stage. He reached for her hand and let his fingers slip amongst hers. He saw a tear roll down her right eye.

She was looking at them as if telling them to not die, to stay together because they were meant to do so. He too wished they don't die - if only for her sake. But they died and she clasped his hand ever so tightly. The fat lady started singing again, and after a few minutes came a village scene - set amongst the clouds.

They were depicting the past of the two lovers who died. A boy and a girl came upon the stage - dressed like angels and sang to each other. Her grip on his hand loosened and he felt a sigh of relief at the look of calmness that had come upon her face - she always closed her eyes half way through for a moment whenever she did that. After a few minutes the curtains drew and the opera ended.

Collecting their coats, they walked towards the exit. He looked back on the people and paused for a moment. He always felt a tinge of sadness when he saw any hall being emptied. All these people - saw, felt, understood and remembered something together. And now, most of them will never see each other again, never to know if anyone else in the audience could understand them the way they wanted to be understood.

So many people, so many lives. It sounds as if all the people on this planet have gathered in one place, smiling and looking up to a camera zooming out on them - city, state, country, continent - all of them living in one world.

He had been saying that since he was 15. Funny how the sound of that voice in your mind stays the same, no matter how old you get.

Collecting their coats, they walked towards the exit. She looked back on the people and smiled. She always felt this feeling of happiness when she saw any hall being emptied. All these people - saw, felt, understood and remembered something together. And now, even though most of them will never see each other again, for that small duration of time they shared something together. That matters.

So many people, so many lives. It sounds as if everyone you see is living in a world of his own - a world constantly shaped by their day to day experiences - mundane and otherwise.

"So how was it?", she asked him while they walked towards the parking lot.

"You tell me."

"I quite liked it. Especially the ending. I was so involved in watching it. I wonder what you were doing in the last half an hour."

"Getting bored, what else?"

He smiled at her while he said that. And she smiled back.

झूठा सच, सच्चे ख्वाब |

2010-08-29T00:26:00.000+05:30

सोचा था समय उन यादो को कभी न मिटा पाएगा,
सोचा था वो एक पल ज़िन्दगी भर साथ निभाएगा |

उनकी वापसी की उम्मीद ने एक अधुरा ख्वाब जगाया था,
जान कर भी अनजान बन कर उन सपनो को पास बुलाया था |

ज़िन्दगी फिर मासूमियत में घुल जाएगी,
हर सुबह फिर बिन वजेह चेहरे पे मुस्कान लाएगी |

उनकी ख़ुशी में फिर अपनी ख़ुशी ढूँढेगे हम,
अरसो के बाद फिर वही आँखों से जियेंगे हम |

मगर मिलने पर अजनबियों की तरह मिले हम दो,
जिस पल का इंतज़ार था, उसके ख़त्म होने के राह देख रहे हैं वोह |

न जाने क्यूँ वोह लम्हे इत्ने मामूली से लगे,
एक अजीब सुकून के साथ हम वोह ख्वाब से जगे |

एक सुकून - ज़िन्दगी की भाग दौड़ में फिरसे जुट जाने का,
ख्वाबो का नाम देकर उस सच को फिरसे भुलाने का |

खोक्लेपन का एहसास - हर चीज़ और भी बेजान हो गयी,
सुबह बेवजह इतनी खुश और शाम और भी अनजान हो गयी |

घर तोह वही था, शायद मोहल्ला बदल चूका था,
आँखों से बातें करने वालो का जरिया बदल चूका था |
शीशे के टुकडो में जीस चेहरे को ढून्ढ रहे थे हम,
चेहरा तोह वही था, हमारा नजरिया बदल चूका था |

Strangers

2010-04-04T01:34:00.032+05:30

"It's okay if you didn't like the script. I have fixed an appointment with another banner today evening. Its not too much of a role but it's about time..."

He stopped half way through. He knew that look. His words were hitting nothing. She looked at him, rolled her eyes, picked the cigarette from between his fingers, took a long drag and exhaled the smoke, spreading it gently over his calm yet questionable face, trying to make him see the fog he was blinded by.

She smiled a lazy crooked smile as she did that. Her each move was perfectly executed, as if she was still on stage, in the middle of a screenplay, wanting to give the writer exact words to describe her.

He thought he still had a shot at convincing her - "It's okay. It really is. You need to take it as it comes. Don't run after it. Don't hold on to it. But we shouldn't let life happen as it wants to, right?"

"Why do you feel the need to comfort me even when you know I am not hurt? What's the point of making up this self contradictory bullshit? You think what you say is deep and thought-provoking. But you know it isn't. In a way, its not your fault either. You got away all this while by hiding behind those phrases. But now its time to take a peek from behind the curtains, kiddo."

She let the cigarette hang. The cigarette, as calm as her, burnt as it pleased in the dimly lit make-up room. He felt as if its faint glow was mocking him, threatening to tell everyone how crippled he was without her. He saw himself greedily encashing on her dreams. Ashamed by that thought, he felt an intense urge to seize her by the arm and scream at her - a thought which was immediately followed by the need to beg her not to leave him. He looked at her, thinking hard to say something, mentally calculating her response to each statement. He was breaking himself. But he wanted to, because that was the only way he could hurt her.

She knew what he was going to say. He knew her reply. She did not come here to make money. He did. He did not know how it felt to act on stage. She did. The silence was screaming and words were redundant.

She stared at him for one last time. For that one moment, he forced himself to see in her eyes what he had been then and what he was now. She felt that he wouldn't be able to accept who he had become. But he did. He embraced who he was and nodded at her, wanting her to feel as if she was standing with a stranger. She knew if she stared a little more, he would have laughed at her face - a forced hysterical laughter, first to subdue and then to kill whatever was left inside of him, after which he would have fallen on his knees and cursed himself for what he had become.

She couldn't take it. Neither could he. He looked away from her. Gazing into the mirror, he saw her walk slowly towards the door, his moist eyes making him see her dissolving away. She turned back to look at him, but all she saw was a sad face in the mirror with closed eyes and trembling lips, both wanting to say - "Go away".

Life for rent

2009-12-08T17:02:00.007+05:30

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.

Unwanted visitors

2009-11-02T16:14:00.045+05:30

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

2009-09-08T12:16:00.035+05:30

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

2009-06-25T01:15:00.015+05:30

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

2009-06-06T13:53:00.021+05:30

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?

2009-03-14T02:30:00.035+05:30

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

2009-03-07T03:29:00.023+05:30

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 dancing with a swing.

The gushing wind and the booming thunder,
Make him flinch and make her wonder.

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

Briefcase over his head, he crouches and huddles,
She runs out in the park, she splashes all the puddles.

He sits and he watches - slicing sheets of a hard rain,
She catches his 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, and stares at his big boots,
He feels like, he needs to, feel a breeze on his harsh face,
But 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, blooming flowers and a pretty face.

She 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

2009-03-05T01:29:00.018+05:30

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

2009-01-26T00:15:00.033+05:30

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.

14th January, 2009

2009-01-14T21:58:00.036+05:30

Dear Diary,

Don't you feel offended when they address you by your last name? Dear Diary - I mean you do have a first name, don't you? Personal diary, business diary, private diary. Heck, you even have movies named after you - Basketball diaries, princess diaries and so on. Basketball diaries was a good movie. Yea you liked it didn't you? Well, you had Leonardo scribbling his thoughts all over you. That kid's come a long way since then. So, coming back to the point - I wouldn't take that if I were you. If I were you, I'd just cringe and crumple up the paper - basically make it difficult to pen down his/her thoughts. You don't get respect diary, you gotta snatch it. I didn't say earn it because you are already worth it. I am not one of those guys. I treat them the way they ought to be treated. Let's begin all over again.

Dear Not-so-personal-all-you-can-read-diary,

How does that feel? Good eh? Yea, even the poor rich text editor likes to be respected. Well sweetheart, you deserve nothing but the best. So here I am. Typing my mind away. This is just a not so brief account of the things that happened in my day today.

I woke up with a smile on my face - which was due to 2 reasons.

1. Hangover from watching Pulp Fiction last night - which means I'll be giving the Samuel Jackson Ezekiel 25:17 look to anyone who messes with me and whenever I'll have nothing to do, the following lines will play over and over in my head.

Fabienne: Whose motorcycle is this?
Butch: Its a chopper baby.
Fabienne: Whose chopper is this?
Butch: Zed's.
Fabienne: Who's Zed?
Butch: Zed's dead baby. Zed's dead.

And Butch guns the chopper away with Fabienne clutching him on the backseat. Amazing how the right words in the right places can elevate a normal conversation to a such cult status.

Hear him say it - Zed's Dead

2. Bloddy holiday today. Its Sakrant. For the uninitiated - the festival of kites. Normally, my office doesn't have a holiday today but due to the excess Gujju population which eventually asserts its presence everywhere, we got the day off. Thank you Mukes Patel - you the man.

It was a quiet day for Sakrant. The skies, which are normally peppered with multi colored kites swinging to wind's music, were empty. The wind was also flowing without force. It wasn't even flowing. It was trickling. Normally, a few days before this day, the winds pick up and start making those small swirls of dust in parking lots. But on the D-day, no winds. None whatsoever. I guess that's his way of telling us - don't wait for the right moments, fly them while you can. If you wait for the perfect day, maybe it won't be there. All you have is here and now.

So with no kites, I thought I will corrupt the innocent young minds of this nation's youth - in other words, chat on gmail. Talked to a few friends. Just the usual stuff. No adversary worth talking trash with. So I spent some time swinging to Pulp fiction's opening title music. Mind blowing stuff - Pulp Fiction Opening titles. So I was looking at a few other songs in that movie and I came across one to which Uma Thurman danced to - "Girl, you'll be a woman soon" by Neil Diamond. Amazing lyrics. Beautiful melody. Reinstates my faith in the fact that with the right words you can win the world.

Listen to it - With an introduction by Tarantino and Neil Diamond Live

That's the best part about writing songs. You can live forever. For. Ever.

Woah, The power went off! Right now. Yes sir, we at Crimes Now will bring you the latest updates as they happen. Let's go over to our correspondent - Chitranjan Chatterjee a.k.a chitty-chitty-bang-bang out there. Chitty-chitty - can you hear me? Chitty-chitty are you there? Well, I guess he can't hear us - so here it goes -

Chitty Shitty Chitty bang,
From a tree does he hang,
He talks like a dirty flea,
He looks like a monkey.
M-O-N-K-E-Y!!
Monkey Monkey!!

Hah! In your face, chitty boy. I always wanted to say that on national television. Well, we will just switch to alternative sources of power and get back to our scheduled programme - a day in the life of Saurabh Hirani. Take it away, Peabrain.

(Wide grin on my face) Why thank you Fishface. Please remind me to kill you later. So where were we? Oh yeah, we were living forever through songs.

So that happened. Then my folks wanted to watch Ghajini. So I hopped along and got some tickets. My first movie review - not bad. I had expected a power packed performance from Aamir and he delivered them goods all right. Asin was like a breath of fresh air. But I did expect a racier storyline and a more sleek narrative. Surprising how Aamir takes on an entire gang with his bare hands. And those gangsters - poor guys - they are such nice people that they don't even know what a gun is. I bet they have those tiny-pink-plastic-tea-cup parties where they make civilized conversations like - No boom boom, Boom boom bad. Oooga booga.

I heard no gunshots, saw no bullets. Sad. 20 bad guys. No problemo. Bring them on. All with pipes, wrenches and sharpnels. Great. Make my day. With that kind of defiance of probablity - I'd rename the movie from Ghajini to Rajni. But I did like the underlying emotion of the last few seconds - Alone but not lonely. You know what would have been more interesting? The audience having 15 minute memories. Think of all the possibilities. I know, by the time you are through with this post, you are going to have a 0 second memory - Which blog? What humor? Humor? Haaah. Not by a long shot. Yea yea, but for the time being - read on.

After the movie comes a mandatory round of boring window shopping with my folks. We went to Pantaloony. There was this uncle helping his wife with selecting clothes. He was holding her dresses for her. I had this great urge to walk up to him and ask him - "Would you like to try one of those sir?" But the non-masochistic side of me held me back. So I hunted for a place to sit as there wasn't much eye candy. Those kind people had put up chairs near the exit. To the exit, people.

I was just sitting there when I had this strange feeling. It was as if there was someone else inside of me. I could feel his presence. I felt stronger than before. Next thing I knew, my triceps were ripping out of my shirt. I realized was sitting near the "Alteration" counter. Before I could mutate into some crazy green monster, I ran. I ran like the wind my friend. Not like today's wind though. Like the one that sways a hindi movie heroine's gorgeous locks of hair when she turns in slow motion.

Then at around 2030 hrs, I went for a walk. On the way I saw this huge sign board - Job OK Please. Some recruitment agency. Neat. They got the - Horn OK Please and substitued horn by job. What if the truck drivers did that too? If they would, then the modified version of the sign - Blow Horn would raise a lot of eyebrows.

So I was walking along, humming that Neil Diamond song, when I saw this kid from a nearby slum. He had collected enough money to buy himself a sandwich. And while he was eating it - he ate it slowly. As if he wanted it to last forever. I thought he would wolf it down. But he didn't. He savored every bite of it. Till the very last bite. One bite at a time. Life's like that.

After that, I went to a book shop. Fooled around. Read a few pages of a book called God is dead by Ron Currie. Pretty interesting. Then to avoid getting into trouble with the authorities I came back home. And that's it. And here I am talking to you. Yes, you. You there - behind whose back that hideous 2 faced monster is crawling towards the screen slowly. I know. But it was worth a shot. You never know!! Buwahahahahahaha...

I'll hit the sack now. Back to work tomorrow. Its been nice talking to you. I might have left out a few trivial experiences which involved drugs, car crashes, nuclear weapons, alien landings and some answers to the questions of life, but they aren't that important. All righty then. Sweet dreams honeybunny.

Q: Why couldn't the kid say what came after X, Y?
A: Because he knew. He knew that Z's dead baby. Z's dead.

Some Americans won't get it because they call the Z a Zee. Well, we call it Zed. Zed as in Zed's dead. So there. Now read it again and laugh like a moron.

Nowhere but there.

2009-01-05T11:10:00.003+05:30

The story - it never ends,
The actors - they still stand,
In the long lost corners, corners of my mind.

All those poems - they still rhyme,
Like a hollow church bell chime,
Filling lonely lanes - the ones I left behind.

The seasons - still the same,
Never went there, I still came,
In a broken mirror - many faces do I find.

Walking shadows, dreamy nights,
Fading faces, hazy lights,
I want to live it all - both the cruel and the kind.

I see my future meet my past,
Says have fun while it lasts,
I'm a tape stuck between forward and rewind.

I guess it's all - all still there,
Calls me back if I'd care,
See me if you can - through the eyes of the blind.

See me if you can - through the eyes of the blind.

In the corners of my mind,
In the lanes I left behind,
All those faces shall I find,
Faces cruel, faces kind,
Playing forward and rewind,
Through the eyes of the blind,
For those ties which still bind.

Barberic creatures

2008-11-15T22:00:00.028+05:30

Sunday mornings. Serene sunday mornings.

They sound all the more delicious when you are a sluggish athlete of the rat race. For me bliss on a sunday means

1. A nice oily omelet.
2. Sunday times columns of Erratica and Jugular vein.

While the golden rays of a happy sun pour through the window, a lazy bugger gorges on a beautiful omelet, leafing through the paper fascinated by the wordplay of Erratica and the witty shitty prose of Jugular vein. Heaven is here and now. But destiny has it otherwise.

As per the statistical data of the hygiene squad - my folks - I have survived beyond the permissible number of days for which a human being can go without a haircut and a shave. I have crossed that extremely thick line that separates us from our primate ancestors. Despite my cunning, sly, camouflaging skills or maybe because of them - I have been discovered. Resistance is futile. A disgraced, reluctant ape walks in chains towards Paradise Hair Saloon. Ironical, eh Adam?

Entering a barber shop on a sunday morning is like entering a barber shop on a sunday morning. It's that bad. There I sit, leafing through the dog eared pages of Starlust when I am told that I'm up for grabs in 15 minutes, which in IST means 30-35 minutes of doing nothing. It s then that I encounter and study the fascinating 'barberic' creatures.

Specimen - 1 - Perfection Painsonified

Code name - farty fatman - F2

Target barber - Lokes bhai - Agent L.

Observations: F2 is the one who puts the 0.5 micron long and 0.001 micron thick P in painful precision.

Look on L's face: I should have listened to my father - grown crops in my village and done part time plumbing. I should have taken the blue pill.

"Surprise me", says F2. After pondering for more than a minute for what is this guy in for - he has a perfect haircut, no beard, he's clean, he is a free man, L thinks maybe F2 has been framed. But L is a tough guy. No room for emotions. F2 sits back and appreciates his receding hairline and gothic face in the mirror. When L is done slicing the air over his head, F2 stares into the mirror, knits his eyebrows and says with zen like wisdom 'There is something missing..' Your hair, Sherlock, your hair!

And then out of a place which I cannot disclose he fishes out a Vernier's calliper. Measuring the thickness of his side line, he smiles a wicked, crooked smile and says 'Fix it.' L looks at the his chief, Mr. Hairy Plotter who nods gravely and hands him an electron microscope.

There are sweat beads on L's brow. His hands tremble as he uses his nanotechno scissors to perform an act with more finesse than a bypass surgery. The audience watches with bated breath as the background violins keep on climbing their pitch. Soon, dead silence fills the room.

Agent L sighs a breath of relief. He has done it. His heartbeat is going back to the normal rate when F2 brings forth an explorer's compass and looks at Agent L. Not the 32.1 degree north northwest inclination demand!! L can't take it anymore. He slams F2 face first in the mirror and forces a cheap shampoo bottle down his throat.

Specimen - 2 - I want that look, I want it now, I want it all and I don't care how.

Codename - blind beggar - B2

Target barber - Mukes bhai - agent M.

Observations: He is the guy who spends so much time in xeroxing notes that he doesn't get the time to read them. He is the tycoon who through acts of charity converts beggars into millionaires, making himself a beggar in the process.

Look on M's face: (Tears of joy streaming down his face.) I can finally buy that Mediterranean island and the private jet I dreamed of.

As soon as B2 enters, rockets shoot out of the barber chairs, strobe lights flash, shiny disco balls bounce all over the room and a the otherwise yellow, peeling ceiling bursts into a glorious display of pyrotechnics. And then begins a show which would put the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics to shame. B2 walks majestically towards his neon lit, laser aura, all pure leather, triple recliner, electric you-name-it-it-has-it throne.

The ritual begins. B2 says - "The usual". And M blushes as if Drew Barrymore and Carmen Electra have proposed to him at the same time. "The usual" comprises of - haircut, shave, bleaching, waxing, screeching, complete and i mean comp-lete wink wink - body massage, lemon honey face pack, almond milk face pack, cowdung dogshit face pack, manicure, pedicure, Zingafoka tribal dance, open heart surgery, knee hip physiotherapy and the truth behind all the mysteries of this universe. But just when agent M is about to unlock the mysteries of the universe to B2 - B2 notices that his beard has grown long enough for rats to do rock climbing. Hence, M lathers, shaves and repeats - "The usual". For infinty and beyond.

Specimen - 3 - Cellulophile a.k.a Moronus Mobilus

Codename - paralysed pirahna - P2

Observations: This guy was born with a silver sim card in his mouth. The first word that he uttered was 'Nokia N70'. He was busy yapping on the cell in his mother's womb when the poor guy lost his balance (literally and literally) and fell out like a discharged cell phone battery.

Target barber - Nages bhai - agent N.

Look on N's face: May he choke on his sim card and be strangulated by the chord of his charger. May he be stranded on a desert where he sees mirages of cheap cell phones revloving around his head, hear gorilla fart ringtones and hunts without success for a drop of network coverage for eternity.

He talks the talk, walks the talk, eats the talk, and shits the talk. P2 has been sitting on the hot seat for the last 15 minutes, shooting crap with his phony friend but is yet to tell N whether he came for a haircut or an audition for Indian Idol. Before N loses his cool and is about to ask him, P2's friend who is travelling on a train loses his network. As a reflex P2 gets up from his seat and runs outside the shop.

Maybe P2's keen sense of observation and sharp intellect made him logically deduce that if his friend's network is gone, P2 should get out and harness solar energy to beam his brain waves to the nearest satellite in orbit which would bounce back those waves to his friend's handset thereby restoring the network. But then, maybe P2 is an award winning idiot. But P2 is a persistent idiot. He will shout 'Hello, Gattu,' at least 24 times before a passerby labels him a moron in high class hindi expletives. P2 walks in, another great spirit supressed by mediocre minds. Nokia, we give you our very own - Dorkia.

Soon enough the F2, B2 and P2 become an integral part of their habitat in their own distinctive ways. Its my turn to sit on the chair and some one else's to observe my idiosyncrasies and write about them in his blog. Scissors snip, razors slide, and the audience witnesses the rare phenomenon of my evolution from the Cro Magnon ape to the modern man.

Freedom and stupidity

2008-09-19T10:57:00.006+05:30

Freedom: You are as free as you let yourself be. ^*

Stupidity: You are as stupid as you show yourself to be. ⁺

* - Conditions apply.
+ - No conditions apply. None whatsoever.

Rainy night

2008-09-13T22:42:00.021+05:30

Its raining.

The streets are empty, except for the occasional cow running for shelter and a car going by, honking continuously in spite of an empty road. Another car pulls in the driveway of a nearby building. While it is backing up,the red taillight and the blinking yellow side indicator are giving momentary colours to droplets falling from the sky. The silence on the roads is replaced by the dull sound of rain, somewhat similar to the continuous swaying of a tree. Its not raining heavily. Its not a drizzle either. But it is the kind of rain where in if you run a little fast, you won't get drenched.

Now that I said it is not raining heavily, someone up there heard it and ordered a few more air strikes. They thunder, he claps twice and the cantering rain gallops. I can no longer enjoy the privilege of sitting by the window and typing. I retreat. Now it is the kind of rain
where you can run as fast as you can but you'd still be soaked. But still everyone runs. When you know that you're going to get drenched - give in. It is somewhat like that feeling that many of the guys who have done a job must have felt - consciously or subconsciously - when your getting screwed is inevitable, you'd better enjoy it.

The shelter where the watchman sits is empty. Its a small space - housing 2 supporting pillars and a tiled hut like roof overhead. The rain patters down the roof. The droplets lie on the edge of the last tile for a moment - where a nearby lamp gives them light. And then they fall down and reunite with their friends in the puddle. To be one again.

Each drop is a nobody till it reaches the edge. But as soon as it does, it gets its five nanoseconds of fame - glowing ever so brightly in the yellow light of the lamp. It shines. Shine on you crazy diamond. It flashes with all the other divers lined up to take the plunge. As soon as one jumps off, there is one more spark lined up to replace it. They just keep on coming. Their unsynchronized bungee jumps make the entire process look like piano keys coming together and then as per the pre-ordained rain sheet music, jumping off. There is no music and there is music everywhere. I wish you were here to see this.

It keeps on raining like this for about half an hour. And then slowly it starts to fade out. Like the end of a song. The harsh banging of an unwelcome stranger on the tin roof converts into a steady march of jackboots. The steady march of jackboots morphs into a low pitch funeral drumming. The low pitch funeral drumming gives way to a slow knocking on the door. And the slow knocking on the tin roof continues for quite some time. As the knocking traveller realizes that no one is going to let him in, he quits. The tin roof stops talking.

I go back by the window. And the winds rush in, the fragrance of fresh wet soil riding on them. Brings back the days of innocence. The days when instead of writing about nature, we used to go out and read it. Read it in the splashes of puddles, in paper boats, in the gully cricket played in rains, in floating reversed umbrella's in the muddy streams, in tasting raindrops, in running along with the sheets of rain, in feeling the coolness that envelops the air when it is moments from raining.

Ek woh din bhi the,
Ek yeh din bhi hain,
Ek woh raat thi,
Ek yeh raat hain,
Raat yeh bhi guzar jayegi.

- Gulzar

(There were days like those,
And there are days like these,
There were nights like those,
And there are nights like these,
But this night will also pass away.)

The rain has stopped. The streets are all washed up - shining black leather jacket. Streetlights dripping like a freshly bathed kid. Trees swaying like a beautiful woman drying her locks of hair. The cool breeze is talking to the leather jacket, kid and the pretty lady. They are catching up on the old times, sometimes giggling, sometimes sighing, snuggled comfortably in the dark blanket of night.

Out in the distance a sputtering scooter struggles to make it through the water logged streets. It coughs. It chokes. After a while the water wins. The streets are silent again.

a 1 and a 2

2008-08-24T00:41:00.021+05:30

Shit happens in 1's life.

2: That isn't my problem, is it?

1: No it isn't. But if you could help me out...

2: Look, I've got enough problems of my own to deal with. Its your god damned life - go fix it yourself.

1: I will but I just..

2: Well, so long then. It will all get over. It will get better. Don't worry.

1: Will it?

2: What do I care?

1: True. Why am I even having this conversation with you?

2: Search me. You are the 1 who started it. Now get the hell out of here!!

And then 1 gets the hell out of there. Just like that.

a 1 and a 2 and a 1 , 2 , 3 go -

2 is on the other side, the one that is good,
happy mornings, sunshine, and plenty of food.

2 has a huge house, and a soft bed where he lies,
his conscience is for sale, and he can't look you in the eye.

2 don't care for the other world, 2 don't give a damn,
2 sees them in documentaries, shot with handy cams.

2 sees them on his box, flickering in the dark,
2 curled up in his comfy chair, 2 happy as a lark.

2 smiles at their misery, 2 feels so nice and mean,
How beautiful life must be on 2's side of the screen!

2 dozes in his comfy chair, idiot box awake,
2 dreams dreams in his dreamy dreams, 2 swimming in a lake.

a lovely day, a fresh blue sky, a rainbow arch and a swaying tree,
2 is young, 2 alive, 2 is pure, 2 is free,

A little bird perched - on a peach tree,
It asks 2 - "Will you sing with me?"

2 says "Sure, we will all sing together.
I am feeling very happy and light as a feather."

Birdie clears its throat, flutters its little wings,
Prunes to look its best and then it starts to sing:

"a 2 is a 1 and a 1 is a 2,
Say that you are me, and say that I am you.

a 2 is a 1 and a 1 is a 2,
Say that you are me, and say that I am you."

2 sees a strange look - in the bird's eye,
2 sees 2 question marks, 2 eyes shouting - WHY?

2 feels the water hardening, its turning into stone,
2 swimming on a pavement, 2 lying all alone,

2 lying in a spotlight, and there is no 1 there,
2 thinks - "i have been here, i have seen this somewhere."

2 sees a shining light - a distant beam in the dark,
a red and a green and a bluish streak, a shiny shiny spark.

the shiny spark sees him coming and opens up its arms,
2 embraces the shiny spark, it feels so numb and warm.

2 is now in a dark cell, a glassy window pouring light,
2 peers out the glassy window, and sees a scary sight,

The dark cell is his idiot box, the world - his drawing room,
He sees the 1 he tread upon, on his comfy chair he looms.

2 finds himself back in the lake, and he tries to stay afloat,
but 2 can't swim, and 2 goes down,
red button, red button,
remote, remote.

- saurabh.

The birdie sings:

a 2 is a 1 and a 1 is a 2,
Now that you are me, why shouldn't I be you?

Stay mean or stay clean.

Don't read me

2008-08-09T00:31:00.019+05:30

Morpheus: "Have you ever had a dream, Neo, that you were so sure was real? What if you were unable to wake from that dream? How would you know the difference between the dream world and the real world?" - The Matrix.

You heard it, Who called you? Who shouted your name?
He's hopeful, you'll hear it, and come play his game.

Its nothing, there's no one, no one what so ever,
Don't look back, don't go there, you'll stay there for ever.

Its too late, past midnight, its starting to rain,
You walk in, don't think twice, a dimly lit lane.

You freeze on your tracks, you're sad that you came,
You're sad that you heard, he whispers your name,

He lets go of someone, it crawls on all four,
It scampers past you, it shouts out - 'NO MORE!!!'

He crouches, he trembles, he cries like a small boy,
He bangs on the trash cans, he cries for a new toy,

You turn back and run fast, but you run back in the same lane,
you're trapped in a mirror, can you still try to stay sane?

He growls and he snarls and he gets off the floor,
Are you ready to dance? Yes, he is hungry for more,

Limping along, the misery prolongs,

Limping along, he's whistling a song,

Limping along, he's bringing it on,

covers up his face and shouts out your age,
shouts real loud and rattles his cage.

Hide and seek game, starts the countdown,
twenty five, twenty four, going down, going down,

twenty three, twenty two,
where to run? what to do?

two zero, one nine,
give it up, you're mine.

counts its down real slow, slow, one by one,
he giggles and he stammers, and he's having his fun,

a nine and an eight,
a stamped sealed fate.

a seven and a six,
got no more tricks.

a five and a four,
just a few more.

but you kick and you scream,
and you break out of that dream,

you wake up and you blink,
you tremble and you think,

who counted my age? who whispered my name?
who covered his face, was playing the game?

its all over now, its all in the past,
it isn't the first, ain't gonna be the last.

you pick up where he left, you rework his rhyme,
you start out where he stopped, you turn back the time,

you say a five and a four,
wicked beast no more.

you say a three and a two,
n there's nothing he can do.

you say a two and a one,
n I ain't gonna run.

and in the distant dark,
in the dead of the night,
you hear feet shuffling,
and you hear a faint voice,

lonely haunting voice, as empty as a drum,

saying - "Ready or not - Here I come!"

saying - "Ready or not - Here I come!"

saying - "Ready or not - Here...I...come..."

Sweet dreams, stranger.

Alanis

2008-07-27T01:42:00.012+05:30

This is how Alanis Morissette makes you fall in love with her:

Snippet from "Ironic":

It's a traffic jam when you're already late
It's a no-smoking sign on your cigarette break
It's like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife
It's meeting the man of my dreams
And then meeting his beautiful husband
And isn't it ironic... don't you think
A little too ironic... and yeah I really do think...

- Alanis

Snippet from "Not the Doctor":

I don't want to be the sweeper of the eggshells that you walk upon
I don't want to be your other half I believe that 1 and 1 make 2
I don't want to be your food or the light from the fridge
On your face at midnight
Hey what are you hungry for
I don't want to be the glue that holds your pieces together
I don't want to be your idol
See this pedestal is high and Im afraid of heights
I don't want to be lived through
A vicarious occasion
Please open the window

- Alanis

Snippet from "You learn":

I recommend biting off more then you can chew to anyone
I certainly do
I recommend sticking your foot in your mouth at any time
Feel free
Throw it down, the caution blocks you from the wind
Hold it up to the rays
You wait and see when the smoke clears

You live you learn
You love you learn
You cry you learn
You lose you learn
You bleed you learn
You scream you learn

- Alanis

Snippet from "Hand in my pocket":

I'm broke but I'm happy
I'm poor but I'm kind
I'm short but I'm healthy, yeah
I'm high but I'm grounded
I'm sane but I'm overwhelmed
I'm lost but I'm hopeful baby

What it all comes down to
Is that everything's gonna be fine fine fine
I've got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is giving a high five

I've got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is flicking a cigarette

I've got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is giving the peace sign

I've got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is playing the piano

I've got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is hailing a taxicab...

- Alanis

I've got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is fiddling with the socket...

KZzzZzZZZAaaaAP!!!

- Burnt fingers.

Tisssssssss...

- Burnt fingers doused in cold water.

I've got one hand in my pocket
And the other one too.

You burn. You learn.

we, him.

2008-07-03T22:34:00.005+05:30

In a trillion years when the lights are out,
when there are no questions, there are no doubts.

no raindrops, no dewdrops, no snowflakes in flight,
no paper boats, no wet leaves, no blankets of white.

no grey dawn, no sunrise, no red pink twilight,
no blue skies, no sunset, no transition to night.

no breathing, no heartbeats - when all is standstill,
no predator, no prey, no escape, no kill.

no anger, no joy, no hope, no despair,
he smiles in a corner and leans in his chair.

thinks of his creations and their final fall,
why did it all die, wasn't it enough for all?

there were brooks and mountains and valleys and trees,
i gave them forests and islands and deserts and seas.

i gave them earth and fire and water and air,
two hands, a brain and a heart to care.

a life worth living - a shot at glory,
you fall and you rise, you write your own story.

he was thinking all of this while leaning in his chair,
he saw a spirit fly by - hey, who goes there?

a swarm of sparks - some diamonds, some coal
a pulsating red heart - the collective human soul.

the faint glow halted - this must be my God,
a formless white light - a suspended lightning rod.

i made poets and artists and painters and sages,
you drew borders, made weapons - spilled blood on my pages.

why did you burn and break and throw it all away?
i know that i know, but let me hear you say.

Go on. Say something. I am listening.

This is what happens when you play God - you fall short of words.

: (

- saurabh
2008-07-03 2253 hrs.

On Categories and loop analysis

2008-06-23T20:54:00.002+05:30

Have you ever felt that everything is so clear that you can see it in all of its entirety? When everything freezes and thaws so slowly that you can see and live every moment of it? (Someone from the 2nd row: hey you are just copying this from your earlier blogs!!) Well, going by the
statistics I got from the Department of Amazing Blogs Online (DOABO as it is more commonly known), how many of you will notice? (Laughs like a mad scientist. Its too much for him and he breaks into a coughing fit.)

So as I was saying - How beautiful must be that moment when you realize the meaning of life,universe and what goes inside of a lemmings mind when it commits suicide? I just had a glimpse of it. And being a great philantropist that I am - even though I don't know how to spell that word - I shall bequeath upon you the wisdom passed down to me by the higher powers.

There I was just sitting and trying to find a word that rhymes with fought. I thought and I thought and during that process, it suddenly hit me: yes the meaning of life, universe and what goes inside a lemmings head when it commits suicide. Huddle together villagers, for the sage shall now speak. The secret ingredient is:

Elegance, beauty and precision - reduce the no. of words used to express your thoughts. Every sentence has to be striking, complete in itself. No unnecessary repetitions, no redundant rhyming. Every word that rhymes or not must convey the central theme of the work that you are doing. Every moment that we live must reflect the theme of the life we are leading. Beauty lies in the details... only if the details are precise.

When was the last time you realized that the only person stopping you was you? What makes it all tick? What makes it all so glorious or so mechanical? You cannot scale the zenith in all the worlds that you live in. You simply cannot. An idiot runs in 4 directions at a time and falls face front on the ground. Don't ask for advice. Don't seek opinions. Know your category. Understand your loop.

The categories:

- lazy idiot
- lazy intelligent
- active idiot
- active intelligent

The lazy idiots thrive on ancestral money. They can buy yachts, play polo, breed horses, know the difference between a fendi and a gucci and live in their bubbles. They curse the poor kid who comes to swab the windshield of their Mercedes at the signal but deep down below they know that poor kid has seen more of the real world and knows how to deal with it. That makes them hurt him even more.

The lazy intelligent feed off category 1. These parasites know that they are capable of doing great things and eventually their capability becomes their reality. Sooner or later, they rust out their talents and morph into the category 1 snobs.

They bear the same compassion as their bosses for the poor kid at the signal. But they find it kind of funny because they try to picture their bosses in that kid's place and find solace in the thought that without them, their bosses would soon find themselves doing something similar. However, they overlook the fact that without their bosses they too would be at the mercy of the traffic signal.

The active idiots - the world is full of them - they are the whipping boys of the lazy intelligent. Lazy idiot delegates work to lazy intelligent who knows how to use the active idiot to achieve his goal. The active idiot lives in an equally stupid fantasy that his work is appreciated and he is doing great work by stapling xerox copies and buying samosas everytime for his brothers at work.

He wouldn't mind putting in extra hours, sacrificing life on the personal front, taking the initiative to kick his own ass - because his boss has shown him the dreams he cannot afford to dream, the dreams of a secure retired life, a 2 BHK flat, 2 obedient children, a loving wife, a good world with good people. Good people who do good deeds. He cannot have any kind of feelings for any poor kid at the signal because he does not own a Mercedes and bajaj scooters don't have windshields.

If you notice at the signals, low end vehicles are always ignored when you have a swanky car screeching and growling at the signal. That windshield is screaming to feel the touch of a dirty cloth, yearning to be wiped, desiring to be the medium through which the rich scorn at the poor. It connects both the worlds - the beggar and the Benz.

The active and intelligent category - they are pragmatic people - their work is directly proportional to their paycheck. They are the ones who put work discipline before the ho jayega thought. They work by the clock. They take up a task and close it. They don't believe in quick fixes. They respect their time. They laugh at their bosses and some of them jump the ring when they are shown a bigger bone.

They don't believe that there is a good world out there with good people who do good deeds. People are just people. No one is right or wrong. Its all relative. About the poor kid at the signal - they don't have the time to feel happy or sad. They either ignore him or help him out just because they feel like it. They don't talk about it. They just do it.

Of all these categories, the active intelligent has most of the fun, works intelligently, knows how to woo the chicks and avoid the boss. But sometimes the active intelligent is more of an active idiot when it comes to living life on the personal front. He does not have any central theme to his life.

A central theme comes when you have the ability to fall in love with something - not someone.The central theme is your planet. It can be a blazing fiery passion in any activity - music, sport, literature, painting, singing, programming, designing, etc. In order to preserve this central theme and explore the deepest joys that are locked in it - it has to rise beyond the level of being a hobby. It has to grow into a part of your life, devoid of which life becomes as listless as a soap case.

The only way to increase the fire power and morph this hobby into a way of living is through discipline. Discipline to put in the time and effort needed to achieve the peaks of perfection in that one field - that gives them the pleasure no one else can give - for they are the ones who both radiate and absorb that happiness.

Once they realize the theme, some of the find it extremely difficult to be organized and focussed to derive happiness on a day to day basis. They think that they are living a life worth living. But in order to excel, progress has to be measured. Some never measure the progress of their work, their themes. They just stand there but they think they are going somewhere. Then they look back, observe and see that nothing has changed.

That is when they start making gameplans, pushing limits, racing themselves. That is when they realise who they are - the active, intelligent, disciplined, passionate, aggressively engaging people who live this life like they have never lived it before.

The daily routine of the people of all these categories - they are their loops. The way they talk, they way they stammer, the way they think, the way they cry, the way they fold their freaking handkerchiefs, the way they submit, the way they rule.

Look around. Identify your loop. Stay confined or break free.

It is times like these that make me feel that one day this post will be circulated on the net, a large book publishing house will identify my masterpieces (or disasterpieces), publish my works, make me rule the charts of new york times bestsellers for months together, pump in enough money for me to start an international chain of restaurants. From the money i earn from the restaurants, I shall start a chain of luxury spas and pubs. From that money I shall start an aviation company that would charge a bomb to do launch you into orbit for 15 minutes. From that money, I would buy a few islands, build fortified castles on all of them and live lavishly on the extremely high returns i earn from my diversified business ventures.

Loop analysis - hey that would eventually turn make me into a lazy idiot! I don't want to be that. (Reads the above paragraph once again) I wouldn't mind actually. (Conscience kicks in). No! Never, I will not be a lazy idiot. (Sight drifts over the above para once again). Aaaargh!! I want to be a lazy idiot. (Gets a brain freeze and head starts getting heavier by the second, sees words dancing in the air, rotating and revolving around his face) -

Active idiot
money discipline
lazy intelligence active
idiot lavish progressive
discipline
money central castle Mercedes
discipline
orbit money lavish progressive central
castle Mercedes money.

(Feels the pressure of 10G on his mind. Brain feels like the inside of a pinball machine.)

tick
tick
tick
tick
tick
BOOM!!

Damn it, now I will have to assimilate myself once again. Now where did that brain thing fly off? How I wish I had self healing neural circuits similar to that bad guy in Terminator 2. I could think to the point of blowing my brains off and then the individual pieces would automagically come together, fuse, combine and I'd be me.

Now does the medulla oblongata tied up by the axons to the dendrons come on the left side of my left brain or right? Wait my left would be my brain's right, right? Oh crap!!

You - yes you reading this blog. Go get some sleep. Trust me. You need it.

- saurabh (brains not included)
23-06-2008 2220 hrs.

The dot

2008-05-26T21:45:00.001+05:30

Well, here we are back in the zone,
To enter the matrix pick up the phone,
Beware of cipher - a dagger concealed,
Suspended bullets and the truth is revealed.

I know you are out there, he says to the code,
He is the wanderer and he is the road,

He looks in your eyes and says nothing at all,
The sentinels strike and Zion will fall,

A game of reality - or a virtual roulette,
You are the revolver, you the stray bullet.

Looking at the street where everyone walks,
Pulling at the chains, which anchor to the dock,

Breaking them fetters, you choose your fate,
Feel sorry for the zombies, its never too late,

Its never too late, too late to be you,
Its never too late, to be among those few,

Its never too late, too late to let go,
Its never too late, too late to know,

Empty words filling this space,
Empty minds, empty race,
Empty lives, empty thoughts,
A grain of sand, a microscopic dot.

A dot so small, you squint to see,
A dot all alone, alone and free,

Many dots huddled together,
And made a collective blot,
Collective existence, collective thought.

You can't stand alone, you will not bee seen,
A dot so small, a dot so lean,
A dot at whom, the other dots laughed,
In front of them all, the small dot dwarfed.

This small dot stood, stood out on its own,
This small dot stood - his own blood and bone.

Curious as they were, they wanted to know,
What is this little guy trying to show?
Why did he not join the other crowd?
Why did he think, why did he shout?
How dare he defy the traditions of the clan?
He can't live alone, can you think he can?

They agreed to the voice, but deep down below,
They wanted to be him, and go against the flow,
The voice felt that they are trying to think,
They are trying to feel, they are breaking the links,
They are breathing again, they are thinking aloud,
They are looking around, I am loosing my crowd,

No don't go! I am what you need,
Upon whose minds shall I now feed?

They feared my voice, now they look so bold,
Its getting so dark, Its getting so cold,
Am I falling apart? Am I shrinking in size?
I am loosing my grip, I am paying the price!

With these last words, the cruel kingdom fell,
The small dot lived, with a story to tell,
Every discarded outcast, who got what he sought,
He was the small dot, the one who fell, the one who fought.

-saurabh
2007-05-26 2145 hrs.

How many days?

On sad hotel food and LED screens

2008-05-11T23:12:00.000+05:30

Here i am. Once again. Promising myself to get up early in the morning and typing away moments that would otherwise be devoted to hitting the sack. I am staring at the patch of sky visible from my shack, watching an aeroplane blink away in the night questioning the philosophical aspects of my existence - Why are we here? Is there a purpose to life? Why does Veg Kolhapuri at Laxmi Rest and Bar suck? Such questions - especially the last one make me ponder about the pickleness.. i mean fickleness of life.

Why do they charge a bomb to serve you a glorified version of laxative? Why can't they tell you that approximately 35 minutes after consuming this Veg Kadai, your stomach will rumble and rebel. Why can't they look at you straight in the eye and tell you, 'Sir, we have implanted sensors in this baingan bharta. They will be continuously monitoring the outside environment and will detonate the baingan bombs moments before the hot chick becomes hotter and the special effects kick in the after dinner movie? While your roommates would be ogling at the eye candy, you will be cursing and flushing. Thank you for frying with us.'

Life would be a lot more tolerable if people said what they meant and would warn you about the consequences of your actions beforehand. Imagine if every TV manual came in with useful pointers like 'Watching dirty movies while muting the volume will usher in the parental squad moments before that scene.' Wouldn't it be nice if there were LED screens stamped on to each and every person's forehead who is trying to sell you something? These screens would be like one of those 'PANEER KADAI...PANEER MUTTER...PANEER BHURJI...PANEER PANEER...PANEER TILL YOU PUKE' screens that keep on scrolling at those hotels. They would flash the cruel thoughts and the hidden costs of every cell phone scheme and insurance plan.

You walk into a recharge shop and the guy behind the counter says 'Welcome sir, would you be interested in our 99 Rs. per month talk to your girlfriend even if you don't have one scheme?' while the LED screen flashes 'Hello loser. You look dumb enough to buy inflatable dart boards and electric candles. Come forth dip shit. Let me rip you off.' Or when that broker who you trusted to get you a good 2 BHK flat on rent tells you 'Dekho sir, bestest cleanest house in Belapur. Honest land lord. Full 24 hour bijlee.' The LED screen says 'Come in bhikhari, This place is infested with genetically enlarged cockroaches. The land lord might be released on bail tomorrow. The electric earthing is non existent so the taps provide water and electricity both. By the way electricity full on except from 7 am to 10 am and 8 pm to 12 pm. Enjoy the hellhole. Show me the money bakra!!'

Man, I am brimming with ideas, waiting to be discovered. These moments of introspection bring out the best in me. Yes me. Me, the eligible stud hunk (LED screen:'Inedible dud skunk') the new hope for humanity (LED screen:'the old dope of this locality'), the cool guy whose blog has a 10,000+ fan following (LED screen:'the freak who makes his friends read his blog at gunpoint'). Well, maybe LED screens aren't such a good idea. (LED screen:'LED screens should be shot and shattered to pieces. Hey wait a minute, thats me you are talking about. Here i am working so hard trying to flash out messages that are so difficult to find in your pea brain and you think i suck? I don't want this thankless job of scanning your empty stadium and spitting out your mediocre thought patterns!'). LED screen self destructs and the red light fades out slowly like the Terminator's eye.

My blood shot droopy eyes try to follow. Door bell rings. Roomie arrives. Drunk and loaded. 'Saurabh, my friend, I've been dying to talk with you' (why doesn't blogger have a drunken font, with wavy alphabets and hiccups in places of commas?). His LED screen flashes 'I am going to mumble incoherent nonsense, speak words without vowels and cry on your shoulder remembering that chick who I hit on in my 11th class physics tutions.'

The horror... Tube lights start flickering, a thunderclap lights up the worse half of his drunken face, the background music score changes from a soft sleepy tune to a combination of - 70s hindi movie maa coming to know that his poor son is dating the rich daughter of Lala Lallu Lalwani - the murderer of his father + 80s hindi movie Govinda-Kimi Kaatkar cheap romantic song with red, green plastic balls + 90s hindi movie Mithun flick where he does karate with his fingers, making a whooshing sound every time he moves them, even to dig his nose.

Friends, Romans and countrymen - lend me your earplugs.

-saurabh
2008-05-12 0050 hrs

Background music

2008-05-11T23:03:00.002+05:30

The one thing that life lacks is background music.

Imagine yourself walking on the street, evening time, sunset beyond the hills, the golden rays shifting through the branches, slanting shadows, when you can stare straight at the sun, you see the ball of fire, you feel the evening breeze gushing in your face, you feel alive.

Now imagine all of this - all of this accompanied by that music, that beat, that rhythm you always wanted to walk to, that song that defined who you are, those drum beats which made you sway your head by reflex, that electric guitar whose voice you lip synced, those violins whose rising and falling cadence made you want to be one of them, that vibe which made you feel so good that you felt as if you were walking in slow motion, that vibe in the backdrop of which you saw pieces of a myseteriously familiar jigsaw puzzle suspended in the air. Look at them, guide one piece to another through your eyes, knowing the picture before you saw the pieces. You see everything in its entirity, everything so smooth, everything so sleek, everything having an identifying rhythm of its own, everything orchestrated into one big symphony. You are one of them and they are one of you.

Imagine.

[ Come play ]

2008-05-01T01:43:00.001+05:30

The auditorium is empty and yet so alive,
The curtains rise as the actors arrive,

A plotless play - with no determining factors,
Directed by destiny, every spectator is an actor,

The script writes itself, the play unfolds,
Lives intertwine, stories are told,

Stories mottled with fickle shades of grey,
The prowling predator morphs into the fleeing prey,

Stories full of serenity and rage,
Masqueraded lives stifle in an open cage,
Chapters flow by as you flip each page,
Actors exit - two doors backstage,

A day comes when each actor stands in the spotlight,
On a crossroad without signs, on a lonely creepy night.

Alone in the universe, the spolight and the actor,
The plotless play now demands a determining factor,

A deafening noise curbs your inner voice,
Amidst the reverberating silence you make the final choice,
Will you find what you sought for or will you suffer in the aftermath?
No reasons to complain, walk on, for you chose your path.

This ain't the first time, it ain't gonna be the last,
Don't be fettered by the future, don't be haunted by your past,

Beggar or baron, we all are the same,
Acting on the stage for those 10 seconds of fame.

The curtains fall as the spotlight fades,
All the world's a stage - someone said,

All the world's a stage - someone said.

-saurabh
30-04-2008, 0225 hrs

BrEaK ThE ChaIn ... again

2007-10-07T00:22:00.001+05:30

I am feeling trashed out,
Completely whacked out,
I see me staring at the moon and the stars,

I am feeling dazed out,
Moments all phased out,
Why is he smiling like a hopeless retard?

I got you thinking,
His eyes ain't blinking,
Is it the dope or is it the grass?

The lights are dancing,
I am seeing flashes,
I am seeing flashes,
Like a shot in the dark,

A shot in the dark..

Like A shot in the dark,
A string less guitar,
A flurry of shards,

An empty street,
Dying rhythm, fading beat,
A night so long,
A right so wrong,
A long lost dream,
Paper boats in a stream,
A kid chasing kites,
Fireflies, winter nights,
A man's rat race,
Chasing money, empty days,
A mechanical life,
no edge, no knife,

A sinking quagmire and a frozen fire,
A static brain and a one way lane,
Numb to the pain and in total vain,

Fan on the flames and BrEaK The ChaiN,

Fuel the sparks and BreAk ThE cHaIn!

Can you feel the rain, Can you BrEaK ThE ChaiN ? ? ?

Boss if you still don't get it - stay fettered.

- Saurabh
07-10-2007, 1215 hrs.

For those who are still wondering about the "again" part in the title (which would be about 10% of the people who read this blog regularly given my popularity i.e. exactly -12987 people), build yourself a time machine, flashback to September 2003 and see me pen down the original version on the 2nd last bench during my oh-so-enlightening data structure lectures.

The Circus

2007-09-30T03:46:00.001+05:30

They all come in and take their seats,
To see rings of fire and high wire feats,
Two hungry lions pace in the cage,
Lashing his whip, he feeds their rage,

The audience roars as he tames the beasts,
Seeing themselves in him - its a visual feast,
They suppress their inner lions - the ones that they fear,
But at this safe a distance, they shout and they cheer,

The spotlight floods a line in the sky,
He walks the high wire on the very first try.
They applaud the feat, they love the thrill,
Oblivious to the falls faced to gain this skill.

Clowns walk in - the best part of the show,
Cracking jokes, throwing pies and exchanging blows,
The audience laughs, not because the clowns are fat,
They savor the opportunity to laugh at others, rather than being
laughed at.

Everyone in the audience has traces of them all,
Some can feed the lions within, some afraid of the fall,
Some fearlessly walk the line, some too scared to look down,
We are the daredevil artists and we are the funny clowns.

- Saurabh
2007-09-30, 0345 hrs.

Bunty is back

2007-09-16T01:22:00.002+05:30

Once upon a time... naah... Twice upon two times, is 1. In a place not so far away, there did not live any kings or queens or damsels or demons. There lived a boy called Vidhyaman Kamlesh Mathur aka Bunty to his folks. He came alive on rediff blogs one sleepy night when a php programmer was questioning his thoughts in a boring night shift job where his supervisor introduced him to his colleagues saying 'This is the Rames and this is the Deepak'. And the programmer said, 'This is the finger'.

Bunty came, he saw and he faltered. He went into cold storage for a few years. But he has been taken out of the cyrogenic facilities and has resurrected for the benefit of the human race. He is just another engineering student sitting at the chai ki dukaan by the bus stand near his college, checking out girls, giving gaalis to profs and searching for a meaning to life. Some of you belong to the same planet as his and you know that you certainly do not come in peace. You come in by cheaper modes of transportation. Click here to get a glimpse of his universe.

Can you see the signs - See the signs now

2007-09-16T00:38:00.003+05:30

Robbie Williams at his best - Feel from escapology flowing in my mind.

Before I fall in love, I am preparing to leave her,
Scare myself to death, thats why I keep on running,
Before I arrive, I can see myself coming...

Amazing how people string up words together and live forever in the form of stories and songs. Stories that will be read by someone sitting on the other side of the world, someplace the author has never heard of. Songs which will be hummed by strangers and give solace to people he never knew. Tunes that will be played by radio stations to be heard by millions. So many lives are touched, even if for a moment by individual creations.

Creativity, as you read this is making people sway to music, fascinating them with fantasies and enriching them with thoughts. The moment you stop and read the name of the author who wrote, composed, sang or performed - its as if you are slowing down to read a sign board on life's highway. As you read it, some guy who had made his mark centuries ago materializes from thin air and walks down by your side, smiling at you. A smile so peaceful, so human, a smile so contended it makes you want to pull over, get out of the car and just walk with him for a while.

The road is sloping downhill, he is standing by the side, the setting sun gracing his face. Cars are speeding by. Everyone driving at a breakneck speed, concentrating on the black strip as if hypnotized by it. You walk up to him, not a word is said, and you both just walk for a while, one page at a time. You feel pity for the others who can't feel the evening breeze, who can't kick around stones, who can't see the sun disappear in the hills. But then you remind yourself, how different were you when you were driving?

So here we are, walking down that highway. Every step is a word read, every yard is a page turned. The author's face describes the emotions of the characters spawned by his pen. He looks happy at times, sometimes he feels a little low and then suddenly he is bursting with energy. But he never stops walking, making you observe, laugh, cry through the eyes of his imagination. When he feels like, he conjures up raging oceans and scorching deserts in front of you. He orchestrates an invisible symphony - pouring forth violins and thunderclaps, gushing winds and the silent afternoons, voices of fear, courage, sorrow and joy. Universes are born, civilizations fall in the palm on his hand - as if controlled by invisible strings pulled by his thoughts.

But soon he starts fading, becoming all the more transparent by the passage of time. Before he disappears into the air where he came from, he casts one look at you - as if saying, 'Its been nice talking to you.' And then its you, the twilight, the highway and your thoughts. The cars are still speeding by. Everyone is in a hurry to go nowhere.

A sign board bearing your name is lying in the dust by the side of the road. It wants to be put up by the highway. Maybe someone else will stop, read your name and walk into the twilight with you. Maybe you too will pull out entire worlds out of thin air, maybe you too will orchestrate the sounds of nature, maybe you too will have songs to sing, maybe you too will have a story to tell.

Slow down and read the signs.

Go slow

See

Read

Write

Think

Observe

Walk

Live

- saurabh
2007-09-17 0308 hrs.

The Dungeon Souls

2007-09-16T00:35:00.003+05:30

Intrigued by questions which never decrease,
Fuelled by a curiosity that shall never cease,
Some answers familiar and yet so unknown,
Walking in a crowd and still alone.

Another train of thought,
Born line by line,
When Ignorance and frustration fought,
Over a life so not mine.

The fan circles the ceiling,
The light of the day dies,
I deny the wounds of the healing
Its so easy to believe the lies.

Asphyxiated ideas, choked in the mind,
Everything so clear, it makes me feel blind,
As if its out there, waiting to be found
He lay in a dark dungeon, fettered to the ground.

While he struggled and fought to break his chains,
No one else made efforts to feel the pain.

None of them heard any of his cries,
Turned a deaf ear to all that he had to say,
Because Freedom to them came at a price,
Which none of them was willing to pay.

Initially he thought that they couldn't hear,
Maybe he was speaking a different language,
But what he saw made him shudder with fear,
Numb to the core, they showed no signs of rage.

He showed them that it hurts
they look like the living dead,
They just lay there in the dirt,
And they pointed to their heads.

He looked at them up close,
On each forehead he saw,
a reason of their woes,
a verse brutally clawed.

"Do what everyone does, always follow the crowd,
Stay confined to your limits and never raise a doubt"

The fear to walk, made them crawl on all four,
a familiar shadow emerged from the dungeon's door,
A silence hung in the air, something felt amiss,
An iron rod glowed, it fumed and it hissed.

A flaming devil stared at he who dared,
To open their eyes, to make them care!
To make them worth the air that they breathe,
To give them hope of the treasures that they seek.

"They are ignorant to your words,
For they shall never know,
Your thoughts will be unheard,
For I run this show!"

"And who are you, what is it that you do?
The iron rod says the writer was you,
I read what you wrote, is that your own view?
Have you come down here to burn me too?"

"I am what you see, I wound and I heal,
I write what they want, I write what they feel,
I hear their inner voice, it wants to be trite,
It wants to stay inert, surrenders without a fight

I wrote that they learn, learn to break free,
What you read just now, is what they want to see,
Look at your own chains, are they so hard to break?
The ignorant shall always sleep, do you dare to stay awake?"

He looked at others, they trembled at his sight,
They saw a blood thirsty demon, as dark as the night,
He saw a glowing radiance, as peaceful as white.

He looked at his chains, no longer were they there,
He walked through the radiance, he let go of despair,
Cast one last look on the ones left behind,
You see what you want, its all in your mind.

As he walked into this world, he saw a similar scene,
He saw the caged lives of the mighty and the lean,
Devoid of hope and deprived of fame,
The dungeon souls - they all blame the game.

- Saurabh
2007-09-07 0145 hrs

Clock starers - The precursor to Dungeon souls

2007-09-16T00:29:00.003+05:30

Every fleeting moment, every passing second, every minute gone, every hour spent, every day seen, every week lived, every month experienced, every year crossed - flies by without asking any queries, without questioning the way you utilize it, the way you waste it, the way you cherish it, the way you despise it.

But the question is - who should be asking the questions?

The clock put up on a corner of the wall, ticking away, ticking one second at a time, moving along in circles, slowing down as it goes low on battery, and then one day the clock stops ticking. Replace the battery and its mechanical existence respawns.

A human being born in some corner of the world, living away, living one second at a time, moving along in circles, slowing down as it goes low on life, and then one day the man stops living. No batteries to replace here. The batteries are inclusive of the make. Irreplaceable. Nonchargeable.

An Infinite no. of batteries will not make the clock change its functionality, it will still go around in circles, will not wait to stop and look back on the path traversed, its hands wil forever be confined to the frame, repeating the same pattern as long as it can.

But even if there were rechargeable batteries for life would they change anything?

Fundamental difference - the clock does not have a choice. The man does not want to choose. His choices are directed by the options chosen by others.

That man looked at the clock,
He saw seconds fly by,
He thought is it really worth a try?

That man looked at the clock,
He wished it would stop for a while,
He wanted to breathe, he wanted to smile,

He waited for the right moments,
He waited for things to get sorted, he walked with the crowd,
he never asked questions, he never raised doubts,

Dreams were left untouched, his wishful thinking faded,
Another life ended, a life that was so jaded.

A human being born in some other corner of the world, living each moment, seeing, observing, interpreting, concluding, acting upon thoughts, driven by instincts, breaking out of the frame, making his own tracks, living a life that is so fleeting as if every moment is a lifetime in itself.

This man looked at the clock,
One life to live, one life to rock,

This man looked at the clock,
Wished it would stop for a while,
Smiled for a second, he raced time many a mile,

A life full of joys and sorrows, wrongs and rights,
a life mottled with rainbow shades, not in black n white

He saw the men who stared at the clock,
He asked them why do you refuse to move on?
They say its too dark and the seas signify havoc,
We are safe, we will stay anchored in the dock

The man is surprised at what he hears,
He thought that a man finds happiness by facing and overcoming his fears,
He thought a man faces challenges and raises his bar,
He thought that a man wants to sail unchartered waters and travel far,

They laugh at his thoughts and continue to vegetate,
He wants to make them understand, but its getting too late,
He sails out to the seas, leaving the other ships behind,
He is not seeing the obvious, says one of the anchored blinds.

Is he not? questions one of his friends,
To tell you the truth we always followed the trends,
We wanted to be safe in our comfort zones,
We are a false hope, we group together and are still alone,

The others ridiculed, cursed and deserted this man,
We will see how you survive in the storm, do what you can,
You are too old to face the waves and brave the sea,
He smiled and he said, But I'm never too old, never too old to be me.

- Saurabh
02-07-2007 0015 hrs

Let go

2007-09-16T00:17:00.002+05:30

sleepless at nights, dazed out during days,
unquestioned answers, an unknown place,

at the edge of a cliff, snow caps all around,
a bird's eye view, grass swaying on the ground,

i close my eyes, i am approaching me,
zooming in from the sky, my eyes see me,

a blank mind, sinking in its own quicksand,
before i jump off, i hold me by my hand,

i see me gazing deeply into my eyes,
a look so puzzled, a look asking - why?

a simple answer - you fall, you die,
but why will i fall when i am going to fly?

now the other end stares, eyes asking - what?
i smile and say just let go and watch.

suspended in thin air, no strings attached,
no one to hold on to, no one to catch

i see me walking, running, soaring in the sky,
i still can't understand - how? what? why?

perplexed, confused, starving to know,
a burning desire to leave a mark before you go,
an inborn need to go against the flow,
it can't be explained, you just need to let go.

- Saurabh
2007-08-19 0415 hrs.

On the rocks

2007-07-15T19:59:00.005+05:30

The sun embraces the edge and sinks into the sea,
Blue skies mottled with birds rushing to trees.

Crashing waves, twittering birds, all riding on the chariots of air,
each of them has a story to tell, each of them has a secret to share,

Tiny feet wading through the waters, building castles of sand,
Skies blush to crimson red, as they two walk hand in hand,

The painter in the heavens is at his creative best,
Dabbles in red and orange, orchestrates troughs and crests,

The cradle of the sea rocked by ebbs so low and tides so high,
The moon unviels and stars start peeping, streets light up and a a steelbird flies,

Lonely lighthouse beam guiding ships to the shore,
She waits for him - hope in her eyes and eyes at the door,

He waits for the little boy to bring down his kite,
Then he closes his eyes and spawns a dark night.

a few lines in 2059

2007-07-15T19:53:00.003+05:30

a river flows where once an ocean roared,
an expressway replaced many a tree,
steels birds fly where once the eagles soared,
retrospection on the shore, i see me setting in the sea,

am i low on battery or am i high on life?
am i a confirmist or do i live it on the edge of a knife?
do i think too much, are my views sometimes naive?
restrospection on the shore, i see me riding the waves,

its been seventy five years, 10 since i retired,
this flame flickers which once breathed fire,
i walk slow, hear low, the hair is white with a deceptive eyesight,
retrospection on the shore, i project my mind on the screen of twilight,

i flashback to the days of glory,
i see someone reciting bedtime stories,
stories where i was the king, over many a kingdom did i rule,
stories where i fought battles and got late for school.

i flashback to the days when i lived in castles of sand,
i see me smiling at her, i see her holding my hand,
i see me standing still, cursing a life that is so unfair
i smile with a tear in my eye, i watch as she fades in the evening air,

i flashback to the infinite moments of ecstacy, agony, hope and despair,
Racing reality, i chased dreams, lost some deals, but I snatched my share,
The deck shuffled, he dealt the cards, we all played the game,
greedy eyes played for gold, hungry souls for the spotlight, ambition played for fame,

I stand wondering in the casino of life, am i different or are they all the same?

I relive my first beer, circles of my last fag, relief of the last exam, purity of the first rain,
I crawl on all fours, I hold hands and learn to walk, I fly kites while I run in lanes,
grey clouds drift apart, birds fly back home, darkness falls, lights quiver in the sea,
i m a lonely lighthouse and i m a crowded street, i m fettered by choice and i choose to be free,

Life smiles at me and I smile back, I have no more stories to tell,
One life is all you get, live it up, be unique, just like everyone else : )

- 2059-01-07 0000 hrs

Selective Existence

2007-07-15T19:49:00.001+05:30

What do I construe of these people I do not know,
The ones who fight the waves when others go with the flow,

When others envisage an eventuality of their paths being strewn by
flowers,
There are a few who rack their brains questioning their existence
every living hour,

While others sleep blissfully with the advent of each night,
There are some of us who stare at those fan blades, seeking clarity
of sight,

Born to breathe, live to earn, pay the rent of life,
There are others who live on their own planets on the edge of a knife,

Wake up, work, eat, sleep,
Wake up, work, eat, sleep,
A vegetative life of two square meals,

Dream, plan, execute, fall,
bleed, heal, conquer them all,

A steady income to secure the future and a peaceful old age,
A finite existence where no attempts are made to explore the other side
of the cage,

An urge to write, a cause to fight, a reason to explore,
a restless ocean, a lightning bolt, a lonely shore,

Out in the distance I see a fading yellow light,
I see a small boat fighting a storm and a dark night,
The ocean unending, the boat but a small dot,
The outcome is predictable, the battle need not be fought,

But does the boat, however small it may be, give up and cease to be?
Does it resign to fate? Does it surrender to the sea?
Does it kneel on its knees, beg to be spared, does it plea to be free?
Would you stay on board to face the storm or would you jump off and embrace the sea?

- 2007-04-21 0200 hrs.

Notitle

2007-07-15T19:44:00.001+05:30

28% battery remaining, 1255 am.

All right, here we go. This is just one of those conscious efforts to
write just because you cant keep your fingers from dancing on the
keyboard. Rack your brains to think about what to write - about a life
that was, about the night that is, or about the days that are going to
come. The past is always selctively chosen - memories of childhood,
sunday morning cartoons and friday night ice creams. Writing about
the past, i.e. selectively filtering out a few nice parts makes your
writing sound very nostalgic. You would always write about castles
in the sand, kites in the sky, fireflies in a jar, and butterflies
that you chased far. You would write about the fragnance of the first
rain and the rainbow bands.

Eventually it would catch up with you and the excess saccharine would
contaminate the article. If you write about the present, you would want
to present your take on life or the lack of it. You would mention some
girl that you liked. And then try to sound grown up and mature by
remembering the nice parts and overlooking the other crap. You would
negate the fact of the cycle of checking out a babe - look, like,
drool, delete. That does not make you any cooler. To deny your own
impulses is to deny the very reason that makes you human.

You would write about the classes you bunked, the profs you hated,
the games you played and the eventual culmination of those four long
years a group photo which usually consits of really fat cheerful guy,
named motu, a hot dumb chick, a nerdic topper, a clueless moron,
a dashing dud and of course you. Khachak - snapshot in time.

Why would anyone dig the past, analyse the present or envision the
future to seek out material to write? Why would a person need a
sequence of events to pen down thoughts?

No reasons. 13% Battery and i m on fire. What should I write about?
About the fact that I am such a flimsy idiot that I left my laptop
battery pack at the office or the yucky paneer masala I had for
dinner today? Both of them are equally pathetic topics to write about.
Why can't thoughts just flow, why can't they be smooth as silk while
I churn out interesting stuff?

Too many questions. 3% battery. All right. I will write a short
story. A really short story. here goes nothing:

Once upon a time they lived happily ever after.

Lights out!

Night visions

2007-07-15T19:40:00.010+05:30

As I was staring at the tracks, waiting for the 10:54,
A red white stick tapped the lonely platform floor,
It drew an arc on the ground, it made a groaning sound,
Oblivious to my presence, those blind eyes looked around.

A cold wind blew and he opened his arms wide,
The darkness in his eyes embraced the blackness of the night,
I smiled as I saw the two friends unite,
In a world devoid of colours, in a world devoid of light.

Vamburger

2007-07-15T19:21:00.005+05:30

Passengers traveling ticket less, carrying inflammable materials or traveling on the top of the train are liable to a fine of Rs. 1000 or imprisonment of one month or both.

"That does not make any sense. Okay, so after reading that you will get yourself a ticket before you chase the video coach compartment. Also, you will keep the inflammable materials known to you - gun powder, your dignity and your unwashed laundry at the house. But how can a person traveling on the top of a train read this? He is certainly not at fault because he is traveling on the top of a train and he can't read it. So the dude wearing the torn orange jeans and a yellow shirt, feeling the wind in his face and humming Himesbhai's tracks is not liable to punishment because he is not aware of the law" - so said a colleague of mine while we were standing like chained criminals in the 8:43 pm local about to reach belapur.

Before we get into further discussions, a bit of knowledge for the mummy's boys - a video coach compartment is the first class dabba in the train from where you can get a good view of the elysian life forms in the next compartment. So now you know.

And we are back...

Sense of humor is nothing but the ability to read what is not written. A deviation from the usual observations. Much more like see, observe, interpret, spawn out a variety of dimensions to the event, and load the one that fits the barrel. And now the ammo has been loaded, you lock into your target and open fire. Just like that. Boom.

Ever seen Kumar Sanu lip synching Arnold Schwarzenegger? Yes he did. You don't believe me, do you? I know there is a much better probablity of you getting laid than the occurrence of that event : ).

Nothing is impossible. Some events are just improbable.

Well to put forth my evidence of actually witnessing the seemingly bizarre event - here are my 2 bits. There I was, waiting patiently, like a predator shifts in the bushes as he is prowling upon his prey, waiting for Rakesh to serve me the stuffed capsicum i ordered. Yes, I know the name of waiters where I have my food. Yes, I do need to get a life. But as i said there I was. They were playing Terminator - 2 on star movies.

Arnold, the cyborg from the future was doing all he could to protect John Connor. His slick black jacket, shades behind which lay the eyes of a hawk, a shotgun that is loaded for eternity are gracing the screen when he says "Tujhe Dekhaaa to yeh jaana sanam..." with all the a's in "Dekhaaaa" vibrating till they reach resonance.

For a moment I was taken aback, I thought that we had hit rock bottom in dubbing when we invented english to hindi titles like - Haseeno ka Hungama, Sherni no.1 and Mahasangram (that was Matrix Revolutions in Hindi - :) ). After a few moments of jaw dropped staring, it hit me. They were playing the movie muted and playing Kumar Sanu's songs in the background with the TV volume high enough to be heard but not high enough to block out other sounds. It was pretty wierd. Someone should write about it. It would make great material for a humor article. Actually someone is writing about it right now. So read on my friend.

We have all been subjected to the horrors of hindi dubbings of english flicks. All of us, at some point or another have frowned when uber cool words being replaced by their dehati counterparts. Tyrannosaurus Rex by "Badi Chipkali", the F-word by "Dhaat teri ki", surface to air missile by "dharti se aakash jaanewala parmaanu yantra", holy hell by "Ui maa!". Blessed are those who have not seen the dubbed hindi versions of cheap chinese movies.

But sample this - it doesn't get any bigger than this. English flicks in english but bits and parts replaced by hindi movie cliches. The very thought of it makes you want to throw up, doesn't it? Hold on. Keep that vomit bag right back. Let me do the honours for you.

Imagine this - the climax of Matrix - watch Keanu Reaves looking straight in the eye of Agent Smith, rain drops hitting the concrete, lightning flashes in Neo's eyes. Agent Smith says to Neo - 'What makes you choose the Matrix Mr. Anderson?' Neo smiles wryly, feels the rain and says 'Tera, tera tera suroor, tera tera tera surooooooooooooo'. The super sonic nasal ooooo's shatter Smith's shades. The ooooo's ripple through Zion frying circuits of the machines harder than the e.m.p (electro magnetic pulse for the uninitiated).

The ooooo's balance the equation of the Matrix. Oracle says to Neo 'Neo, you know why you are the one? Because yaar beena chen kaha re, pyaar beena chen kaha re!'. Bappi da style. Morpheous apni saari jaydaat neo ke naam kar deta hain, and trinity proclaims to be neo's jeevan saathi. She does undescribable stuff with him which cannot be seen because the screen projects an image of 2 flowers and birds flying in the sky. The sun sets and the horizon spits out a 'The End'.

Now that's what I call world cinema. Amalgamation of cultures, exchange of ideas, getting the best of both the worlds. Everything mixed, tossed and fried into something that is a half vada pav and half hamburger. More of a vamburger. Pass on the mustard sauce and the imli ki chutney. Would you like an order of fries with that or should I bring you some more kaanda?

- Saurabh
2007-06-16 2235 hrs.

Mechanical existence

2006-10-27T01:21:00.001+05:30

Location : MyPlanet

Deciphering location's unencrypted cordinates : 501, Shantiniketan CHS, Vashi, New Bombay.

Time : 0745 hrs IST.

Target device - Nokia 6610. Ringtone - Fire Alarm.

1st attempt : mission: sieze the device and configure it to snooze

4 minutes and counting

3:57..

In the agent's morning dream he forsees the inevitable, He must prevent the device from detonating and anhilating the sleep of every moron in its blast radius.

3:58..

Which button should he press? the red one or the blue one.. the sleep threatening consequences of making an incorrent decision can be fatal to the shithead roomie's slumber.

3:59..

But man can only propose.. The forces of a snooze alarm will always vanquish he who sleeps

As the say in the fart of war : - "He who shall wake before the other idiot shall grace the loo"

I shout at the roomie for occupying the loo first, threaten to mix laxative in his food the next time he contributes to the sewage before the king himeself, get ready for work, rush to catch the 9:32..

Satiate the hunger by a filler like saving a drowning idli in sambar only to devour it and increment the 7 digit count of your having that for breakfast once again, walk up to the office, for the zillionth time the guard at the gate asks you where do you want to go and then you remind mr. 10 second memory that u work here...

embrace the realm of the screen staring at you or the other way round and have a good or a bad day. Whatever it might be, at the end of it, walk back to the station talking to yourself along the helium lit loops that the lamps create on the streets, talking about the day that was, the day that is going to be, the day that is, pass by the usual backup place where u dine when there is nowhere else to go,

talk yourself into or out of millions of things, procrastinating some, avoiding others and cursing many of them. Watch a freak zoom past you on a bike with a girl, see him disappear along the curve, look up to the sky, give a crooked 20 year old who gives a damn smile, and say "kutta saala".

Recount the advantages of not being in a relationship and feel sorry for the poor bastard. And then feel good about yourself. And then the sarcastical smile once again creeps which makes you say to yourself "grow up you dog."

Thank God for relative misery.

Check if you still have time to catch a quick low octane snack before the 8:54 bullet shoots towards CST. If you do have the time, buy something trashy, devour it and then feel bad about the fact that you should be not be indulging in all of this trash at dinner time. So says the bubble that brings back the black and white memories of ma wryly annoyed as the convict gulps down the last bite. Even if you dont have the time, buy something trashy and take the guilt trip.

Catch the train. Watch the things on which people hold on to clang against each other when the train picks up speed. Look blankly into the night trying to think not to think. Feel good, feel bad, feel nothing, feel this, feel the void. Station comes, get down.

Look around. See hundreds of others. Dont know what to say. Good or bad? Am i one of them or are the one of me? Reach Sector 17, the place where i pay 4000 bucks pm to sleep. Checkout the girls sitting at ccd. Disappoint yourself at the sight of anorexic 1 dimensional chicks. Walk up 5 flights. Room no 501. Open the gates and say to yourself the lines that I always see engraved on the statue of Christ when I take a cab to a nearby station.

"Come to me those who are tired and heavy laden for I shall give you rest"

Thus home at last, the soldier comes,

As useless as the hung up drums,

And, but noble hands being fed,

May beg hard, hardly yet get bread.........

-Thomas Dekker.

Sit. Splash water. Recharge cell. Plug in discman. Stand by the window and see the traffic flood the streets of the city of dreams. Ocassionaly, scan the paper for a good article and end up reading the comics and nothing else. See roomie get thrills out of checking out girls in the p3 section. Elysium for the eyes as they say. Elysium or acid.. same difference.

Sit. Text pad. Pencil. Brain. Thoughts. Clutter.

Close eyes. Blue skies. Golden rays. Green fields. Morning mist. Freedom.

Open eyes. Dark skies. Neon lights. Concrete jungle. Noxious fumes. Fetters.

Close eyes. Snow capped mountains. Golden rays slicing the leaves.

Open eyes. Disc antenna crowned buildings. Flood lit billboards.

Close eyes. Keep them closed. Much better that way.

Open eyes.

wake up, shout at roomie for occupying the loo first, everything follows the same cycle of events. The only change is that this time the threat consists of mixing laxative in a greater quantity.

I wish there was a little more truth to these lies,

What if we could see without closing our eyes?

Shall we....

2006-10-24T23:04:00.001+05:30

Sitting by the window, thinking of penning down a few lines,
Should i write about the oceans, the winds, or a life that could have been mine?
Whatever it is, it has got to rhyme,
For without that its like a bell that cant chyme,
I know i will end up writing a doggerel, rhyming true with you,
see with me, fly with cry, cry with try, and try with ... chai?

There has got to be more to life than sitting by the windows, watching the sky light up occassionaly with diwali rockets losing their trajectory. Its been such a long time since I had started writing.

Maybe writing is not the right word. I started writing when i came to know that u need to curve the y's and dot the i's. Well watever, never mind that.

I was just killing time in the building garden trying to search for any trace of the nonexistential eye candy in my building when a skyliner soared across the skies.

This was accompanied by a 5 year old pointing at the steel bird and shouting "Mummy, mummy, elephant!"."Elephant nahi aeroplane." Now I can make this blog sound all the more cuter by putting in text all the ways in which the kid tried to pronounce the word "eloplane" but lets leave it at that.

I'd love to see that devil say "Czechoslovakian Chateau shocks Schwazzenegar". DidI get that right? Schwazzaneger? Due apologies to The Sp.. i mean Terminator. Good that you did not sign up for the 4th part Mr. Governer. "I haav done 3 terminator movies butfor the fourth one I WONT BE BAAK!"

Coming back to the kid and his eloplane, its just wierd how these things amaze the singledigit year olds. The fascination of seeing a plane, the joy of watching a train, the pleasure of coming back from school at 3 pm, the excitment of riding a cycle withoutbalancing wheels. Blessed were those days.

Your brain : Well,
Your brain : So.....
Your brain : haa fir,
Your brain : ok now what,
Your brain : hmmm......

If I had an inter portal screen pin which could penetrate my comps screen and come out of yoursI swear in the name of Chitranjan Chatterjee I'd prick blast all of these thought bubbles that are popping up in your brains.

Your brain : Ok, now what cheapshot? What else do you have to offer?

In the words of Nirvana "With the lights out its less dangerous, here we are now entertain us."Kya baarat mein aaya hain kya? Entertain us! yea right...

In the words of Oasis "All my people right here right now, Do you know what I mean"
Do you?

I know.. does it matter? I am blowing this joint.

Let the music begin.

And as the curtains go down at the feather speed the spotlight fades, the yellow autumn leaves grace the gravel, and violins die slowly, he walks back all alone into the dappled sunset. And then someone from the audience shouts "Abbey saaley drama over toh return the 60 bucks u borrowed day before."

And now.... he runs into the dappled sunset. He runs, he runs like the wind and then slams head first into the canvas on which the sunset had been painted.

Picture Perfect...

Raindrops

2006-08-15T13:23:00.007+05:30

Just as the helium lit street tries to drift into sleep at 1 am, the 4 wheeled machine of some 20 something wannabes blare Stings 'desert rose' burns rubber and distorts the moons of its puddle. And then those big black carriers of rivers in the sky clap, flash and it rains. Raindrops - like loose change in a 9 year old's chaddi pocket.

He goes over to the nearest baniya, hands over a 10 rupee note and gets change to call his friend from that "drop a coin yap for 60 secs" red box. This earth too approaches the grocery store in the sky. Borrows the loose change on the condition that the big black recovery boys will have access to its liquid assets (rivers, oceans, water pockets, mrs. mehra's laal balti) to get back the same with interest.

And those pockets throw loose change. The Gods spit. Showering millions of droplets whose vertical life time ranges from the edge of those pores in the sky to the point where they kiss the sun scorched ground.

Just one of those independence days when u have nothing to do. 13th august - return from Calcutta, 14th aug - go to office, 15th aug - feel patriotic , 16th aug - go to office.

Happy interdependence day...