Zara Nazar Utha ke Dekho Part-2 (There never was a part1 or was it there?)

Right now, moments ago, my phone rang up. I thought it was she but it turned out to be Reliance. I just so spontaneously felt it was she calling that I was sort of taken aback or surprised to a certain extent. I think I was more disappointed than surprised. In fact I was not surprised at all that it was not she. But I ever so desperately wait for she to call. The sequence is short. Desperation to disappointment-doesn't take long to complete the cycle. It happens real fast and I pray it stays like this. Slower it is, more painful it becomes. I just happen to remember a couple of beauiful lines which mark the irony of the situation here.

वो काटे सर मेरा

बेदर्दी से

और हम कहें -जनाब,

आहिस्ता आहिस्ता!

I love these lines. They are probably the most beautiful two little lines ever written on this planet. Everytime I read these lines I just get engrossed in the beauty and the depth at which the poet has tried to talk. And they say love is an illusion. Indeed it is an illusion. It does things to you. Things you never think would ever happen to you. You quit things, try altruism, try sadism even masochism and what not. There are no defined boundaries and limits. There are no holds, there are no bars. You get insulted and yet your ego stays intact. Probably, the glassy ego becomes rubbery enough! I don't know what happens but something happens which does not happen in general.

दिल के लुटने का सबब

पूछो ना सबके सामने

नाम आएगा तुम्हारा

ये कहानी फिर सही

Sabab means cause. In a typical lawyers lingo, if a crime is committed, there has to be a motive and there has to be a cause to drive that motive. Those who love are not scared of a heart break. She won't really understand. May be she would, eventually! Till then, I am happily willing to take it on my heart. There is no pain, if at all there is some, I choose to feel it in the most romantic way possible. I may smoke it away, I may sleep it over or I may just fly away so high that I don't see no pain from that height. Or I may just choose to sip it slowly, feeling every bit of it with every breath I let out or in. The corners of my eyes fighting for some more room to hold the tiny (in my case unprecious) droplets. I see you. But she chooses to ignore me, just subtly enough to not make it odd for me. Ah! she cares! Doesn't she? I know she does care! Or may be its all an illusion, as they have been saying it over and over again.

My eyelids flutter, not on orders from my pituitary gland though! They are not vey loyal to me, my eyelids. They are more loyal to she. They flutter, she gets to know, if at all she sees! Does she see? I just managed to recall another set of beautiful lines. These lines just keep the hopelessly optimistic lovers going full throttle. She thinks I am sure hopeless enough and methinks I sure am optimistic enough! We meet again, by the side if not by the way...

यूँ तो हमे देख के

वो कर लेते हैं खिड़की दरवाज़े बंद

पर हमें यकीन है

उन्होंने दरारों से ज़रूर झाँका होगा

The build up to the world cup Part 2

68 more days now! It seems I have never waited for any World Cup more than this one. The reasons I have faith in not only the team but also the captain as mentioned in the first part of the story in my previous blog. Coming to the here and now, India playing a mostly second string side white washed the Kiwis in a five match ODI series. Nothing great about the victory as the same Kiwi side was blanked by Bangladesh a couple of months ago in Bangladesh. What needs to seen from this victory is that now at least India has a second string side which can pull off victories and be consistent. The new players on the Indian team are no longer worried or bothered by the so called pressures of the international cricket and are willing to express themselves under crunch situations without the fear of failure. The innings Yusuf Pathan played shows that. I am not going to the extent of saying that Yusuf as the player we want him to be has arrived. For it was a flat sub continent wicket, the opposition bowlers were not really fast to exploit his weakness against the short ball and similar arguements against him. Well, I agree to the point that he has to play similar knocks against better attacks in other parts of the world as well to truly prove the player in him but I am not talking about skills here. And playing spin bowling is a skill as well. What I mean to say is that how many people can hit Daniel Vettori out of the park at will. Not many included the best and the most destructive of batsmen across the world can do that. I have two points to make here for the selection of Yusuf Pathan in the Indian team for the world cup.

Since the world cup will be played on the flat low bounce pitches of the sub continent, Yusuf's ability as a bowler and as a batsman coming at number seven increases manifold in comparison to any other player who is going to play at that position for India. Add his more than good fielding and a strong arm which can rocket throws from the deep tilts the balance in his favour. His fastish off breaks can be very useful in the power plays as a surprise weapon which was very wisely used by Shane Warne during the IPL and he did the job against most of the teams. What happens predominantly in Yusuf Pathan's case that we expect him to score big and fast on the every opportunity thrown at him. People tend to forget that the IPL which made him the next big thing on the Indian scene was the one where he was sent to bat higher in the batting order. That helps as the batsman gets more time to settle down into his own groove. In most of the opportunities he got to bat for India were when hardly 7 to 10 overs were remaining in the innings. It becomes a different game then but such things are never accounted for. Even when Sachin batted at number 6 for India he did not score a single ODI century. It was only when he went out to open he did score his first ODI century. So, yes the more opportunity one gets to spend time at the crease the chances to score more and big increase as well.

Now the second point, why does Yusuf or any other sub continental batsman has to prove his mettle on the fast bouncy tracks of Australia or South Africa to be hailed as a good batsmen. I have never heard similar cries for australian batsmen or english batsmen who fail miserably against spin on the sub continental pitches. And I am advocating Yusuf's case with the perspective that this world cup will be played on the so called flat tracks and batsmen friendly pitches of the sub continent.

Just before I sign off, one more point worth mentioning is when they do make bowler friendly tracks (Spinner's paradise named minefield by the foreign experts of cricket), not many test matches last even three days. And it draws a lot of criticism from the experts. However, they tend to ignore the results when green pastures await the teams from sub continent. Double standards should never have a place in sports.

Here is a player who is a definite match winner. The external environment is in favour of him. If somebody has some common sense left, one should know this famous adage-"Horses for courses". My money is on Yusuf Pathan!

An unfulfilled/delayed/derailed journey

My hands are not freezing yet I feel stiffness in my fingers. I have slept for over 10 hours yet my eyes are red. I have had enough rest yet I feel tired. Something has struck me hard and I am unwilling to acknowledge the fact. I am about to get married yet I ain't. I am committed yet I am not in the eyes of the society. Once upon a time, not very far back in the past though, I managed to read a book by the name of The White Tiger. Some book it was! I liked it so much. Most of the people say it won an award beacuse Mr. Adiga spoke badly of India, brought black fame to the country of brown skinned people which massaged the egoes of the white skinned people in the jury and they gave it to him. A very similar logic was given for the success of Slumdog Millionaire as well. Sorry, I don't buy the shithole public opinion on this for precisely one reason that I am pissed off with the fake cultural projection and self professing attitude of us, I included. Yes I am pissed off with myself as well for I have never challenged the so called goods because while I did some of those good things I got the acknowledgement from the same society I am at the verge of abusing right now. Before I proceed further, I would like to make a request to the real genuine patriots to discontinue reading as my piece may sound a bit erratic or anti establishment on a larger scale.

If you have decided to go ahead and read this further, I welcome you again one more time to be a partner aboard on the flight of my frustrations. As you will discover in due course of time, my piece is not as violent as it seemed after my disclaimer or my praise for Mr. Arvind Adiga.

In life, there are a couple of things which we all as human beings seek. When we are really small, in terms of age, we have a long list of small things which are more or less depending on the situation easy to get hold of or accomplish. As we grow up, again age wise, we tend to be concentrating on a fewer but for sure bigger things in life. Love is one such item on the wish list of most of the people at all points in time of their lives beginning right from their childhood to the days when the body gets old. Just that who we seek it from changes. To be more specific, talking in terms of life and marriages, falling in love is the first and foremost criteria for people to start on the journey of getting to the dream destination of a love marriages. Even though the story after that does change quite drastically but I am yet to reach there. Therefore my commenting on that portion of the story would be a little too far stretched. I did do the rightful and the needful in my life. I fell in love with a girl I always dreamt of falling in love with. Great job, making sure that you actually are in love and not just 'infatuation' is in itself a great success. It's like making a journal entry in order to create a balance sheet. A mistake at this early level can lead to a lot of credit debit issues sometimes leading to the withdrawal of the majority shareholder from the enterprise. Next important step to be fulfilled is that the love should ideally be reciprocated (Reciprocity!rings any bells...in a mellowed voice). Men in India have this additional responsibility to make sure they propose the girl because (social norms) how can a girl (who is fast taking rapid strides to beat men in every aspect possible of life except inside a boxing ring; Laila Ali not counted) ever say these three words herself. She might just give you out of generosity (for girls are very generous by nature) an odd hint here or there. Catch them because you are a man. Decode them, decipher them and if you can't do any of it, simply take a guess and take a plunge. Simple as it gets in our great country. Thankfully, I was lucky enough to not to go through this painstaking and ever confusing stage of love. She was kind or probably she figured out what a chicken I was. I was duly facilitated so that I could do the needful and with proper guidance and ghost coaching I did. It was like someone coaching me how to play a spinning service out on a TT table and then serving me the same stuff during the match so that I can deliver the smashes. And god knows how well I smash. Don't I? Mr. coach, please validate later. The tough part of breaking through was done and I was there on the highway ready to go fast. Sail, slide or drive, how does it even matter? Just don't trudge along. After living a hippy's life on the highway of love, I or let me make it a we, we decided to lodge and lodge for ever. That decision was never a doubt. In fact, even before the entire process started we were sure about this one thing. But then do you ever get anything so easily? No you don't! In USA, where I claim I was born (the claim is wrong though!), people marry (just in case they do) and then five years later when they divorce (or even earlier) they let their parents know about it. In here, that is India, parents need to approve your bill before it becomes a law. One might choose to ignore this procedure, but the consequences often are too heavy to carry as a liability for the rest of the life of the person who so ever chooses to do so. In our case, even this was a cake walk. They (our respective parents) agreed in a jiffy as if they were waiting for us to disclose this secret to them. All set and done and within a period of three months I was getting engaged in some upmarket hotel's (it's evident in here to show off, it sort of pleases the society... बड़े धूम धाम से हुआ सब कुछ ) banquet hall! I was only concerned with the completion of yet another step of my dream journey though. Yeah, the chicken served for dinner was delicious but that definitely was not the high point of my day. I thought as they they say in Hindi... दिल्ली दूर नहीं है! And to add to all the personal achievements, professionally getting to be a part of a good institution added to the life only for me to realize later that everything in this bloody life comes at a cost. The opportunity cost that I studied in my micro economics course came into existence in a much pragmatic way in my own life and in turn taking  a toll on my dream destination. My flight got delayed, the project got expanded and there are million other ways of expressing the belatedness associated with my marriage which almost an year ago seemed like it was going to happen the next day. And now I am here, trying to balance sheets and my life hanging in thin air, pretty much unbalanced to say the least. I am half married. I like to say that because it has the word married. At least gives me a false satisfaction. The real problem is that I can't find time now to get married. I may be sounding desperate to get married and that is the case in actuality also. If you are reading a book and you find it interesting, still the last chapter is the toughest to finish. Same happens while you are trying to finish up the course for some subject before the examination. At 3 in the afternoon, you think you might just wrap it up early enough in the evening. Yet, you end up staying up the whole night. And it frustrates you. If such a small petty thing can frustrate you then this is my marriage I am talking about. As it is I have a very small window in the summers, add to that the pundits who decide which time of the year would yield rich dividends. That is not pissing off, the pissing off part is when the people who make this little society around us, validate those stupid notions and strongly stand for the cause which never existed without us. When I hear that two people can't get married in a particular month only becaise they are both the eldest kids of their respective parents, I just feel like crushing a stone in between of my jaws. It's all written in the fat books we or you would never be able to understand. This just reminds me of The White Tiger again where  a certain section reads-how quickly could you kiss 36 million and five arses-or was it four...I don't remember...  Not like that do I love this book!

The build up to the World Cup-part 1

It's just 69 days away. Once again the hopes of an entire nation would cream up together and come to the surface. In India, my great country, where emotions are on a all time high, definitely the world cup of cricket brings out the best of the sporting audience or may be just the not so sporting sports' audience. Remember the semi final debacle of the 1996 world cup where seemingly the Eden Garden pitch turned into a minefield right after Sachin's dismissal. It was definitely one of those events in the history of cricket where we as a nation failed to show the true sporting attitude. Poor crying Vinod kambli's live footage on television summed it all. Victory or defeat notwithstanding, the real zeal of playing a sport and that too representing one's nation comes out in the best possible way only after a heart breaking defeat. One who takes the punch right on the chin is a true sportsman. The ones who fail; I call them cry babies! It reminds me of another great one day match where India defeated Pakistan in fading lights in the finals of a tri series played at Dhaka. The then Pakistani skipper, Rashid Latif, just could not take the defeat and almost broke down in the post match presentation. Still, I reckon he took it better than Vinod Kambli did.

 Anyway, all of those things are a part of the past now and what we have today in front of us is very different from what things were 14 years ago or even in the year of 2003 when India reached the finals only to lose to the rightful winners. As the reaction would have been in a country like ours, we blamed the then skipper Sourav Ganguly, who in my opinion was the first masculine captain India ever had, for putting Australia to bat. Those things don't matter or even the early dismissal of Sachin Tendulkar in that final. It wouldn't have had mattered because all the arguements put aside, the fact remained that India were not the best team in the world at that moment. The best team, unfortunately for India was playing against them in the finals. It does not matter in a team sport if you have the best player of your generation playing for you. What matters the most is the fact that are you as a team able to achieve what is your expected best. The moment the team starts beating the expectations of their perceived best, they truly belong to the league where they know they have it in them to go on and be the world beaters. It's not about being better than the other teams. Instead it's more about being better than one's own expectations on a consistent basis and the belief that comes is the tonic required to be what we know as winners! Remember the Pakistani team in the year of 1992. Led by a charismatic captain who took pain killing injections on field and operated with a shoulder which could loose its socket any moment, who allowed the be(a)st in Wasim Akram to be unleashed in a way which was totally unknown to the world, who had faith in a new comer Inzamam Ul Haq who took every team by it's horns and beat them to dust. And that faith which people think was more blind than based upon the skills of players took Pakistan to their first world cup title. The fact is for someone to comment on a team without actually being a part of it is as difficult as it is for a vegetarian to comment on the taste of beef steaks.

The past and the history is all gone by. The new era saw the rise of India in a manner never seen before. The team transformed itself from being a group of exception talents to a nicely gelled team. And lucky was India as a country that saw the return of the little master in a big way. This team has that heat and power to be where only Kapil Dev could take India to. This team has a captain who is unorthodox and not unwilling to accept defeat. Except he never lets those defeats to enter his mind. he learnt his game in the streets playing with men and not boys. talk of mental toughness and the team as a whole has it. being in winning positions and actually going on to win are two different things. This indian team knows that difference. If they can translate that potential in a successful campaign or not is a question which only time will answer. As spectators we should cheer for good cricket and quietly say our prayers.

Kaun Disha me chala re bahuria

ना जाने कहाँ जा रहा है आदमी
अपनी ही धुन में
कोशिश करते करते जीने की
ना जाने क्यूँ मरा जा रहा है आदमी

छोटी सी उम्र में हैं चेहरे पे झुर्रियां
माथे पे पड़े हैं ना जाने कितने बल
एक राह दिखी तो चल पड़े
छुटियों में भी काम किये जा रहा है आदमी

संवेदना को दूर कहीं देखा था उसने कभी
कई बरस पहले बारिश में भीगा था वो कभी
मिटटी की खुशबू को बस यादों में ही महसूस किया था
ना जाने किस ओर चला जा रहा है आदमी

शायद किसी पिछले जनम में बगीचे में खाए थे आम
किसी पुराने मकान में हासिल किये थे वो मुकाम
याद नहीं कब आलू से मिटटी झाड़ के सब्जी बनायीं थी
पर उस समय तो यूँ hygiene की आंधी ना आई थी

नौकरी और प्रोग्रेस की दौड़ में फंस  चूका है आदमी
कांच के महलों से घिर चूका है आदमी
चिट्ठी लिखे ज़माना हो गया आज
दिल की बात कब जुबान पे लाएगा आदमी

दिल खोल के हँसना क्या है
याद नहीं इसे
सिले होंठों की बंदिश कोई क्या जाने
lol के ज़माने में कोई क्या ठहाके मारे

चाय की चुस्कियों का है कोई जोड़
हाथ से बुने sweater का क्या है कोई तोड़
machine made के ज़माने में finesse की चीज़ें आती हैं
रंगोली भी बाज़ार से लाके फर्श पे चिपकाई जाती है

ना जाने किस ओर चल पड़ा है आदमी
बेखुदी से खुदगर्जी के सफ़र पे निकल पड़ा है आदमी...

Orkut----Facebook-----Tweet is sweet-----The big Daddy Blogosphere:Part 1

Hey, remember me! I am Orkut! I truly shook your life but that was once upon a time and not now. Good old days were they. The whole world was crazy about me. Everyone wanted me. Things change very fast these days. From being the most wanted I became the most used and then overused and then like a prostitute who has done her first two three years of fame, I was side lined by most of my customers. They still are there but only for the name sake. Like those cheating top business executives who do get married to a ever present in the malls/market/club/spa wife, but never have sex with them after the last of the kids are born. They do come home, usually late in the night, usually not hungry for food and you know what and they settle down with a glass of scotch and then read some boring stuff before turning off the table light on their side of the bed and pretending to sleep. Eyes open yet dreaming about the last- half of their age- girl who joined their office at the entry level. You guys have also started behaving in the same way. Once in a day or in a week or in a month, you guys do log in to check on me or to check on the photos of your ex who is not in your friend's list. I do give more liberty to browse in other's people life. For that very thin you do log in from time to time but that's the end of our relationship as far as I feel. No longer do you spend those long hours like before, sometime round the clock as well. I have gained weight. I am no longer the young, attractive and most importantly the "unexplored" thing in your life. Simple but brutal, you have had enough of me. And not that I didn't try to renew myself, reinvent rather. I tried everything possible. Like those in their forties housewives do. They go to the parlours, go for a variety of skin tightening sessions, botox and I don't know what all. But do they help? Not really except they end up having some short term affairs with men much younger and way way frustrated. Similarly, even I tried to all that. I gave you new themes for a lovely background. A new layout on the screen, new folders to store your photos, more space for better quality and what not. Did it help? No it did not. I was a fool, I never realized how you all slipped away. I don't know how many of you found your lost love through me but do you ever bloody acknowledge. Why would you? I have overheard people saying stuff like-'What? You still are on orkut!' As if its a matter of shame to be registered on orkut. But that's how things are right now. And I know the new thing you guys left me for. I now the race to be really upmarket and urban. I know you guys seek more privacy now for many of you have multitude of relationships and all should be handled with enough privacy. I understand all that but let me warn you of something! There will be a day that my substitute, the other woman is gonna face the same fate and that day would arrive faster than it arrived for me. Today, facebook is not here to share her story with you because she is busy handling her new found attention. Who does not like to be the show stopper in a fashion show? I know my days are over, but who knows I still may have a few people coming back. There are people who have a thing for the older women, isn't it?

A historian who painted

It goes back to those days when I was a painter. Being a painter was not really a hip thing back then but still I persisted with it. I don't know why today I am not one but in those rather my days I sure was a painter. Looking back I realize I definitely was a bad painter because if I wasn't I still would have been painting. The reality however, is quite different from what I thought then would be like. That means, I failed. In a slightly brutal way of expressing the same thing, I am a loser. I mean no shame in acknowledging the fact that I lost. And not that I lost to someone who went on to become another M.F.Hussain! Still at the back of my mind it reminds me of my inability to do something nicely which was really close to my heart. They say that all good things come to an end. In my case, even the bad ones came to an end pretty fast. So that was good for me, right? Who wants to throw good money after bad? I don't; so I quit.

Talking about painting reminds me of why exactly I started painting in the first place. If you guys are thinking, my early promise caught the eyes of either my school teacher or my neighbour or my mom's best friend (because as it is early signs of brilliance never catch fancy of parents at least), you are thinking on the wrong course. Once upon a time, when I was really small, like a small kid or something, I caught fever. Now I forget if the fever caught me or I caught the fever. Some experts in some really unique state of their minds had discussed on a similar if not the same topic at length in a very futile manner with potentially dangerous outcomes. So, being a good student of history, and taking a learning from what has happened in the past I would much rather leave this issue aside. We'll have a secret discussion or an anonymous post some other day. Ah, from this I remember, I am a historian these days. I studied history after I quit painting. Not the brightest of choices but even I wasn't bright enough to have made a bright choice and then managed to survive with the choice I made. Allow me to draw a small analogy here. Imagine what could have happened to Sachin Tendulkar's fragile back if he continued his dream to be another Malcolm Marshall. At least one job pretty well done. Wait for a second while I finish giving myself a pat on the back for doing what I did. That was truly smart!

This little brain of mine gives me a hell lot of trouble. It is so vibrant that I lose what I am supposed to be holding on to. Like I forgot my own history where I was telling you guys why and when I started painting and stuff like that. Coming back to where I was, I caught fever or the other way round and I was really small. Suddenly I had the entire house looking after me. I was the prince, I thought so at least. So, one good afternoon while I was truly enjoying my illness in the comforts of my home and away from the sick and boring school that I was in, my grand father got me a surprise gift. It was a sketchpen set which could write from both the ends. That gift still is the best gift I ever got in my life. And it ranks higher than the suit my father got me after a lot of resistance for my school farewell. Well, that suit hardly even qualifies as a gift. I loved my grandfather so much and that sketchpen set had a great role to play there. But sometimes I think, I would have loved him anyway. He was a nice gentle yet very firm man. I played with his moustache. I had access to his trunk. He counted his money right in my presence and even showed me the hidden corner where he kept all the cash. No one else had that privilege in my house. And I never stole from my grandfather. Later, I did steal from my father but he never counted his money in my presence or to be more precise, only in my presence. So whenever I got an opportunity, I stole from his pockets. I even got beaten once. Yet, it is my greatness that I never carried any grudge against him. I mean who keeps a grudge against one's own father. That is the bare minimum a son is supposed to do. But my grandfather was definitely a rockstar.

The very same evening, I started sketching. Random sketching I did. I took the newspaper and made moustache and beard on the faces of all the pretty heroines. I gave hair to the baldies. Bald is definitely beautiful! If you are reading this, this previous line is for you my friend! Then I filled the letters in the news headlines with red colour. Red was my instant favourite. I filled the As, the Bs, the Ps and the Qs. Oh! how could I forget telling about the Os. But for some reasons, I ignored the Ds. I could do nothing with the Gs even though I wanted to. I hated learning the letter G while I was in kindergarden. I just did not know how to move my pencil. I don't even know if my teacher back then thought I was dyslexic or something or some kind of a bloody retard. Hell, I was not a child prodigy but definitely not a retard! I am sure she must had thought so. I don't know if she still teaches there in that school I went to. Then I started sketching in my school too. Like all good things, this one also came to an end. I think I used this cliche twice. How does it even matter if I used it twice or thrice or totally ignored it. A cliche remains a cliche irrespective of how many times one uses it. Its like you murder one guy or a hundred of them, still the punishment stays the same! So my fellow students were pretty jealous of my prized possession and I sure showed off. I tell you I was one hell of a nasty little prick. I did enjoy my superlative state back then. Some of those people on whose cost I had fun went to great colleges. They are rich now. It makes me real sick. Not really sick but I don't really feel great about it at all. It sort of shows me who I am and how much could I achieve and all those stupid things you see in movies these days where guys hit depression like the ecnomies and never recover and end their lives having a heavy dose of some white coloured pills whose stock I don't know why the hell do they always keep in the closet at the backside of their bathroom mirrors. I also can't understand why they have those pills with the tap water from the basin right below the mirror. I mean they can always go to the kitchen or the fridge and get potable water to have those pills. They seem to have enough time for they keep looking at their boring emotionless (John Abrahim like) faces forever before making that great move.

Anyway, so my sketchpen set got lost. I am sure somebody stole it. I remember keeping it in my bag and going to the bathroom to take a leak only to find the whole thing gone when I came back after two minutes. I cried a lot. My eyes were all red, I remember. That is one of those days, I lost something for the first time. That day was the beginning of the story of how I became such a big loser. That story some other day. Today, I feel a little happy and liberated. I am feeling pretty light in my heart today for sure. Still my love for painting did not die. Soon, my father got me a new set but I wrote from only one end and every other guy in the class had the same thing. My advantage was brought back to deuce; thanks dad! Then I started making sceneries. Not my original idea though. I stole it from my uncle who once did an exceptional work in my art pad. My teacher saw that and I was an instant star. But again, as destiny would have had it, like all good.................(you know what is there beneath the dots :)) But I kept trying not by improving my painting but by changing schools. It used to be great till I dropped out and with it my painting story came to an end. But even that end was short lived. I went to school again but never got the chance to paint with a sketchpen set. All we got were oil pastels to do the work from. Oil pastels look like wax crayons which I always found very childish and hated them. I never graduated to the water colour level.

Then I realized that I need to look beyond the obvious things, I need to be an historian. I need to look back at myself to know what I am meant to do. That is precisely the reason I became a historian, to look back and look back long till I know what I want to know. In between I tried my hands at many more things but those stories....not now...some other day..today I am happy :)

The night saga

Nights are slow, painful, disdainful, scornful and yet peaceful, romantic, lonely, private, like a kingdom where one rules, like a garden where one plays, like a canvas where one paints, like one's own territory. There is something excruciatingly beautiful about nights. It instills the fear of unknown and provides the charm of adventure. It glamourises the twinkle of stars which we miss in the glory of the sun. It offers apprehensions to take the next step further, yet injects that confidence to probably do that one thing one always wanted to do. It takes the civilization out of the practised behaviourism, unleashes the brutal spontaneity of passions underlying the skins of animals.



Ask the romantics, they would die to live a night with their beloved ones! The beams of the moonlight, sieved through the leaves of the old gulmohar tree, falling on the most beautiful face in the universe and you sitting a foot apart, probably a little closer than that, devoid of anything even remotely associated with lust, gaze in total admiration, in total awe, wondering if you could hold this moment forever, if you could ask the globe to stop revolving, if you could manage to freeze everything for ages? A tiny precious little drop of dew, still in its childhood, falls upon your fingers. You come out of this dream of yours and realize that all your thoughts are mere thoughts. You realize that if you keep realizing and analyzing just like this, you would miss the vibrance of the bubble you made. So you give rest to your mind and allow the heart to take it over. You look towards her, her eyes are closed. There is a definite serenity and clamness on her face. You put your hand on hers. She smiles, still keeping her eyes closed. You love every bit of it. You shift your weight towards her and she leans on your shoulder. Her locks falling on your chest, eyes still closed, she is in total peace! You want to close your eyes too, but you choose not to. Rather you keep looking like you can see only for that moment and never again. You encounter serendipity, love, affection, emotion, a charge, a voice unheard, a satisfaction you never had before. This is what a night does for you!



A bunch of folks walk down the road. They are in a mood only they can be. It's past mid night already but they don't care for nights are where they belong. Nocturnality is their second nature. They are the kings of the empty roads, looks like all the street lamps are there to greet the great procession. They climb up the bridge and scale to its middle point. They lean from the sidewalls and shout their names to the world, a moment of authority, a moment where you feel like GOD, a moment where you have the courage of a lion and charisma of indian cheetah. Even the frustrations have the power of the "black snake moan". Probably, they are high on dutch courage, probably not! They look around and find the glistening black in the flow of the river beneath. They look for their reflections but their eyes can barely see, they want to script their names on this ungainly world, but only can hear it back! They are quite indistinguishable from each other, they are a mob. Night is their hood and the darkness is their mask. When the birds start chirping, they disappear, like the mist in the summer mornings. They seek shelter and go to the vampire land and out they come in the nights. The night saves them, gives them a fake promise, a pseudo support, an (anonymous) identity.




Down the street, in some obscure corner of the town, she lived. She had a kid. She was a mother. In those dark nights, when the moon and the electricity department both joined hands to darken her small but neat "kholi", "the little one"(to be read contextually ;)) would turn around, trying to find her. He was nervous when on the first touch he found the bed and not her. He would keep his eyes closed and try again, with an increased radius this time, only to find the corner of her sari. The same corner which had been chewed in an endless fashion by him. The threads of the "pico" had been turned soft with his saliva and teeth. The darkness didn't let him see it and the fear of darkness didn't let him open his eyes, but the touch of that torn, softened corner, the feel of his own saliva on it which was left only a couple of hours ago, spared him the torture. She turned, whispered in his ears. He opened his eyes to find her. In the backdrop of black, he witnessed the most assuring and loving face of his life. He dragged his body and somehow managed to reach the familiarity of comfort. The clarity of forth, sometimes, is attributed to the intensity of the back!



The glory and charm of the day might be mighty enough but the honesty of night is underlined by the fact that it offers us the truth, in whatever meanings, some pleasing, some provoking, some soothing, some disturbing, some hollow ones, some sound ones........Matter of fact, they(nights) simply are the agents of unleashment(Allow me the liberty!)

Thoda sa roomani ho jayein

Life is really funny. It was yesterday, I was frustrated with myself for I was in some dilemma and today I get plenty in my head. I think the funny part resides in me rather than the life. The weather is so 'roomani' and the examinations not millions of years away, I feel its the right time to write. Creativity shoots up, specially in my case, when the creative room is cramped for space and time. I call it the squeezed creativity. Under similar circumstances, love also shoots up. Beautiful weather, chilled breeze and a arousing shiver in the body-all of them sum up to just one point and love definitely is that point.

The great romantics from the history of classical english literature have said that love knows no boundaries, no limits, no modus operandi to achieve in this field is considered wrong and why would it be so? As it is, there is so less of love left these days, anyone pursuing the cause of love has to be looked upon as a messiah for emotional upheaval. Experts say that people go crazy in the quest of love. I say they just become what they are. For the good actors, indeed, love is a hypothetical concept. But again, there are rivers which change courses, there are mountains which lose heights and there are plots of lands which get submerged in the waters. After one of the floods they disappear only to resurface next summers. Some pieces never come back. Some come back so different from what they were before going, we fail to recognize them. The farmers are so apprehensive of those lands, they don't set a foot on it. They don't even give these pieces a chance to bear the suffering at the hands of the plow for they truly miss the pleasure in the pain part of the entire sequence. The lands lay barren, cracking, the cracks widening with time and the hopes fading. They know how hard it becomes to wait when you wait against no hope, no expectations. They get impatient, sometimes paranoid. They are so unsure of their own time. There are apprehensions, anxieties of different kinds. They fear the rains for the rains would bring the floods. They fear the floods for they will be lost again for no fault of theirs and come back with that label on them. The farmer might have left by then or could have changed professions or could have done something which would never bring them together again. The mind plays dirty little games. They break resolves, they test character but for all practical purposes, the lands don't have much time, either to convince or to survive. The watery eyes, the increasingly upbeat vein on the temple, the ever drying lips, the sweaty palms, the shaky knees say it all in one go, only if someone listens or even bothers to.

Love is hard, never futile. Farmers...farm some..don't bother if it grows or not...Read the GEETA....ends are not always what you seek in life....even a painstaking process has honey like pleasure....

A Writer's Dilemma

I have so very much run out of ideas and thoughts that I don't want to write anymore. The case here is not that I am totally out of ideas but the ideas I am getting these days are pretty random and I have not been able to figure a line of trend in those ideas. What to do man? Where do I go from here? As a result of all this, I have to keep everything that comes to mind only to myself and not tell it to any one. I can't because they are very personal things and I hate writing about my personal stuff. More than that, I hate to have my personal stuff read by others. I want to keep my emotions to myself and yet I want to express. That's why, i use a number of analogies, pretend to be someone else and write stuff about them. People think I have goten under the skin of the character. But no the fact and truth of the matter is that it's me who feels and writes. I wrote everything I felt but now this is the end of it. The writer inside me is dead. Atleast he is dormant and is gone for sometime. I guarantee you that. I can't force myself to pen stuff down just like that. I ain't no writer. I have my own stories and I tell people my own little tales in a way they think its good. People like to know what happens to other people.

Sorry for the abrupt transformation of thoughts. I actually was not getting to write because of lack of moments or moments which were too dear and near to my own soul. It takes a lot of courage to write stuff which involves the writer directly, in a way which is too grounded to the core of the person that writer is. I have a lot of stories to share but I am a scared man. I hate to see people knowing me inside out. I hate to see them speculate about my nature and general behaviour. In fact, I am scared of them for they will know me, for they will come to know I am no different from them, for my thoughts are no more unique than theirs and hence I will lose what I have in their eyes atleast! Oh mother, check out the selfish me.

Today I met the other breed of writers in form of an individual. This person writes so good that I get lost and then I stay lost for long. He writes like a fairy tale and yet gives me the touches of reality. The reason for such an impact is that he/she is not scared to write. He is not scared to share. He does not care to care about what people have for him. But sometimes, he does. The human touch is not lost in totality. I like that.

This little comfortable of world of ours is cruel actually. Most of us are pretentious people. In fact, all of us. As humans, we are nurtured in a way that does not allow our nature to decide what we would become. Everyone is too bothered about what we should become. The concept of benchmarking is a total waste. People have idols from every walk of life. Good to admire people but not at the cost of letting go your own self. Losing oneself is the biggest flaw of the entire sociometric system across geographies and cultures. And I am a small, almost irrecognizable portion of this great expanse. I can't and don't have the guts to fight it out. Neither alone nor with company. The existing empire always sees the change agents as rebels. Being a rebel is pretty stigmatized. I don't want a stigma on me. I am a writer, just a writer. I can't serve the truth to everyone. Everybody'd truth is different. Is it not? Perceptions are declared reality these days. I feel powerless, out of breath. I won't yet feed you with my true realities for they are no perceptions. For the stories, I have a few thought up, a few stolen from other's kitty. Signing off.... a coward...

The touch of GOD

When you see a a single handed backhand, hit on top of the bounce of the ball, the arc begins from behind the left part of the twisted torso, meets the ball right in front of the ribs, the feet just so naturally defy gravity to hold that mid air balance and the follow through continues till you feel should the shoulder come out of the socket if stretched any further, the resultant shot finds a non existent route on the court creating an imposiibly sketchable acute angle to beat the reach of a player who people say can cover everything thrown at him, you know the man you have always loved for his game-is definitely back

याद है वो शाम!

याद है वो शाम जब तुम सफेदी को लपेटे पिछले दरवाज़े से बरबस ही मेरे घर में घुस आई थी?

हर तरफ लोग थे बेशुमार,

फिर भी मुझे सिर्फ तुम ही नज़र आई थी

आँखों के कोनो से झाँक झाँक के देखा किया था तुम्हे

एक सवाल था ज़हन में

सोचा आज पूछ लूं तुमसे.....

क्या तुम मेरी चोरी पकड़ पाई थी?

तुम्हारी चोटी से गिरा वो बालों का गुच्छा

आज भी मेरी किताब के पन्नो में मुस्कुराता है

आहिस्ते आहिस्ते बातें करता है मुझसे....

कान में फुसफुसाता है

मेरी हंसी पे वो भी हवा के झोंके सा लहराता है

मैं खामोश हो जाऊं तो वो भी बस पन्नों में सिमट जाता है

तुम्हारी वो तस्वीर जो बड़ी दूर से खीची थी मैंने

आँखें बंद करते ही सामने आ जाती है

सपनो के खटोले पे भी तुम आ बैठती हो हमेशा

क्यूँ कुछ बोलती नहीं..

बस होठों को हिला के चली जाती हो

आसमान में चाँद को हर रात मैंने नज़रंदाज़ किया है


मैं तो तारों को जोड़ के तुम्हारी शकल बनाता था...


घर की पिछली दीवार के पीछे सिर्फ सूरज नहीं उगता था

हर रोज़ साथ में चाँद भी आ जाता था

उस चिलमन से ......

जिसमे हर रोज़ तुम बैठा करती थी


मोहब्बत है मुझे


उन किताबों में खोने की कोशिश किया करती थी

दूर से ही मैं ये जान लेता था

तुम्हारी तमन्नाओं को छान लेता था

तुम्हारे चेहरे का इल्म नहीं था मुझे

झटके से साफ़ की हुयी यादों का साथ था

मेरे घर के किस कोने से तुम्हारे घर का कौन सा कोना दिखता है

इसमें मैं उस्ताद था

बड़ी मुश्किल से आज तुम मेरे साथ हो

फिलहाल तो दूर हो पर पता है कि हर पल मेरे पास हो

अगर कुछ अच्छा हुआ है तो वो तुम हो मेरे साथ

आँखें बंद करता हूँ तो महसूस करता हूँ

अपने हाथों में तुम्हारा हाथ

परेशानी में बस एक ही चेहरा याद आता है

तुम ना होती तो बेनाम हो जाता मैं


आज खुश हूँ...तुम्हारी वजह से ज़िन्दगी इनाम हो गयी है!!

.

क्या दिन थे वो भी!

बर्फ की सीली से गिरते एक एक फाहे को क्या हसरत से देखता था

पानी से गीली रेत पर अपने पद चिन्ह पढता था

अपने सपाट हाथों में तकदीर की लकीर ढूंढता था

बालू के ढेर में अपना घरोंदा संजोता था

क्या दिन थे वो भी!



छुटपन में भी बड़े होने का आभास होता था

सब कुछ बुरा होने पर भी न मन उदास होता था

माँ की एक पुचकार टीचर के कई थप्पड़ों पर भारी थी

हर मंजिल जो सपने में देखी, वो हमारी थी

क्या दिन थे वो भी!



हर वक़्त उल्लास का माहौल होता था

बेफिक्र उन्मुक्त असीम आकाश का पंछी था मैं

ना कंधो पे भारी सी बैग का बोझ था

ना आँखों के नीचे ये काले निशान थे

क्या दिन थे वो भी!



रातें सोने के लिए हुआ करती थीं

सूरज के साथ दिन शुरू होता था

घर की पिछली दीवार के पीछे सूरज उगता था

छत के ठीक ऊपर हर रात चाँद आता था

क्या दिन थे वो!



शाम को भुने हुए चिवड़े और हलवा खाता था

आम के अचार के बिना खाना निगला नहीं जाता था

अब तो domino का पिज्जा खाता हूँ

उंगलियाँ चाटना तो छोडो उन्हें ढंग से गन्दा भी नहीं कर पाता हूँ

क्या दिन थे वो!



हर शाम वही पुरानी कहानी नए अंदाज़ में सुनता था और खो जाता था

नानी की लोरी सुनते सुनते वहीँ उसकी गोद में सो जाता था

हर तरफ सुकून था पर समझ नहीं पाता था

अब तो बस समझ ही पाता हूँ

क्या दिन थे वो!

.

The Rocker

There are guitars playing in the background, only intermittently though, but each chord hits me, like a wave strikes against a rock by the sea somewhere in wilderness. I close my eyes, paste my lips together inwards, swallow a spoon of saliva, gush out a puff of exhaled air and try to find my vision. The drums join in on a low bass scale, like the beatles used to start their songs more than often, I feel the beats and the intermittent strings of guitars producing the most beautiful disturbances. I try to pull my eyes wide open for I feel they are shrinking. At the back of my mind, I remember my hatred for chinese eyes. I tell myself its only an illusion. I close my eyes again. No, I don't close them, it happens I don't even realize. I take a back roll. The music has not fed away, its more in the fore ground now! I take a pinch of mexican panda(google it!). It looks gorgeous peeking from inside of that beautiful invention we call "plastic". Wrapped in it and coiled with a golden string the package looks beautiful. No wonder, racism came into foray, only because we love the charisma of white so much. I try to find the spoon. I can't see where it is! And out of nowhere I see it there, thrown on the table by the side of the sofa. There is a dirty table cloth on the table which was white when it began its life as a table cloth. Now, it looks pale. I wonder how things change. I wonder again. Do they really change or just appear to be changing. The drums get on a high again. I can feel the vibes inside my head. The vein on the temple twitches a bit. I get worried. I take the spoon. Its an old stained spoon. I twist it by almost a 90 degrees. It looks like a face twisted in a wry! I try to see myself in the spoon. I look twisted too. With a finesse of the experts, I transfer a pinch of the panda on to it. My eyes glitter with the expected rush! I fanatically look into my pockets. I don't find anything. I go for the pants, I get it. I take it out. Its hard, its old, its rusty but it still works. I don't try any fancy stuff with it I saw in enlish movies. I uncap it and in a jiffy I use my thumb to give it real jerk, trying to bring in rotation, overcoming friction. Old stuff has lot of internal friction. But it works, I see the flame. I smile at my Zippo! It really is a piece of its kind. The flame sustains. Panda turns liquid. I see bubbles trying hard to come to surface. I want them to. But I wait with the patience of a crane. I can feel the spoon now. Its as hot as it can get! I change hands and rub my fore finger and thumb. I feel better. I know it won't matter in sometime but still I do the rubbing. I look for something else now. I place the spoon in some place. It doesn't spill the panda at all. I look for the bag I kept in some obscure corner of the room. I do find it at the first glance I throw at the heap of stuff piled up. Piling up is not what you want when you look for things but I manage somehow. I smile at my luck. I begin to unzip. I go slow. I go as slow as one can imagine, like those ultra slow motion cameras show; just like that. I unfold the two wings of the bag. I see inside with the curiosity of a child. My eyes spark at the mere look of it. I see the sisters sitting pretty in their cradles, unmoved, unrocked, silent, still and yet vibrant. I feel it. The aura is definitely building around me now. I take the straps out and let them loose. They look old and jaded. it's an old rendezvous, like a deja vu! Not exactly a deja vu but quite similar. I hold them in my hands, one for each hand. I maintain the balance equitably. I sometimes love the choice and context of my words! I bring the sisters together. They look so impotent in isolation. I can hardly handle the glee. I fix them together and make them one. My weapon is ready. The preparation part is always better than the execution but not in this case. I hope so, hope drives the world! I go for tha panda again. Hoping it has cooled down but not enough, left with the warmth required. I need some heat in my body. I just realize I am sweating from the side of my back. A drop forms a torrent and flows down right till where I'm wearing my pants. I can feel the exact trajectory of the torrent. I imagine what form would it have made. I get reminded of my Co-ordinate geometry classes but I pull myself out of there. I think of a name for my weapon. I decide upon sister-joint! I particularly love the word "joint". I dip the tip or toe whatever it is in the small little potentially deep enough panda pool. I suck it..........up! With a slight push I jerk out a couple of droplets out of the invisible nozzle. I stroke the sister-joint's body, just hard enough to get away with the bubbles jailed inside. I give them freedom and bask in the moment of glory. I know I'm getting restless now. I cup my upper lip with the lower one and wipe the sweat in. It has a strange taste. I hold the sister-joint carefully and in the same vein I look for a vein in my hand, the left one to be precise. I tap my hand hard to bring it up. I see the blue streak. I wonder how blood carrier can look not red but I don't waste my analytical skills there so much. I am nervous. This is not my first time I know but after quite long a break. I swallow a gulp of saliva. I wet my lips again. I feel better. I go for the target, I pierce with success and pinch. Probably, it's more like a prick. Soon I would not be able to mark the difference I know. I drag the piston by a bit. I see the red slowly diffusing inside the colourlessness of the panda. The sister-joint looks indifferently. She doesn't know what is going inside her. I know. The guitars and the drums pick up. I can hear them coming closer. Looks like a total crescendo is about to arrive. I push it all inside. My eyes go red. I sniff out in ecstasy. The eyelids take control by losing theirs. The eyeballs surrender to the might of the neurons. Darkness comes with colours mixed in it. Vision fades away slowly and comes back like a flash but fades away again. I smile, I sweat, I feel hot but I love it all the way. The drums get heavy inside me. the acoustic guitars join in now. I'm still but rocking hard. I thread my fingers in my skull through my hair. I wear a fancy hair style. Wind gushes inside. The mix of hot and cold is awesome like hot chocolate syrup on top of a vanilla scoop. I see spirals, I do see them. The sisters a....r..............e. I



................< th e r si a thin g a.bou...t it..........I wanna...........fadeeeeeeeeee a w?ay.....CAN I?

Save the hypocrisy

Like everyone even I was waiting for the verdict on Ayodhya to be out, not because it was my father's land under the scanner but more because the entire issue was over built and it was treated as if it was about to bring a hurricane or a tornado in the country. I don't know what to make out of the decision but at least the bench made sure everyone had something on their plates and the grievances whatsoever were limited in nature. Although one of the parties is apparently not entirely satisfied with the verdict, it failed to stir the country in the way it was feared it would! However, my concern actually started as I was browsing through the social networking sites. Almost every Tom, Dick and Harry had an update which showed concern for our poor country which happens to be an example of prime secularism, at least on paper! My counter to all the gentlemen and women who were praying under their breath all the time to avoid any sort of arousal in the country post the decision and vented out their emotions either by tweeting or updating, is "go to hell". This country has survived thousands of years before any of you or your forefathers were born. And you better keep your tongue coiled inside your teeth because I may just rip it apart. There are feelings of anticipation which are created by a few big men who run this country, unfortunately and you guys use your powers of democracy on the bloody internet as and when you tweet. What a bloody waste of energy and time, both of which you have in plenty. Rather ironically, unlike the net savvy, new, learned and aware class of India, which doesn't even caste votes during elections, the people around the epicentre of the entire episode still have no one to express their opinions. Ayodhya is not a city of disputed land and it expects a different identity from us. But we are unwilling to move from where we were entrenched 18 years ago. You people have opinions to express sitting inside your homes and not going out and talk and walk because you fear a stone might be coming your way or worst case you might just find a bullet in between of your eyes! Show your bold opinions somewhere else where probably you find more people like you who can only discuss issues sitting inside a studio telecasted live on a national news channel. When I read those prayers you make on the internet, I know more than concerned you are scared. Thousands of miles away from that place which hit you hard today, you are scared to get out of your safety because you don't trust the system around you. Does one verdict of land distribution bring to Ayodhya what should be brought to it which could have been developed rather than leaving it aside in the most archaic form. Probably when you searched on internet you got that (in)famous picture of the mob on the tomb. Ayodhya is much more than what you ever encapsulated. Its a place where normal people live, who are scared about their lives, their families, apprehensive about their being and worried about their present and future both. Try finding those pictures, you won't get many. Satellites can locate the erstwhile "disputed land" but not the crushed hopes! A place is not about a piece of land, its about the people who live there. If you guys find time and guts to go down to Ayodhya, do it and see how different is it from the other places. And please stop cribbing about the system, you are a bloody wasted nut of the same machine you say is inefficient. So pull up if you have anything to hold on to in the first place! And yeah, those people who are giving their expert opinions on how the judgement could have better or how it held the country together, why don't you guys watch my hand wave and choose the appropriate finger yourself. Shove your fake, superficial knowledge of Indian judiciary up some place you find the most apt but please spare us the horror! We know you guys are well read and really care for the nation. You might well be running an NGO also which does social work. Start working on yourself and leave those people in peace. The water is still, don't stir it like a cocktail. And for all the naked show of your hearty emotions and analysis, I have a line-"Only the wearer knows where it pinches." I pray you never have to wear those shoes!

The Old Man's Diary

I am sitting in my chair and sipping my tea and I am trying to find the smell of the darjeeling tea leaves in it. That smell is absent. I wouldn't call it a fragrance because I can only relate to perfumes my wife used to the word fragrance. It's rather an exclusive usage I know but in my personal domain I would rather have that exclusivity. The tea really smelled bad. Me thinks these days the tea makers don't get good tea tasters else they could have figured if the leaves under processing and post processing have reached the desired form or not! Anyway that was purely none of my bloody business. I put the cup back on the table and took up the old newspaper kept underneath my dirty old pillow. My pillow is a really old pillow. I think I purchased it some 20 years ago on my son's wedding. That was some wedding. I spent from my pocket and heart both. After the wedding, both the sources were emptied, sort of a drought for various reasons. I wouldn't discuss what really those reasons were because I don't want people to think that I'm a helpless old man who has seen things in his life most people would not like to see.



By the way, did I tell you I am 74? It has been sixteen years since I retired from my job. I worked for the government. Not that I was indispensable for them but people really knew me well. I was famous. I was a leader of some sort and I was a brave man. But those things are history now. If you ask me right now about how do I feel about myself, probably I would not give you the right answer. The truth hurts big time and always at the wrong place. I have a family. I have three sons and a daughter. I had a wife too. Now she is gone. I feel lonely without her. There is a photo of hers which I carry in my wallet. I see that photo very often. It's a black and white photo but fills all the colours to my otherwise sedate life. It was taken years ago when we had our first son. God, she looks beautiful in that. She looked beautiful otherwise as well. When I don't see that photo I feel I'm sort of incomplete. Some people say if you love someone you actually don't need a photo of that person. That someone dwells in one's heart and stuff. They probably never know what severance is like. When someone who goes, stays gone forever, things also change.



I live with my son. Actually, he lives with me. I built this house when I thought we had enough of staying in rented houses. Back then we didn't have apartments. This apartment culture is catching on fast these days I see. I got a call from my second son last sunday. He calls me on alternate sundays. The kids have grown up. They really have. Years ago, this house of mine was my home. Today I merely live here. Companionship is a must in life. I did not realize this when I got married rather I realized this when she left forever. I do feel lonely, mostly on all occasions. I miss talking to her, fighting her when the salt would be more than what I liked in the food. I'm a heart patient. I'm not supposed to have a lot of salt. Now I don't mind the salt in my food and life. Probably the will to live has receded. And why would one live? Still I'm either sensible enough or coward enough to have not tried suicide so far. Generally I spend my day talking to myself. People generally don't like talking to the older people like me. I don't socialize with the other old men of the neighbourhood. They sort of give me negative vibes. They have an air of pesimism around them. I don't like that. I can walk alone rather clinging on to crutches.



I don't feel weak but I want to talk and want to get listened. I want my share in the decision making in my own house which I don't get. I get my tea, breakfast and every other required thing on time but I want more than that. Because I'm old now and I retired from my job a long time ago doesn't mean I can't take decisions. But it seems my kids who have grown big enough to forget that mine are the hands they held on to walk for the first time on this planet. My hands seem shaky to them now. I'm cornered now and its a pretty dark corner. I can get frustrated but I chose not to. Not out of choice but out of grit. I may have lived long enough to be old now but I want to live and not just breathe. Today if I say I was not sad, I would be lying. I definitely was sad. I wanted attention if not love. In my age people go back to being kids. They want to be pampered and attended to with love and respect more than ever in their lives. That's the stage I'm in right now but I don't get it. So I decided to give words to my feelings and release the pressure which was building inside me. I'm a heart patient, the pace maker might just blow off and I do care to live, even if I have to live only for myself and the photo I have. I will come back whenever I'm sad, I will not give in. I'm not going to crib to the other oldies of the neighbourhood about how pathetic my life is. Rather I will share it with myself and feel happy. I attend to myself. Time to get hold of my wallet and see what I feel is the most beautiful face on earth!

Dreamer

As far back as I can remember I always wanted to be a dreamer. I loved to keep my eyes open and dream of what would I do in life. I remember watching DDLJ and totally falling in love with the movie. There were numerous occasions when in my dreams thought I was the male protagonist of the stories I weaved in my dreams. They were dreams not of career making or getting rich, they used to be dreams of falling in love. I was always fascinated by the feeling of falling in love with a girl, who would just slip into my life like a beautiful angel and would just be mine. Every nook and corner I crossed I looked for her. Every girl I saw reminded me of my dream girl. And I knew some day, some point in time in my life, some juncture of this estranged journey of mine, I will find her and I will be loved. Being loved is always better than loving. I craved and bollywood added to my fantasy runs. Another great movie called "Pyaar to hona hi tha" hit the theatres. And I was totally in awe with the movie. I still sing the title song with maximum amount of feelings I can generate. I was always an emotional guy. With time taking its toll on me, I lost that competency of mine. I sort of became practical but then one is what one was. I, at heart was still an emotional fool and I wanted to fall in love. Only I fell for other things like fleshpots of the world. Skin defeated heart, only for the time being. I thought and then I stopped thinking at all.

I went with the wrong flow, I don't know if it was the wrong flow or wrong me but there was something very wrong. I stopped writing at all because I couldn't feel anything and if you can't feel anything there is no way you can write stuff.Then sometime in my life which was very eventful otherwise, I read a book and I fell in love with it. One of my seniors and friends gave that book to me and I thought to be like the author of that book. The book was " Catcher in the Rye". The author was......chuck it, google it readers, it's a very famous book. The author died right after I read that book. I saw it in the papers. But I felt good about my awareness. That was the extent to which I was feelingless. Now all of you can imagine what kind of a person am I?

Apart from this romantic inside me, I was always hungry for power. I wanted to be a powerful person not physically but otherwise. Like those politicians or those bureaucrats. I loved the power their names and their signatures had. I loved the red lights they put on top their cars and care a damn about the red lights of the city. That is the concept of power in my head and I wanted to achieve that. However, one has to sacrifice a hell lot to be there and I was not willing to do that. Rather I was just getting fascinated about what it would feel like to be sitting inside that car with the red light on top of it and soaring ahead on a crossroad when the lesser mortals just wait for the lights to turn green. That obsession was always there and I never could translate that either to reality. I needed to work and all I did was just dream.

Then a good sunny morning when I happened to wake up early enough to see the sunrise, or probably I never slept in the night, I realised I was not/never meant to actuate all this. All I was and all I am is just a dreamer..just a dreamer!!

Of mothers

Of Mothers
Slipping down in the abyss of affection, I was wondering will life always be like this. Probably at 5 years of age this was one of the improbable thoughts to have struck me. I prayed to the god who I asked for almost everything ranging from a small candy(which my mother could always afford) to a four rupee bottle of Thums Up(which was totally out of budget)one more time."Never make my mummy old”. Praying has got immense powers of smoothening (allow me the authors’ liberty) concerns specially if the heart is clean and motive is innocent. I at once felt my prayers were going to be heard and registered high on "his" list. My mother was the prettiest woman I ever saw. Well, she still is, just that at times she has competition from someone quite younger than her. While I used to be busy capturing every corner of her lap, she would ask me at times, “You know will grow old and my hair will grey someday"."No! It won't happen because I will always be a kid, so you will always be how you are today”, I used to assure her and myself with lot of confidence. After all I had prayed! After so many years I feel there is a god, because even though I grayed pre maturely, my mother still looks the same. The prayers were heard. Love is something which we all discover about as soon as we get that first touch from our mothers. Although we hardly remember that first touch of immense love, which is so cruel of nature. This goes to all our" would be spouses" that the reason why we love them has to be our mothers. Spouses are a difficult breed to handle after all. Lot of us know it already, and for those who are still to bite the chilly, I’m sure enough you will do it soon enough to realize the factual authenticity of my statement. A mother and a child have a mutual liking which is funny and inexplicable at the same time. The child finds his/her mother the most beautiful and vice versa. If we actually believe in this hypothesis, there would be billions of "miss worlds" every moment living on this planet. However, the good part is there are. That is what people call the feeling which exceeds love, which exceeds the vocabulary. We must be thankful to whomever for giving us all eyes to express. They come very handy in such situations. When I was scared in the middle of those nights or was acting to be, my mother would just engulf me with her protective cover. Arms which were weak and short by normal definition, would seem to have all the power to resist any force and I would quietly just hold them as I spiraled away in slumber. Can the NSG make one sleep like that? I’m not seeking an answer, just reiterating on more time without any tolerances! This is the fourth straight day, I haven't slept properly. Guess I need similar prayers and cover. I hope he still puts them high on "his" list.

Of Beauty

Beauty fascinates, but then isn't the beauty contextual here is predominantly the apparent one? A burning question with a temporary answer meant only to fool oneself. The essence and charisma of appreciation lies in the stream of emotions and the springs generating from the tilted left fist alike (read heart).Love generates all the beauty that we admire throughout our lives. Beauty is as meaningless without life as is a dancer who cannot listen to the music but still mechanically carries out the well rehearsed steps given by the efficient choreographers. Doesn't it then take the entire vibrancy out of the beauty bubble? Shutting those eyelids upon those eye balls brings in darkness with peace that is beauty. Walking by the road side and finding the poor smile even after all adversity, that is beauty. If something is real, trust me for one moment, you can play your part in adding just a touch on your behalf that is beauty.
This life, let's all learn one more time how to beautify!

I am a BIHARI

Pandit Nehru once said,"I am an Indian first and an Indian last". Our own-love me or hate me but you can't ignore me star SRK-refused to hear the names of the states in Chak De. Many more instances from life-both real and reel-go on to add to the same flow of notion without really making a difference on pragmatic grounds. I belong to the list of defaulters here. I am at fault but I was not always like this, not atleast when I started off, not when I was born and not when I took it on me to see the world through one eye for the sake of equity of vision. I was born little more than two decades ago in erstwhile BIHAR and thats how I began.

I was very bright when I went to kinder garden, but then who isn't? Its like half of India playing better cricket than Sachin Tendulkar. Did I understate? I started off in an english medium school only to switch to hindi because that apparently was the more convincing way of studying mathematics and by hearting those multiplication tables! I was not even four when I was almost programmed to know the aim of my life. Yes, you people are right, I was supposed to become an IAS officer. Bloody hell, the dream got embedded to such depths that it still takes lucid forms at times!

But life moved on and with it the dream moved as well. An IAS officer to a scientist and what not! Included that short lived dream to be a cricketer; though it didn't get the sort of appreciation that I was expecting after I revealed it. There is a famous theory in Organizational Behaviour which says that the chances of realizing a goal increases by 50% once it is revealed or made public. Only in my case it was crushed and beaten to pulp. Though my parents got me a full cricket kit which included a Sanspariel Greenlands bat from Calcutta, it was more to motivate me to study harder than to make a Sachin Tendulkar out of me.

My life was rather sedate, there was hardly any element of fun or adventure in it. Also I never realized that I had a jinx of birth associated with myself. In due course of time, I passed standard twelfth. And by then I was ordered to be an engineer, preferably, from some IIT. There is a special respect for any institution or job which begins with the word "Indian" back there. Well, I moved to the Indian capital to pursue my dream. That was a very big city I landed foot into. For the first time I saw roads so wide and buildings so high. I could only gaze in wonder and gasp for breath from time to time. The city promised to promise a lot and deliver a little. What a pessimist Am I even today! I never had that free and liberated mindset to do what I wanted to do. I lacked in courage and will. I was loaded with fear and apprehensions instead! I failed in the big city. I still try to figure out for myself if I failed myself or the city failed me? Were my dreams fragile enough or was the city that hard? Whatever it may be I was a brand of failure than success, a matter of insult than respect. My lovely acquisitions from the great land of dreams. A dreamer with the pulp of his dreams, irony!

Not only this, I got the first taste of discrimination in the big city. The first ever opportunity in my life which made me realize that I have to live with something I am hardly responsible for. The curse of birth as they put it in some places in the books of literature. Banters which pertained to my funny way of speaking my mother tongue and the alien language (read english) were the primary things of target. I realized I had to be something big to get ahead of them or to let go what is my own. Letting go what was my own is not that great a thing to achieve, not in my dictionary at least. So bitter as it might sound, reality was there for the taking and I took it right on my chin. I bled profusely. I wiped it up and moved. I sometimes sit and think I have been mostly a Nomad in my life, I have moved on pretty frequently.

This is how I built upon those pit holes what are the buildings of today. I sure still have that feeling and it goes on to hurt. It pinches and my muscles flex but I have to control them. It acts like an old twisted ankle which can never take a jerk on its own. But I live on. I read the constitution of our republic and I feel proud about it. I go deep into it and I feel I have been deprived of somethings at some points in time. But I let go. I let go because I am still intact with the core I began with. I added on quite a bit. I let go because there has to be a start where you let go and start reading and following those great men who saw a dream. Like me even they were dreamers. My dreams, remember, I had their pulp with me. I have managed to transit them to realities. Back from the pulp, I call them now. I look up, in the sky and feel liberated today because I can think and I can smile about the battles I lost and the recoveries I made. I owe it all, to you, my land!

Love Death Theory

(Love Death Theory)
As I procrastinated the drafting process of the thoughts I have been getting since yesterday, I was continuously wondering about the origin of my thoughts, thoughts of death. Death is a difficult phenomenon to handle, at times the effects are excruciating (with the exceptions of those cold blooded psycho killers) on the person who witnesses it. Death is considered as the pit stop for the spiritual ones, who believe this journey is far more than what we assume it to be. Its obscure for people who do not believe or rather cannot believe the mystifying aftermath of a death. For some, it’s just the end of a story. Everything stops once this terminal is reached. Whatever perceptions we have of death, irrespective of that, there is a common ground where every thinker and non thinker seemingly agree. The commonality associated with this freakish event is the fear, the fright of not being able to see the world again, the disappointment of never having gotten that opportunity to do that one job one always wanted to. Death is not as ugly as it seems neither it is as supposed to be that bad, what gives this touch to death is nothing but love.

The last word over there might just spring a few moans or sighs of disbelief from the readers at the first reading. I am expecting that. Love is supposed to be the most beautiful feeling that any living being possesses. Love is what defines the purpose of our life. Love is what gives us the motive to breathe without questioning the daily routine. Love is what gives us hope. Hope is what gives us the desire. The desire to love is derived from the hope to be loved which generates from the feeling of love itself. Who says love is not self seeking? It seeks a lot. It seeks love. And it is this love which fabricates those stronger than steel bonds between two beings. It is love that makes one think about oneself before others because this "oneself" is the object of love to "someone" who in turn is the object of love to the "one" in question. This is why when we sneeze hard, parents back home get desperate. And because we do not want to see them in that state of desperation, we try not to sneeze hard while talking to them on phone. Now imagine something like death in place of something so insignificant like a sneezing act. Derive the origin of fear which makes death so painful, even the entire process of death and the mere thought of it coming almost asphyxiates me totally every single time. The origin is love, because love is the only reason which can form a bond that is strong enough to intensify pain on severance. Fear would be nothing if love would have been nonexistent. Death would be nothing if fear would be nonexistent, just a thought with a practical experience!