Free Speech for the Dumb

Who's your buddy?

2011-01-09T23:12:00.003+05:30

Searching for redemption at the bottom of a glass of watered down Laphroaig probably isn't a particularly unique way of enduring a Sunday night, but you must admit that it has a JJ Cale floating in the air kind of quality about it. I'm writing tonight to fulfill a fairly basic need. The need to feel like one has done something of consequence during the course of the day. Somehow, just laying in bed and binging on those crunchy apples while watching Scrubs re-runs for the 4th time doesn't quite seem to have the same sense of achievement.

So I turn to my most reliable and least used mode of catharsis. Writing. I know I've written time and again about my fear of writing. That inexplicable tightening of the chest whenever I feel like writing but I can't. I begin to get freaked out by the most random of things. The blinking cursor for example, has long been a nemesis of mine. Somehow that periodic flashing of a line just waiting for something intelligent to be said feels like too much pressure. But this time, I have a weapon that I reserve for only the most desperate of situations. Two words to be precise.

Fuck it.

If you're here then you will listen to me ramble. You potentially have trillions of other places that you could be on the information superhighway, but now since you're in my little half-acre, you shall have to endure my tiresome stream of drivel. And my drivel this time... oh fuck it, I have no idea what my drivel will cover this time. So why don't we just both find out.

First of all I'd like to begin by talking about whiskey. Now I know my mother will have a fit when she reads this, but unfortunately it has now turned into my favourite drink. I don't come around to drinking very often, simply because I believe that it is best done with good drinking company (which these days is surprisingly sparse). Ah wait, could it be, could it actually be that I have now hit upon a topic on which I can provide a lengthy discourse without seeming like an over-sensitive multi-syllabic-adjective-using-pseudo-intellectual?

I guess that last sentence has just answered it's own question but let us carry on.

My pointless banter now begs the question... What makes an ideal drinking buddy?

A question of that nature not only warrants intense introspection and in-depth analysis, it also warrants a kudos. To my best drinking buddies of all time. To Pi and Karan. Gentlemen, wherever you are at this moment, I salute you with my 5th scotch for the evening. May we have many more drunken senseless philosophical conversations in the future. I shall now proceed with my discourse that borrows heavily from the live inputs of these fine men.

To be a great drinking buddy you must of course have the following qualities:

The ability to match your buddy drink for drink: Look boys, there is nothing more pathetic than having your drinking buddy, your brother, behave like a sissy and give you some sorry ass excuse for why he can't have his 5th drink. And if he's past his fifth drink and then passes up one, then the only reason is that he's about to regurgitate. So the only two outcomes of passing up a drink when you're drinking with a buddy is

a) Look like a pathetic sissy
b) Projectile vomiting

Any friend, who's any kind of friend will want to avoid either scenario. Hence the only alternative that dignity permits is to drink. So suck it up, grit your teeth and give a firm nod the next time your buddy offers you another.
The ability to lech appropriately: Now let's get this straight, every man needs to lech. Hell every human being needs to lech. But this needs to be done appropriately. Girls of course can lech at anything and it would never be inappropriate. Girls leching at girls incidentally happens to be one of the few get-out-of-jail-free cards that men ever get from women. Boys, if you ever have a female around you who says some girl who passed by is hot, please consider this your tiny window to vent. But please don't be over-enthusiastic, one appreciative grunt is all you're allowed. But then again, I digress. The point I was trying to make here was simple

a) Appreciative grunt when your drinking buddy leches: Appropriate
b) Delhi boy wolf-whistle and Punjabi english: Inappropriate (unless you are Karan Malhotra)
The ability to appreciate fine music: Classic rock, Jazz, Blues and Backstreet boys (You are my FIIIIIIRE!). Anything outside this, you cannot find acceptable. Especially that Buddha Bar, Let's-Be-Cool and chill out on low pointless couches while they charge me 800 bucks for a drink nonsense.
Short-term memory loss: Do you really want your drinking buddy to come up to you the next morning and tell you that you tried to kiss a bald man's sweaty head while confessing your undying love for anybody who speaks Konkani? No. Incidentally he wasn't Konkani.

So there it is Ladies and Gentlemen. If you've ever been called upon by a buddy to share a drink with them, always remember the 4 tenets of drinking buddies. Drink a lot, lech responsibly, scream woo-hoo whenever "I want it that way" plays and forget about it all.

Thank you and Good Night.

P.S.: I noticed that I had spelled with remarkable accuracy throughout this post. 5 is obviously not the magic number. No.6 pick up those sticks.

The Test that wasn't

2011-01-07T12:37:00.013+05:30

I'm an avid cricket fan. And I don't use the word avid lightly. I treat my love for cricket like any of my other loves. Very very seriously. And like someone who treats the game of cricket seriously, I have often derived life lessons from the game. I know this sounds corny to many (many of those being from the fairer sex), but I sincerely believe that sport can reveal a person/teams mindset, emotions and strategy towards life in general quite effectively.

Take for example the test match that could have been. I shall always remember the final test between India and South Africa as a fine example of how a risk averse approach can turn potentially epic moment of sport into one that is indistinguishable from so many others that were made of so much less.

Consider the premise at the start of the 4th day of the match. The worlds Number 1 and Number 2 teams were battling it out for supremacy in an eagerly anticipated and highly regarded clash. In Test No. 1, South Africa had humiliated India. Which considering India's form against New Zealand, didn't come as much of a surprise to the hardened Indian supporter. Simply because at the back of every Indian supporters mind is a strange base expectation. That the country will lose. I know this is a bold claim, but I speak as an Indian cricket fan who's seen his team let him down time and again over the past 15-20 years. They would show a flash of brilliance, sometimes even go out and win a series. But to win so many in a row. My God. It was almost like we were all waiting for the inevitable collapse.

And when SA hammered India in Centurion, I began to think the inevitable and inexplicable loss of form and slide from the top had begun. Inevitable for reasons I have clearly specified in this piece and inexplicable because India has almost always had an impressive team. The batting order has been the stuff of legend for years now and the bowling while lacklustre, was never plain bad. On paper, it always seemed like we could bat any team out. But again, I digress. Kallis hammered India with that fabulous 200 and while it looked like India had begun to wake up at the end of the test, I was still convinced that it would be too little too late. Mostly because the revival was driven by our ancient God. Sachin scored his 50th century in that test, but then like in so many other matches, all his teammates were able to provide as homage was heartbreak.

Then came Durban, and with it the most inspired revival I have seen in quite sometime. I say this revival was more special than those in recent memory (ref: the many many comebacks against Australia) because of the confidence and authority with which India returned. And this wasn't a draw, it wasn't even a slender win. This was a convincing victory against a side that had just hammered them, on their own turf. And on a pitch that so obviously suited South Africa's pace bowlers. It had pace, bounce and everything else that often makes our batting line up look like they suffered a heavy bout of amnesia.

The second test at Durban saw the resurgence of a bowling attack that had previously looked absolutely listless. Inspired in large part by the return of Zaheer Khan, the Indian attack hammered away at the South African pitch almost as if they had been bowling on it for as long as they could remember. The South Africans almost had a what-the-fuck-is-going-on-here take on things, and before they could process what the Indian bowlers were doing to them, the game had been wrapped up. It was the kind of morning where you run to your newspaper just to read the gushing reviews of India's triumph. The kind you want to live over and over again.

This set up the third and final test in an almost delicious balance. A balance that seemed to rest in stable equilibrium for an epic three days. Kallis with his brilliant 160 had done what Sachin had done for us in so many matches, take the team to a respectable total even as the rest of his team lost interest in the game. Sachin responded with a similar innings in India's response. At the bowling end, Steyn bowled what could easily be considered one of the best spells in recent memory. That image of him charging down the pitch and swinging the ball prodigiously reminded me of two of the greatest bowlers I've seen. The greatest compliment I can pay Steyn is that he looked like a hybrid of aggression of Allan Donald and the wisdom in swing of Wasim Akram. That Sachin survived that onslaught and scored 146, just re-iterated for the 51st time (!) that Sachin is the Master Yoda of cricket. Omniscient, omnipotent and unassuming (and short). From the Indian bowling attack we had Sreesanth bowling the spell of his lifetime with that snorter that took out Kallis and he too got a five-for.

And so it stood. Day three of the third test between the Number 1 and Number 2 team with the series tied and the third game balanced evenly after three days of brilliant batting and bowling. It was a series that deserved so much more. You could of course fault the Indian bowlers for not finishing the job after taking SA to 130-6. But as the fifth day amply demonstrated, the pitch then quickly transformed into one closely resembling a fortress. If all you wanted to do was defend, then you could dig in and bowlers, short of throwing rocks at you, could do little to get you out.

Thus this (finally) brings me to the point I'd like to make. For this test to become truly epic and be counted as one of the best that was ever played and thus making the series one for the ages, somebody would have to take risks. And in any given situation, there is usually one team that has the choice of playing it safe or taking the risk. On the evening of the 4th day, after a fantastic fightback, that option now lay with SA. If they really wanted to go for the win, the could have declared when the score was between 280-300.

This would achieve two objectives, one it would give the SA bowlers a real chance to bowl the Indian line-up out. In all the days of the test, 10 wickets in a day never really seemed like a possibility. Even on the last day, it took some really careless batting by the SA tail for India to close the deal and take the final 8 wickets. Secondly, it would also entice the Indian batsmen to go after the ball a bit because the carrot of a series win would be in front of them. By waiting to be bowled out, SA virtually guaranteed a draw.

The series between SA and India deserved, nay demanded a result. But some deflated bowling by India took the comprehensive result away. The risk averse approach by Smith and his men, on the other hand, did something far worse. It deadened a contest that was begging to occur. Today, as I sit here typing this out, I can for the first time in my lifetime as an Indian cricket supporter say this: I honestly would've loved it regardless of who won.

How tragic then, that in such a beautiful contest, we were all denied the chance to feel. We were denied a result. Damn you Smithie, you coulda won this. If only you were man enough.

The demi-official letter of return

2011-01-06T11:31:00.003+05:30

It has been noted that there has been no activity on your web log for the last 14 months. viz. from November 2009 to January 2011. You may kindly place your justification for the same on file.

This issues with competent authority.

Conscience Auditor General - CAG

Ministry of Recreation and Fictional Affairs

Kalpana Bhavan

Govt. of India

Satisfaction

2009-11-22T01:20:00.003+05:30

I'm in a gorgeous house in Bangalore. At 1:20 in the morning, with yellow lighting, Sammy Davis Jr. in the background, some chick-lit, good rum and friends who have quietly dozed off after great conversation. A gentle buzz fuzzes up my brain and I think of what has been and what could be. I feel my age.

24.

It's a beautiful age. The perfect mix of nostalgia and potential. The cusp.

Rajat Kedilaya, my IIT coach's son, was this age when I first saw him. He was 24, having finished his engineering at IIT Bombay worked in Korea for a couple of years and come back to Manipal for a few days before he was to start his job as the head of a new division of electronics engineering in Bangalore. It was a Thursday morning, cool and dewy and green and fresh. He'd just finished playing with the new Dachshund of the house, Hooper. He stopped, moved to the ledge and leaned up against the pillar with a faraway look in his eyes and smiled. He smiled the most satisfied smile that I had ever seen in my life.

I walked in through the front gate at the time with my pre-university backpack full of painstakingly prepared notes and a textbook that I'd always meant to read but never did. And I looked at him. He didn't notice me. But at that moment, I knew that I wanted that at 24.

I have it now. My God.

I have loves that I wish I hadn't lost and memories that I know I'll have. The melancholy, bitter-sweet happy-sad hope. My heart is full of contentment.

I can't help but smile. The 16 year old me would have been very happy to see this. Thank you, anyone and everyone who made this possible.

Adulthood

2008-11-29T05:59:00.002+05:30

It's been so insanely long since I've written anything. And so much has changed. I have a job, a house, bills, a PAN card, a boss and all the headaches that I longed for for so long. And yet at the very core, it's still all the same. It's strange really how that seems to happen.

You know, at times I feel like a sponge. I feel like everything I know and say on a superficial basis is something that I have 'absorbed' in the recent or not-so-recent past. The things I say, the way I say it all seem so borrowed when I'm with most people. It's really strange to think about it, but when I'm on my own I almost always end up feeling like that same 9 year old. Loud, innocent, dying to please and essentially very lost. I can't really describe the feeling but for the fact that I always end up feeling like I need someone to take care of me. It's scares me now. At 23 that sense of wanting to be taken care of is... I don't know, disappointing?

I always loved super-hero movies, sports movies, adventure movies. My favourite story ever written is The Preacher by Garth Ennis. All of these stories have this one central character. The lone man, who has to face his inner demons and stand up for what is right and protect the people that he loves. The ultimate patriarch. The man that invented the image of being "A Man".

That man I read about or watch on screen somehow manages to deal with all of it and still have time for glorious one-liners and making his woman feel like she's protected and cared for. Now I end up wondering, between dealing with his job (which in his case might he hunting down and dealing with the bad guys) and the one-liners; he has to do the laundry, take a bath, pay his bills/deal with money, deal with traffic, check his mail, clean his house, stay fit, watch his diet, think about where his life is going, sleep (!), take a dump, shave everyday (one once every 3 days to maintain the stubble) and buy groceries.

How does the stud adult man do it?

I'm really stunned at the amount of professionalism and commitment that all working men show everyday of their working lives. I don't even want to think about how crazy it must be for women. No really, I can't even wrap my head around male adulthood. I'm right about worshipping every mother and woman I know.

A lot of times I wonder if I'm a slacker. Or if I'm just not ready to be an adult. Or if I'm in denial and therefore being a careless idiot. Or I'm just learning. All I know is I'm dying for a shortcut.

And that if I get it. I shouldn't take it.

Constipation

2008-06-09T22:56:00.003+05:30

I desperately want to write something funny and insightful and delightfully readable, but I can't. Partly because of the slightly hollow paradox I described in my previous post, where real insights are reserved for the self and partly because I have a severe case of writer's block. You know? Mental constipation of the worst kind. The kind where you sit there for hours waiting for it, pushing for it and then finally giving up and pretend washing.

In the words of a not so wise man

"Why'd you have to go and get me so constipated" - Weird Al on Avril Lavigne (a meeting of the minds indeed)

Maybe I need more food for thought.

Wisdom

2008-06-09T16:34:00.002+05:30

"When the only tool you have is a hammer, everything starts resembling a nail."

For the record

2008-05-30T01:25:00.001+05:30

However!

I will write a good play. It's one of the few things I think I understand. (Ref: Previous post)

Pop-philosophy

2008-05-30T01:08:00.002+05:30

Writing blogs is for confused shit-heads such as myself and Amitabh Bachchan. It is very difficult to make a real point and have someone else understand what you're saying. The only way that can happen is if you tell people something that they already know. But then they rarely end up being real.

Case in point being Chetan Bhagat. The boy has not made a single revelation or provided a single original insight into the human psyche and ergo his books sell. In fact, he is the highest selling Indian author who writes in English. His books are easy to digest. However factually incorrect they are. And so he is a rich man. With cool headshots on the backpages of weekly magazines. Good for him.

If I ever write a book, I will end up like him. All the stupid people will think I'm a god. All the intelligent people will shut up and know I'm a fraud. Then again, maybe I'm giving myself too much credit. I might end up like that kid who wrote that other book on IIT. You know, the one with the guy who had a crush on his female prof? No? Sigh. Good for you.

This is why Edgar Allen Poe is so damn good. I still struggle to read his stories. [/end embarrassing admission]

@Pi: Don't publish that book. One way or the other, you won't be happy. However, give me a copy.

I am now an adult btw. With a degree and everything. Woohoo for me.

Dramatic Re-entry

2008-05-29T00:35:00.003+05:30

Studly car pulls up to the kerb.

Door opens.

You see shiny shoe(s).

Camera pans up in slo-mo.

Grey Armani with dashing silk tie.

Aviator sunglasses pulled off.

Man walks onto the red carpet.

Flashbulbs go off.

I'm not there.

I'm at home, watching this on TV. However, in the friendly words of casper...

Um... Boo?

(smile)

2007-09-15T04:42:00.000+05:30

I like November.

It's filled with anticipation.
It's cold and waiting.

Also, something incredibly solemn.

play.blogger.com

Watching snapshots of others lives.

Tipsy for Self Service

2007-07-25T21:00:00.000+05:30

Ok, now that I have been taunted by Sayan, I will pick up the gauntlet.

First things first!

Do any of you, (pointing pointedly at Sayan) have any idea how many times I've had to carry the sorry drunk asses of my wingmates/buddies/women(muhuhahaha)/juniors, down to their beds just because they had no idea what to drink and how to drink it? Also the next morning (and by that I of course mean 3 p.m.) I get dazed requests from the said people begging me to tell them how one would go about bringing the incessant ringing/spinning tables to a halt.

Suffice to say, my 22 years of experience with alcohol and its peripherals have only brought me nothing but much praise and adulation from peers and juniors alike. And so when Sayan made a reference to me in one of his posts saying that he disagreed with me when I said "A man must know his alcohol" and then pointedly pointed at me, I understandably was filled with righteous indignation.

The knowing of one's alcohol not only constitutes the pseud putting about the bouquet and vintage of a wine or the maturity of a scotch. It involves being acquainted with the nuances of alcohol, like alcohol+ herbal inhalation = BAD idea. It also includes the ever relevant pearls of wisdom such as,

"Beer before liquor, you've never been sicker. Liquor before beer and you're in the clear."

Knowing that pickles and lemon get rid of your hangover the quickest. This when followed by one bottle of Bisleri (with some ORS if you can make the extra effort) ingested at room temperature. Too cold will only increase the ringing, not to mention give you a horrible case of brain-freeze. Not to forget the age old recipe of thair-saadam is what one should be having in case you do feel the need for solid food.

Also in my infinite wisdom I have compiled a little something something for you all.

Beer: Now, I have on many an occasion confidently declared with full conviction that Beer is the real man's drink and to this day I stand by my assertion. All testosterone aside, it really is the most firm yet gentle, confident yet understated and bitter-at-first-taste yet refreshing drink mankind has ever known.

First timers should definitely stay away from this drink as it will most likely put you off alcohol until you gather the fortitude to try it again. But for us college veterans there is nothing like a cold Sud to wash away the pains of Extractive Metallurgy or Power Electronics or whatever else one would consider painful. It's hard on your taste-buds but it's high can be likened to that of a Jeeves-esque butler who knocks politely at the door before coming in. 3 cold beers down, I challenge any of you to come to me and tell me you're not happy to be alive and that you don't love me.

The fact that one bottle costs anywhere between Rs.65 and 90 rarely deters a true beer lover such as myself, especially if I can crack it open while its still cold. Definitely my idea of a lifesaver.

Suggestions of course include the ol' Mallya brews (both premium and strong serve one well). For a light crisp beer with your meaty dinner I would suggest a Foster's (of which the entire continent of Australia has never heard of btw) and of course if you do happen to be in Bangalore please go out of your way to find yourself a really really cold bottle of Jaguar Winey Beer (It's Strong, it's fast - It's a different animal) the sweetness when served at 4 degree centigrade transforms into a beautiful punch on your tongue as well. An experience rarely felt with beer. A definite must have. And of course I would suggest Guinness Beer, which can be likened to a substantial English breakfast, but for that one would have to head to the bar at your nearest Hyatt/ Oberoi/or whatever so don't bother unless your dad/senior is footing the bill.

Vodka: Ye Olde Faithful indeed. This drink is the average Engineer's staple. I myself started off with a 90 of Romanov and haven't looked back ever since. (Wistful Sigh) This is definitely the drink I would ask any first timer to start off with. When mixed with the right mixer (see below) it can be a love-at-first-sight kinda thing.

The suggested drink in one's student budget is the sturdy White Mischief (which I would liken to a Hero Honda Splendour, dependable and mid-priced) at Rs. 5 a quart more than your Romanov, it does seem a bit steep but believe you me it packs in a punch that's well worth it. I have yet to come across a more aptly named concoction. The suggested mixer is Sprite or Cranberry juice (a little chick, but yummy nonetheless), 7up will do but is much too sweet for my liking.

For the more adventurous boys (and girls) out there I would personally recommend MGM Apple Vodka. I know the suggestion may seem very vain but believe me young 'uns when mixed with Limca this drink can make for a lip-smacking experience. Also, be sure to take a whiff of the brew before you pour, as the fragrance is distinctive and very pleasant. Priced in the same range as White Mischief, this drink is a must try and thanks to a certain somebody is one of the most popular guest gifts when I visit my pals in Blore/Hyderabad.

The more upmarket options will always exist and we will always lay lustful eyes upon them, however for the sake of your sanity and mine I will refrain from describing them in exquisite detail. However, this post would be incomplete without special mentions going out to Absolut Cranberry, and Smirnoff Orange Twist (Hubba hubba).

For Vodka and Rum I do have a couple of warnings in order. Unless you've been drinking for at least a year, do not and I repeat do NOT
1) Have them neat (i.e: without mixer and generous quantities thereof)
2) Shot them in any form (i.e: drink 300 ml in less than 10 minutes)

Unless you are a) Masochistic b) Emetophilic (love the act of regurgitation) c) Heartbroken. In case C you might want to avoid drinking on the hostel roof.

Whiskey: This drink is in my opinion the only competition offered to the divine drink that is Beer. Of late it has been wooing me with its firm grip of class and punch. And of course the fact that it tastes much more refined to a veteran drinker only helps its case. This is one of those rare drinks that is better enjoyed neat or on the rocks.

For brands in the student range I would suggest DSP Black, Peter Scot (which was my dad's staple for 15 years and by that very fact bears a huge stamp of respect) or Royal Stag, both fine blends with a great deal of panache and a smooth taste. I would recommend you pay the extra Rs.5 per quart and get yourself a DSP black if you're going in for a Director's Special as the difference is noticeable and my oh my is it worth the extra buck. There are of course the others such as 8PM and Antiquity (regular and blue) but they're just novelty items in my books.

I'd largely ignore Seagram's and 100 pipers.

The classy alternatives are always aplenty with this gorgeous drink. Right from the finely matured Johnny Walker Blue Label (Matured 25 years) which comes in a velvet line blue casing that makes you want to cradle it rather than drink it and retails for a cool 12 grand the last time I checked to the chic Black Dog with is named after a fly-fishing bait and not the canine, options abound. In the 12 years matured range I would suggest you try Johnny Walker Black Label (keep walking johnny boy), Chivas Regal and Black Dog. All fine blends with distinctive personalities.

And for the madly rich and heathen children I would recommend Scottish Highland Single Malts. The nature of the soil in the Highlands makes for some fine fine brewing and lends a peaty and gorgeous flavour to the brew. I have only tried a couple of brands but I would recommend them highly Glenfiddich and Loch Lomond Single Malt (yes, Captain Haddock's choice [grin])

Also, I must warn you. If I ever find any of you incompetent nincompoops mixing whiskey with anything other than water or at the most soda, I will personally come and open a can of whoopass that will make you want to squeal and go back to your mama while you're still smelling of booze. Comprende?

Rum: This can be likened to Md.Ali in the ring in his early days, quick brutal and no nonsense. At least until you wake up that is. Then your head will begin to ring like a republic day parade and every beam light will begin to look like the next supernova. When you have ingested rum in large quantities you'd do well to have good and kind wingmates who will bring you water. Else, be prepared to lie in your bed groaning and swearing you'll never drink again (until next weekend of course). Dark Rum is in my books the ultimate karmic bitchslap. If you have friends, you'll be ok, else muhuhahahahha.

That being said Old Monk and Khoday's XXX (whattaname!) will always own special places in many an engineer's heart. That would be because they misguidedly picked up Dark Rum on their first night and have been hooked to the knockout ever since. If you enjoy that sort of thing, I'd definitely recommend it.

However be warned, Dark Rum has the most distinctive and prominent effect on your breath of all the drinks. So if you plan to woo a chick after a peg, this one is NOT one I would recommend, because you would probably smell like one of those veshti wearing crotch scratching men you would rather avoid on a Chennai bus. Definitely an all boys drink. Avoid during Saarang,

White Rum however is another story all together. Bacardi and Coke is by far one of the most charming drinks I have ever had the good fortune of coming across. The vaguely coconuty aroma, the fine taste and the beautiful all encompassing cotton fuzz high makes for a highly recommended drink. That and the hangover isn't a karmic bitchslap. Ergo do try.

Brandy: Definitely a fringe drink but brandy with Appy was one of those accidental thursday night drinks that happened one fine night in the ninth wing and has been a fond favourite ever since. If you do get the chance to try (and by that I mean you should) do go ahead and indulge. I guarantee you won't regret it.

The right music is essential when you are drinking, if you were like me I would suggest Miles Davis ( "Kind of Blue" ), JJ Cale with Eric Clapton ( "Road to Escondido" ), Steely Dan and The Doors ( The Entire Discography ) starting of course with the inspirational "Riders on the Storm" this playlist is bound to make you feel classy and nostalgic and happy and cool and all those things alcohol is supposed to do to you. And in the right company, like my wingmates, can make for some truly memorable times.

I will stop here, not for the lack of things to say but because my fingers are aching and the effects of coffee are beginning to wear off. I do have some parting suggestions though. But if you ever do have any queries on what drink one must resort to for any occasion/affliction (Brandy with warm honey for a cold btw, and beer for fatigue), how much mixer to add (add mixer till the glass ceases to smell violently of the alcohol) or just want to hear some awesomely funny drinking stories do not hesitate to call me. But, remember, your booze is nothing without your buddy, so go get one or ten and get some drinking stories of your own. Remember that the joy of having a drink can and must be shared.

The drink itself however, is a different story.

Cheers.

"To alcohol... the cause of and solution to, all of man's problems."
- Homer J. Simpson

P.S: Kneel Sayan. Kneel.

31 Songs

2007-07-20T11:16:00.000+05:30

Taking Ganja's cue I am now gonna be writing about the 31 songs that rocked my world to it's very foundations. "Rock out with your cock out" and a bag of chips. These are the songs that have nostalgia, brilliance and an undeniable sense of cool associated with them. The cool could be a laid back I'm-fuckin-cool cool or the bleedin'-solo-with-crotch-out-fuck-you cool. But the fact remains, that they are cool.

Song #17: Reelin' in the years
Artist: Steely Dan
Album: Can't Buy A Thrill.

This one falls smack in the middle of the two categories I mentioned earlier. It's a laid back bleedin' guitar solo that reduced His-Royal-Shredness The Divine Jimmy Page himself to his knees! Right from the very moment Elliot Randall picks up that guitar on a standard blues distortion patch he bends his way down the fretboard like there's not gonna be any tomorrow. Bends, pinches, blues scales and some really really smooth arppegio's. Everytime the guitar kicks in to the song it will make you want to make you S-C-R-E-A-M! Because fuck it's so full of the highest degree of pseud that it makes you ache in the pain of not being a God like said Mr.Randall.

Did I mention it also has like the coolest drum rolls. The kind that confuse you. Should I even try air-guitaring? Or should I be whacking the person next to me turning them into the high-hat at the end of groovy bar!?!?! FUCK I don't know, it's a dilemma I've faced since the first time I heard the song in a senior's room who was so enthralled by the band that he went on to write a brilliant tribute to the band on the college magazine.

And for the lyrics... makes a man weep. It's nostalgia packed into a neat little 4 and a half minute tracer bullet and aimed straight for the JJ Cale-wind-blowing-in-corridors-with-exam-the-next-day pleasure center of one's brain... scratch that... heart!

"Your everlasting summer you can see it fading fast,
So you grab a piece of something that you think is gonna last"

(whimper)

As the senior once wrote, now you really CAN by a thrill!

2007-07-01T19:45:00.000+05:30

There are times when I feel like just an empty little box. And the entire world feels like an accounting software from the early 80's. Essentially black with badly shaped figures moving around in a predetermined and contrived manner to create the illusion of novelty. Cold colour, like neon lights fill the empty space to give you the sense that the program has a purpose. A higher purpose than just to add a few figures up.

Sometimes I wonder how everybody doesn't see it. The contrived novelty of it all. I'm not saying its a bad thing nor am I being cynical. I'm just calling it the way it is. None of it seems to have a higher purpose. Flashy lights are just that and nothing else. But I guess I can't really tell you. Because this is the vestige of an entire arc of thought left-over from a stupor last night. I've pretty much forgotten myself, all I remember is thinking a lot about the glaring colours in the old accounting softwares of the 1980's and finding parallels to life.

I guess it was what it was. A forgotten thought that seemed profound at the time, but now seems like an incoherent garbled stream of thought.

I also remember thinking a lot about my late teens last night. Ages 15-18. I should use that quote from Simon and Garfunkel, but I won't. It was a strange time in my life and I don't think I'll ever be able to fully tell anyone about it. Simply because most of the time was a fuzz of growing up. Everything happened then. My life suddenly took shape and almost 90% of my identity was formed then.

But all that is irrelevant. That whole period has a particular feel to it. I don't quite know how to describe it, but I know it has to do with a mixture of west-coast rains, being alone and wheels on wet roads with friends that seemed like they would stick around forever. The cold wet air in my lungs. The orange streetlight on the main road of manipal. The characteristic deep dark grey of the skies mingled with darkened laterite rock and green moss. And shades of green, so many shades of green. If I close my eyes I can just see flashes of the place all around me. Manipal was beautiful.

And I remember wet roads a lot. I remember rains a lot. I remember that feeling of just entering your house just after a ride in the cold rain and toweling your head a lot. I remember being young, like the real deal young. Over-confident. In need of friends. And I found them too. And in those moments, in those days, I was "there".

No, I can't. I can't write about this. I know I've given you nothing in this post. But believe me when I tell you, my heart is bursting. I can't type anymore. Even though this part of my life is infinitely beautiful and reading about it would be so satisfying, I just can't.

I don't have the words. I'm sorry.

Snap

2007-06-08T15:59:00.002+05:30

Note: I posted this post thrice. But nobody got my existentialist joke. It seems the world has lost it's sense of humour. Gah!

Work has been my enlightenment. I've realized that if you stare at a microscope for long enough with 3 hours of sleep behind you then you will begin to see the zen. You will then proceed to launch into a long tirade about the merits of marxism with your mouse, which will give you carpel tunnel syndrome because its too high. And then you will come online and write something that only you think is funny. You will also at strange hours of the night burn fruit flies with a match and then ponder reincarnation. Die mortals die!

In other news, community dining is following me like the mark of Cain. I'm a social Animal. Yes, caps on the A.

And Norah Jones pouts on a mic, Floyd are stoners and BB King whines too much. I now mock my idols.

See Enlightenment!

*creak*

*crreak*

[snap]

I am now big fellow bird. Cuckoo, I'm six feet tall so I can't be in a clock. AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA!

Ahahahahahahahahaha!

Help.

Of lies, flashbacks and bedtime stories

2007-06-05T09:13:00.000+05:30

This post is dedicated to Sowmya, claims to be a stud liar.

I've always been a stud liar. Something about spinning wild stories amuses me to no end. The haymaker that puts the icing on each lie is a very stud innocent/oblivious look that I manage to muster. It comes right after saying something with the utmost confidence. The two laws of lying Sowmya proposed were.

1) Let it not bite you back in the bum
2) Always have a back up

I propose a third.

3)In case both fail. Just look like you don't have a clue.

It may not validate the lie but it sure as hell lets you make a clean getaway. Sometimes it even earns you sympathy. I know I must sound extremely mean when I say this, but I have to say... I never lied about anything that mattered nor did I never lie with mailicious intent.

Well at least to the people I like. [sly grin]

My most prized yarns however come from the time I was a wee boy in khaki shorts. It comes from a time when I was in the cub scout for a year and knew the duties of a cub as instructed by Lord Baden Powell himself. I would dream of gold stars on my sleeve and joining the IAF to become a fighter pilot.

It was also the year when I got my first "First Rank". Funnily I still remember the whole episode, but for some reason I'm sure the episode the way I remember it (airbrushed et al.) is probably not the way it happened.

The teacher would call out the name of each student in the roll number order and loudly call out the marks of everyone. And I knew whom to watch out for. That boy Lloyd, who never did anything but study, Manoj, who was so sweet it made me want to puke and the dark horses: Raylen, who was a real close friend, but still this was war and finally, Naren, who somehow always managed to get First rank in every mid-term exam, and only the mid term exam [I still don't get it]. But he was a threat nonetheless.

So there I was Sahil R. Kini Roll No:47 (The year of Indian Independence, it kinda made me strangely proud of my roll number) and my name was to come after all of theirs. Which reminds me, if I'm ever gonna name my kid, I'll make sure her/his name starts with an S. It's perfect, not too early so you can come 5 minutes late for class, and not too late so the wait for your answer sheet doesn't kill the kid.

I always felt sorry for Yogesh. Roll No:82.

Ok so back to the year 1993. It was the second test marks. I was sure I'd done well, but Manoj had done impressively. He was on top. The dark horses had missed by a large margin and Lloyd was sulking in his seat. (He never really sulked. I hated that about him.) and Roll no.46 just blew by. Finally, she said "47, Sahil, First Rank and then my marks [which I don't remember]". I was stunned.

My first first rank.

I stood up and walked all the way to the front of the class in my cub scout unifrom (on thursdays we wore our cubs uniform to school) complete with tie and beret. And I could feel all the eyes following me, Lloyd just looked at me blankly, Manoj smiled kindly (The bastard was always so gracious. Grumble) and I grinned as I took my report card from the teacher. I also remember applause. However I think thats the airbrush kicking in.

So yes, it was during this wonderous time. When I was all of 8 years old, that I would go to school and tell my classmates fantastic stories in an overbearing voice that makes me hate myself whenever I see videos of my kid sisters 5th birthday party.

You see, I had this neighbour called Mrinal who had just returned from England with his kid sister and family. They settled in right next door and at that time they seemed soo much cooler than we were. Mrinal was just as obnoxious as me as a child, maybe more (I'd like to think so). But he had a cool accent and polished english and knew about the chocolates I only managed to see in Archie comics ads.

And he had a Nintendo (gasp!).

He was also a brilliant liar. He'd tell me stories, mad stories about how Vega from Street Fighter the game was actually from the star Vega and was a huge warrior who kicked ass. At 14 he introduced me to RHCP and told me John Frusciante was the coolest guitarist ever and was Slash's elder brother and had taught him how to play. Whenever he told me about these cool people I'd never heard about, I'd be too awed to care whether he was bluffing or not.

I mean I knew those stories he'd spin were yarns, but heck I gave him the benefit of the doubt because at that moment, I had to admit, he was way cooler than me. 8 years later at age 16 I did tell him what I really thought of him. But by then, he'd grown up too. I miss him now, in my own little way. The boy who taught me all about putting pseud. The boy who my dad rightly refers to as "Guru".

So at age 8 most of my stories were complex extrapolations of the tiny fibs Minnu (thats what they called Mrinal at home. His only achilles heel. HA!) made passing references to. They would contain the most exquisite details, like how Vega's forehead had a scar because that's where lightning had entered him to give him his powers. But I wouldn't leave it at that. I would tell them of how I had met Vega and how the world of Street Fighter was soo much cooler than Milagres Primary School. I'd tell them that my 4 day vacation to my aunt's house in Puttur was actually a Himalayan expedition ( a phrase that I'd just heard from Minnu the day before ). I'd spin yarns about pretty much anything.

And that obsession with detail, of how the air smelt and how the ice was grainy and Vega's forhead still haunt me when I write anything descriptive to this date, or when I watch a well spun fairytale like Pirates of the Carribean. It's just one of those things Minnu taught me that has stayed with me still.

And probably still will when I tell my kids a bedtime story.

Bad to the Bone

2007-06-04T11:50:00.000+05:30

"On the day I was born The nurses all gathered 'round
And they gazed in wide wonder At the joy they had found
The head nurse spoke up And she said leave this one alone
She could tell right away That I was bad to the bone"
- Bad To The Bone (George Thorogood)

The song always makes me feel like a leather jacket wearing mean ass 18 year old with a Harley and a Pool cue. Rebel days baby! :D Also I can now play the riff. All that remains is for me to get a processor so I can get the patch right. Pi, please!

Surprise. Awe. Uber-coolness.

2007-06-04T01:54:00.001+05:30

'nuf said.

Location: H13 IIT Bombay
Time: 5pm. Sunday, June 3rd, 2007

A Glowing Tribute

2007-06-03T20:52:00.000+05:30

Sat in my room all day because I was feeling a bit ill. After spending hours together napping. I finally did something fun. I heard PD in the corridor singing. He has this incredibly cool Electronic Tanpura that keeps ringing in the background giving the monsoon air a sense of humming solemness. I was so enchanted by the song that I asked him to dictate it as I wrote it down. In devnagiri, for the first time in 4 years.

It felt so weird because as the words came from his mouth my hands automatically moved to write something down in a script I had absolutely zero touch with. Since the song is in Marathi, I found it relatively easy to translate because all the nouns and adjectives are very closely related to Hindi and all the verbs and pronouns to Konkani. With help from PD, here's the song.

तेजो निधि लोह गोल
Radiant spherical treasure of iron.
भास्कर हे गगन राज
King of the skies
दिव्य तुझा तेजाने
Because of your divine energy
झागमगले भुवन आज
The earth shines with brilliance.

हे दिन मणि व्योम राज
O gem of the day, ruler of all space
भास्कर हे गगन राज
King of the skies
तेजो निधि लोह गोल
Radiant spherical treasure of iron

कोटी कोटी किरण तुझे
Countless rays of yours
अनलशरा उधळिती
Explode unrestrained
अमृत कण परि होउनी
But by becoming drops of nectar
अणुरेणु उजळिती
They enlighten every atom

तेजाताच जनन मरण
In your energy there is life and death
तेजाताच नवीन साज़
In your energy there is creation
हे दिन मणि व्योम राज
O gem of the day, ruler of all space
भास्कर हे गगन राज
King of the skies

ज्योतिर्मय मूर्ति तुझी
Full of radiance is your stature
ग्रहमंडल दिव्य सभा
The Solar System is aglow
दाहक परि संजीवक
Your energy burns but supports life
तरुणारुण किरण प्रभा
Your youthful morning rays
होवो जीवन विकास
May life prosper through them
वसुधेची राख लाज
May you protect the pride and dignity of mother earth

Spent the entire day playing the guitar and with music. This song is related to raag Lalith. Composed and sung by Jintendra Abhisheki and the lyricist is Madhusudhan Kalelkar. From a musical play called "Katyar Kalzat Ghusli".

Also I learnt a bit of raag Bhimpalaas today. So Yay!

fraindship

2007-06-02T11:33:00.000+05:30

I apologize for Kini, he isn't feeling very well today, so I thought I'd drop by.

How are you?

Good? I also.

Have you been shitting regularly?

Yeah, me too, but I've decided to stay off pseudo-Andhra food for a while.

... I love you.

...

...

I lovvvvvve you.

...

Hello, you're supposed to respond to that.

...

Ok, no need to be profane, assholes.

Hmph. Ok, back to the other friggin' konkani then.

-Pi

[You have to appreciate this, I just kicked up your appreciation for when he DOES post, rare as it may be]

2007-06-02T09:01:00.000+05:30

Work doesn't appeal to me. Cricket has lost it's charm. TV from hollywood makes it seem like real creativity is dead, and that every story has to be packaged for an audience. The art of the "Hook" is what drives music. And the critically acclaimed stuff these days is either too complicated or too dark. Classic Rock is just that, classic. I eat more in messes and restaurants than I do at home. My friends are far away and life is drifting away from them. My family is growing old. I don't know what to do with my life.

Whatever happened to surprise? Awe? Uber-coolness?

God no.

2007-06-01T01:31:00.001+05:30

I realised I write exceedingly well in bullet points. I think I'll take that MBA now.

Em B A. Don't try that progression. No strum pattern can make it work.

The irony.

2007-06-01T01:21:00.000+05:30

I do not understand,

1) Progressive Rock
2) Death Metal and it's allies (Grindcore, Nu Metal, Goth and Co.)
3) Rap
4) Most of Hip-hop
5) Remixes

I like
1) Sappy love songs (The kind Norah Jones, Jack Johnson and John Mayer sing)
2) Trance (Infected Mushroom, Hallucinogen, Oakenfold, Prodigy)
3) Classical Music (Hindustani/Carnatic/Western/Anything)
4) Hindi Songs from the 90's with Jhankaar beats. With Govinda especially. They remind me that I'm an Indian.

I adore
1) Classic Rock (Led Zep, AC/DC, Kansas, Yes, Doors, Uriah Heep, Floyd) and I have a thing for Keyboard solos.
2) Blues (BBKing, Hendrix, SRV)
3) Old-school slow Jazz and especially swing.
4) Acoustic Guitar and funny lyrics (Thank you Tenacious D)

I don't listen to enough music. I don't read any books. My cultural education is a very intelligent cultivated farce. And you don't know it. HA!

Machine Gun Blogging

2007-06-01T01:10:00.000+05:30

Random acidity from Shitake Mushrooms and Crabcakes. I should really learn to read the menu.

It rained in Mumbai today. For the first time this year. First rains of the monsoons. I missed it because of Shitake et al. No first smell of mud. Only puffed eyes by the end of rich expensive meal footed by newly rich working friend.

I had Souveneau Blanc. Shit that I had heard so much about. I shrugged. I really can't tell the difference.

And I also in the name of chivalry almost made a lady friend test the wine by graciously directing the first sip towards her. Apparently that makes me a social catastrophe.

Basic ground rules
1) You da man. You test the wine.
2) Smell the wine. If it smells nice, it's probably nice. (Du-uh!)
3) Swirl the wine. If it has a clean drop from the glass without any residues at the sides. It's a nice wine.
4) Don't gargle.
Were you looking for profundity?

*Snort*

Rage Against The Machine

2007-04-28T07:21:00.000+05:30

The incoming general secretary of our institute now stands impeached because he had a few too many drinks with his batchmates who're passing out this year on the night of their farewell. I'm told it wasn't just because he had a few drinks, that people have a drink all the time. It was the fact that he got caught in the act, that landed him in a world of shit.

Fuck.

The students of the Mechanical Engineering department have been subjected to atrocities beyond comprehension by their HOD. An almost fetishist obsession with a new rule will now cost at least 50 students their hard work.

The rule states that the student be present in the examination hall 10 minutes prior to the commencement of the examination. This was put up in an A4 circular on a notice board in the Mech. Dept. And the enforcement of this rule has been thus,

Anyone who enters the hall after 8.55 am (for a 9 o'clock exam) will not be allowed to write the examination until and unless he collects a permission slip from the Head of the Department. The catch here is that the HOD has stooped to undertaking "rounds" of the examination halls. To catch the students in the act personally and to also make himself impossible to catch in the hour of need. The result is that these students end up waiting for at least 20 to 25 minutes after the examination has begun to get his permission.

One particular professor in the Metallurgical Engineering department actually listed out 12 questions, 7 0f which would appear in the examination, 8 days prior to the examination. The aforementioned professor resorts to using slides prepared by the senior students as a part of their assignment submissions as teaching material. Without changing the names on the title slides.

We have classes in which the attendance drops to 5 students for a particular class (in a class of 60) at least twice or thrice a semester.

The IIT hostel regulations disallow entry to any Non-IITian female student. Even on the production of an identity card.

The Dean of Students and the rest of the IIT-Madras administration actively encourages the student population to snitch on their fellow students. The actions taken in the regard are,

- All hostel general secretaries were called into the deans office. Here the secretaries were asked to disclose the names of all students who indulged in the consumption of tobacco, alcohol, marijuana and/or any other intoxicant.

- If the hostel general secretaries refused to oblige, they were threatened with impeachment, disciplinary action for being "indirectly responsible for the intoxicant situation" and expulsion from the hostels pending further notice from the dean.

- In the case of one particular hostel, where the aforementioned drinking took place, the expulsion orders were signed and waved in front of the students even before they refused to divulge the names they were asked for.

- The Dean now has a list of everyone in the institute who indulge or has ever indulged in the recreational use of marijuana. The extent of indulgence has also apparently been made known to him. There are also reports that a 2200 strong list of students who partake in alcohol consumption has been compiled.

Big Brother is watching you.

I'm afraid. But I'm pissed off.

They say their doing all this because the quality of the students is dropping, and so is the sort of research and commitment they are able to provide.

- They need to improve attendance in the classes, so they threaten to cut the placement privileges of anyone who doesn't.
- They want to deal with the fact that a couple of students were caught with whores from velachery or the fact that somebody got knocked up, and so they repress sexuality.
- They want to know who's breaking the rules in the hostels, and so they make your roommate snitch on you.

When I joined this institute I subscribed not just to its rules and regulations but it's spirit. As corny and cliched as it sounds, it's true. And that spirit was built not just by the institute but by the alumni who passed through these very same corridors. It was a liberal and free thinking spirit which engendered entrepreneurs. We made mistakes, some of us really fucked up. They even lost one or two every batch. But everyone who made it through survived and was a better man for it. And that liberal thought pervaded every sphere we stepped in, be it from industry or academia or even administration. We were known for being broad-minded. That openness of thought is what led us to become leaders.

And now it's dying out. I do not know where I can voice my concerns. I am afraid of the consequences if I do. The dean can easily make my life more "difficult" and put me through hell for my degree if I so much as think of stepping out of line. And get caught thinking it of course. I feel like I'm in 1984.

This is just the sort of shit that makes someone pick up a sniper someday.

So here I am attempting to protect myself from passive implosive anger.

I HATE THE SYSTEM. It's made me a fearful and paranoid student. I cannot have a drink without being caught. I cannot walk around the campus at night with a female for fear of being harassed by a security guard. I am forced to attend classes taken by incompetent professors who are killing my interest in the subject with every passing second. And I don't know what to do but rebel.

I want to rebel. I want to chant and sing inflammatory slogans and songs against anyone who tries to impose any rules on me, from a moral higher ground. It is my opinion and I have a right to it. And in my opinion the dean and some professors are fascist, moralistic, holier-than-thou, prudes who allow their prejudices to affect the way they work. And they are lesser men for it.

All that said, I love IIT. It is my home. I now stand here defending it in whatever little way I can. I will publicize this post and invite trouble. Strip me of my degree. Detain me for a year. Fuck, execute me for all I care. But I will not stand back and watch this happen to an institute that has given me so much life and living.

"We don't need no education.
We don't need no thought control.
No dark sarcasm in the classroom.
Teachers leave them kids alone."

My Favourite Mistake

2007-03-31T02:04:00.000+05:30

Dedicated to pi.

N.B: This post is best read while listening to trance. Infected Mushroom's "Classical Mushroom" comes particularly recommended.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The tablet felt like nothing. Swallowed. Nothing.

Damn it.

I walk into the haze. Anything gaseous must be and will be inhaled. The music moves in ripples. The party's kicking. I smile. I've been waiting for this for a while now. For escape, for my freedom. It's simple. Jump to the music and I'll be free.

The sweat is all pervasive. So is the sex. I can't think in too many syllables. The bass kicks in. I can't help but move. A body brushes against me. I can feel everything, the arms, the breasts, the hair, the smell. The bass kicks in again.

BoomBoomBoomScratchBoomBoom.

My head bobs, someone sucks on my lips. It's all good. I smile again. I don't see my friends. I don't have any friends. I suddenly exist on my own. There is no pain. Heck there is no tomorrow. There is only now. I'm in "Now". The music spins around. Left ear. Round the back of my head. Right ear. Nails scratch the side of my neck.

I close my eyes. The music stops.

It's a green meadow. Shit, just like they show on TV. It's all birds chirping and brooks babbling. The water sparkles, clear as hell. It smells like sunshine. I jump. I float. I smile.

I open my eyes. The beats pumps again. The laser spins again, the lips are now somewhere else. Boom, boom, boom. More sweat, more sex.

I close my eyes. I'm back in the meadow.

This is not good. This is good. I feel like molecules.

The eyes are open again. I'm back again.

The meadow comes and goes. The beat stays. The water splashes on my face. And then it's raining in the music.

The tablet. It worked. My eyes begin to flood. With colour. C# is now purple. Gsus7 is a deep blue. Nice colours. Mauve, electric blue, bright bright yellow. The colours dance. Her sweat smells like a caress. I can't think any more.

The music looks so beautiful.

Her scratches taste like oranges. Citrus fruits, with vodka. She kisses me. Sucks on my neck. Grabs my pants. Cranberry juice. Cigarettes. Whipped cream.

I lick her neck. It sounds like a symphony. Her hair. Her neck. Her breasts. Her back.
The viola. The piano. The bass drum. The harp.

And suddenly I'm in the open. The sea smells like oysters. For once a sensation that makes sense. She throws me on the grass and suddenly she's on top of me. Skin against skin. Symphonies, cigarettes and electric blue. All at once.

It builds. My eyes are open the whole time. I think. I don't.

The particles slowly float in the light. Like little fireflies. She screams. Vodka and Red. Deep Red. A very deep RED! I scream.

I breathe. She sleeps. The sun rises.

Acid. My favourite mistake.

Free Speech for the Dumb

2007-03-25T21:32:00.001+05:30

Indeed.

Scream

2007-03-25T21:27:00.000+05:30

Scream if you will. Quietly in a little room. With gritty flashing images of wind-chimes and blood. I don't like writing anymore. I don't like it. I used to write for an audience, and then it got tiring. I used to write for images and then it got boring. I hate the emptiness of my creativity. I hate that I can't think like I want to.

I want to scream.

Until my throat first itches because of the frequency, then scratches, then hurts. And then I want to go hoarse and lose my voice. I want my lungs to hurt so much that I stop feeling the need to express myself. I hope the blinding pain will blank it all out. I am being escapist. So fuck you. Fuck you all. Don't even try to protect me or say something about this because I don't want anybody to understand.

I just want to scream.

The Travelogue from Hell - Part 1

2007-03-25T00:53:00.000+05:30

After having spent the last week in a haze, I believe it is time for me to break out of my state of vegetation and tell you a story. To borrow from a Spike Lee flick,

My name is Sahil Kini. Listen carefully because I never repeat myself (this of course is bullshit because in the course of this post I will reiterate myself several times to indicate cynicism, redundancy and plain balls-out frustration). That takes care of the "Who". The events described here-in took place over the course of 60 of the most excruciating hours from the night of March 13th to the morning of the 16th, so therein we have the "When".

The "What" is taken care of by the title. But I'll say it again just in case you can't read bold white letters [FontSize32] on a goddamn black background. This is a travelogue. The most confusing, hellish, painful, excruciating, *insert random word from thesaurus* travelogue you will ever have the misfortune of experiencing. The "Why" is because my dad asked me to. He felt religious. [InsertSardonicChuckle]. The "How" involves every imaginable mode of transport that can be conceived of, except a ferry, but goddammit how much can you want from a story.

That leaves the "Where". And therein, as the bard would tell us, lies the rub.

[PanFluteMusic]

At 7.30 on the evening of the 13th I had to leave for Thirupathi. The abode of the Lord. The good, kind, benevolent Lord. Who closes his gates to none. And so I set off, which hope in my heart. No bile. I swear. And besides I'd been prudent. I'd taken with me, my bag with clothes, Ananya (my beautiful creative Zen Vision:M loaded with episodes "How I Met Your Mother" and "My Name is Earl", perfect of a night of prayer and contemplation), my wallet, cellphone and a heart filled with hope. No really!

And no toothbrush.

No that's just the beginning.

So I get to the main gate. If right now you're imagining a great big map in your head with a blinking dot in Adyar, Chennai... don't. You do not want to follow that blinking dot. A bus ride takes me to CMBT (Chennai Mofussil Bus Terminus). I am now a Chennai veteran, I brush right past the auto-drivers at the CMBT entrance. I was once told that after a point women just say "fuck this shit" to eve-teasing and fail to even notice the roving eyes. My modesty seems to have been affected in a rather comparable manner. I felt proud. Round about this time Bob Seger was talking about his Night Moves and there was a gust of evening wind. The lights were fancy and I felt like I was in a movie. Going good so far.

9.30 pm, APSRTC bus Chennai-Thirupathi for Rs.61 (Who needs MasterCard?) I get that feeling everytime you buy something cheap and you're 21 years old. I think to myself "Aah. The life of a student. Here I am roughing it out. I'll look back on this 20 years from now and say 'Those were the days!'" [GrumbleCough]

1.15 am, Sri Nivas Bus Terminus, Thirupathi, with 4 hours battery depletion (Ananya runs for 14). Dad's ETA 3.30 am. Pick up a book ("Surely you're joking, Mr.Feynman", mighty fine book, get yourself a copy) and read it interspersed with those episodes I talked about earlier. It's right about now that I get my first omen, sign from the chap I'm visiting et al. Lights at the terminal go off. And suddenly I realize my cellphone is not in my left pocket.

I panic.

My cellphone is ALWAYS in my left pocket. Fuck. So there I am in the dark. And the only thing I hear is a "Legendarrrry!". I shut Barney and Ananya up. And frantically frisk myself. Once, twice, thrice. By this time I look like I'm doing something that isn't considered appropriate in public. It's not on me.

Fuckity fuck.

I then look behind the chair. Now that's one place I shouldn't have looked. No really, the smell of ammonia and cigarette butts and bandicoot that's a foot and a half (across) is the last thing one needs in a state of panic. Then I stop. Because the old lady 2 chairs away is freaked. My bag vibrates right about now. And that, believe you me, was the first time I was glad to hear about the new "Hello CALLER Tunes for latest Tamizh Movies at Airtel" I wanted to call them and thank them for the erm... public service announcement.

Ok so now I'll skip the religious bits. Suffice to say I went. For a brief moment did actually feel something. And then, was felt up. And we came back to Thirupathi from Thirumala in yet another tour bus. So there we are in Thirupathi at 1.30 pm with the sun beating the crap out us, which of course leads me to dread the MasterCard bus trip home. And feeling all safe in the company of daddy dearest, I air my woes. I need comfort, I tell him. I’ve been studying very hard, I tell him.

My dad has an idea. “Why don’t you come to Chittoor along with us?” And since they’re traveling in a fancy pilgrimage Volvo (complete with a PA system into which we receive blurbs on how to be religious in 3 languages) We have a word with the driver who “ass-shoores” us that there will be a KSRTC Volvo reaching the dhaba on the outskirts of Chittoor at 2.30 which will take to Chennai. Air-conditioning, reclining seats and a short ride home. The perfect deal. [Snort]

So I went. [Stop sniggering]

And at 2.30pm somewhere on the outskirts of Chittoor, somewhere in AP, somewhere in South India, my dad has to take his bus back to Bangalore. I wave nonchalantly and say “I’ll be fine day, I’m not a kid. I mean seriously, what’s the worst thing that could happen?” He nods and waves goodbye. My kid sister does a very entertaining goodbye routine too. I saunter up to the Security Guard dude. He tells me in a mixture of Telugu and Tamil (I have a wee bit of trouble following both languages) and sign language and lots of pointing that the bus is a wee bit late and will be there at 3. I say “Hey, what the heck, you can’t have everything right?” and so I wait. Ananya’s been running for quite a bit now. About 3 hours of battery life left. Perfect for the trip home.

3 p.m. comes… And goes.

No hassles.

3.30 p.m. comes and goes.

Security guard shoots me re-assuring look.

3.45 p.m.

Security guard shoots me sympathetic look.

4.00 p.m.

Me: Dude?

SecurityGuardDude(SGD): Saar, 5.30 saar.

Me: WTF?

SGD: Saar, [Points to 5 on the watch] 30.

Me: Sir, what about the 2.30 bus (Stupid Question)

SGD: Saar, one bus come. I call. He go. Naal Mani (4 o’clock) bus come, I call, show ticket [does some scissor action thing with his fingers] he no stop. He go. 5.30 saar.

Me: DUDE!

So there I am. In Chittoor. With 33 bucks on my phone. And nowhere to go.

Having fun yet?

[Intermission]

Something I read somewhere

2007-02-22T19:44:00.000+05:30

How do they do it, the ones who make love without love? Beautiful as dancers, gliding over each other like ice-skaters over the ice, fingers hooked inside each other's bodies, faces red as steak, wine, wet as the children at birth whose mothers are going to give them away. How do they come to the God come to the still waters, and not love the one who came there with them, light rising slowly as steam off their joined skin?

Uncanny Valley

2006-11-25T13:40:00.000+05:30

"When it's almost perfect, all you see are the flaws"

For all the Sci-Fi freaks out there. The Uncanny Valley. Interesting concept.
Credit to Agent reddy and his fetishes for all things not human. I still think the most revolting thing I've seen is the dude in tarams who first scratches his crotch and then makes Molaga Bajji. I'm sorry I can't find a wiki link for this one.

An ode to the Batli

2006-11-25T13:24:00.000+05:30

I was reading this post by Pi's brother-in-law. Who by the way, happens to be one of the funniest men on the blogosphere, and better still, the man knows his booze. I can't believe I just said blogosphere but really you ought to go read that link. The reason I'm putting this link up on the blog is quite simple. I scrolled through my entire Gtalk list and could find a grand total of 3 people who'd enjoy reading it.

The world is dead. I mean it. Not enough people here know their booze. Or even like it for that matter. And that positively kills me. I mean this here is the land of the eccentric engineer. The land of free thought and eternal youth. And most importantly the land of no sex. Booze should be taking root and sprouting cousins by now. But for fuck's sake, the boys in my wing have forgotten how to drink.

It's a sad sad world everyone.

Life or something like it

2006-11-10T16:02:00.000+05:30

I came into IIT expecting lot. I came in expecting stuff like geniuses who never study and people who always did only what they loved and had this uncanny knack of always finding brilliant solutions to unsolvable problems. I came into IIT expecting to find demi-gods. And I did. It took me a while to discover the life they were leading. But as I go on I learn more and more about what it took to live life like they did. Drink life. Right down to the very last drop.

One of the things that seemed to define people who I respected the most was their ability in extra-curricular activities. Almost every one of the seniors I looked up to was brilliant at music, sport, quizzing, oration, word-games or dramatics. Everyone of them handled their academics and (at least) one other passion with amazing panache and they excelled.

And so when I was moving through my first year of college, I discovered something. I figured that the only real way I'd actually fall completely in love with college and engineering and everything about it would be if I found something else to add that dose of crazy colour to my life. I had to find my calling. I tried out everything. I ran from the freshie quiz to the NSO selections for basketball to the hindu crossword.

And then I found the stage.

The stage. Oh I could go on and on about the stage. About how everytime I stand on that soft green carpet in CLT and face the audience I feel like I've attained some higher form of existence. I really can't describe it, I know I can't. But I'll try anyway.

I've seen sportsmen kiss the court before they step on to it. I've seen that they always start with their right foot and then look up at the sky. I'd always wondered what made them feel so strongly about the game. I even thought I understood to a large extent what they felt when they took to the field. But I didn't I really really didn't. Until I found the stage.

The feeling is quite incredible. It's something about the potential it seems to radiate. It almost feels as if the stage has a pulsing core of energy that's just waiting to be unlocked by the performer who steps on it next. Because in front of you are people, all sorts of people. Juniors, Seniors, professors, strangers, friends, lovers, parents. It really doesn't matter. What matters is that from the time you step on to that stage to the time the lights go off, you are the center of their world. All their senses are focussed on you. And if you do your job well then you'd have done something surreal.

You'd have made them feel.

Something. Anything.

It's not just about the rush. It's about the potential something like stage holds. It's about the potential that a script or a monologue or just a mime holds. You go on stage and feel. Feel the character you're supposed to play, the speech you're supposed to deliver, the joke you're about to crack, the tears you're about to shed. And everything else just fades away. You are their world and your world stretches just as far as the spotlight does.

And so in my first year, I acted for the very first time in my very first play. It was something brilliantly charming. Written by an equally brilliant senior. It was called "Yet Another Nameless Play".

It was the cookiest pantomime anyone had ever seen. He'd thrown in everything but the kitchen sink. I'm sure if you'd given him a slightly more relaxed time limit he'd have managed to throw that in as well. I remember the story and all the lines from the script like I'd performed it yesterday.

It had Dr.Frankenstein, Igor, Adolf Hitler, His P.A., Robin Hood, Rabi Tuck, Not-So-Little John, a SAS agent, a Jamaican guide, a soothsayer and a very unnecessary hero. It had toilet humour and clever twists. It had very bad German grammar and a brilliant song and dance routine.

"Hitler he only had one ball,
Goering had two but very small,
Himmler had something simmler,
And poor ol' Goebbles had no balls at allllll!"

I was allowed to play Hitler. Which was quite surprising because it was quite a large role and I was a fresher in every sense of the word. But thats the thing about college. In here, it doesn't really matter who you are as long as you can do the job. And so there I was with the Chaplin moustache and the Swastika playing the most confused Hitler ever to have graced the stage.

The play went brilliantly. The timing was perfect. Kaka was inebriated Rabi, a role that couldn't have fit better. 10g was genius as Robin Hood. MCP was the mad-scientist, literally. I spoke my first lines in Broken German. I learnt first hand about how a small change in intonation can make a line infinitely funnier. But the show-stealer was Jumma as Igor and his inch-perfect "YEESSSSSSSSSHHH MAAAASSSSSSSTER!"

We had laughed and had the craziest rehearsals, in the wing, in the mess, in our rooms. Pretty much anywhere that could fit us. And the play was beautiful. The crowd laughed its guts out when we sang and had crossed over into hysteria by the time Raavan danced to "Men in Tights". And so I lived my first play. And smiled.

That year we came second. We lost out to Saras who'd finished a 23 minute master-piece that pretty much disoriented everyone. The dramatics competition was inundated with comedies and pantomimes in particular. When Satcho and Cubba ran around in skirts and fake mammaries trying desperately to defend the Dramatics title. Aafi adeptly polished off a beautiful abstract drama by Girish Karnad filled with freezes and a crazy dhoti-dance and won it in style.

I of course was pissed. I argued abstraction was bullshit and that we were by far the most entertaining. And we were. I grumbled and sighed. And then I saw the rest of the cast. They were jumping and dancing and singing together and looking at me with an almost paternal look. And then, I understood. It didn't matter as long as you put up the best show you could have. And that we did. 10g won best director that year, and deservingly so, because he'd managed to make 12 people who'd never before been on stage pull off one of the best pantomimes CLT had ever seen.

I fell in love with theater right from that day. And I've never looked back. It's something I rarely write about. And I've always wondered why.

Maybe its because I really didn't want to. Like Ganja once said,

"Some memories are like butterflies, pinning them to a page just takes the life out of them"

Oh and yeah we won Dramatics this year. For the first time in over 20 years.
It felt good.

LoveActually Part-2

2006-06-14T13:37:00.000+05:30

My first poem. Sheetal Mallar in the D'damas ad. The 2003 season BMW-Williams F1 engine singing around turn 14 in the United States grand prix at 18,000 rpm. David Blaine. Diana Krall's voice floating over my dining table. The Ferrari GTO parked silently on a cliffside in Posetano. Kedilaya Classes. Failing the JEE. Konkani dal. Passing the JEE. Beer and dirty jokes with dad. The last page of The Preacher. My first look at a Dali. Saarang 2004. Sachin Tendulkar in Desert Storm. Tumhara naam kya hai Basanti? The intro to Baba O' Riley. Venkatesh Prasad in the 1996 world-cup quarter finals. The last time I cried. Mood Indigo 2005. My first day at college. The first time I was kissed. My first play. Sulaj Kini dancing. Mahesh Shenoy's electric lap in the KMC swimming pool. Vasudev Bhat taking my pulse for the first time. Sneha Nagesh's songs. Sunil Pai's "Che faro Senza te?" and "This and that". P. Rathna Kumar after Schroeter Gold. Hattiwale Vipul Prakash staring at the halo around a full moon from Jamuna's roof. Harish S bursting into my room. Anushya Chandran 12 hours before Physics II. Washing powder Nirma. The Ericsson ad. Dexter's Lab. Atlas Shrugged. Pilot Paints.

Magic.

A Dream Within A Dream

2006-06-02T17:00:00.000+05:30

This post is dedicated to "The Alan Parsons Project", a bloody good project if I ever came across one!

---------------------------------------------------------

For my own part, I have never had a thought which I could not set down in words with even more distinctness than that which I conceived it.

Tiny specs of silver flit about the air like little pixies. I felt alive. The gentle music floated over the air as if divine. This was the stuff that dreams were made of. I felt, perfect. In mind, in body and in soul. There was an ease to the flow of my limbs that had been unmatched for sometime now. I was old now and yet felt younger. I shivered and smiled.

There is however a class of fancies of exquisite delicacies which are not thoughts and to which as yet I have found it absolutely impossible to adapt to language.

Tranquility felt as if it was embedded in the sandy soft grains under my feet. It was a dark but glowing world. Shimmering stars hung around me suspended in thought and watching the world go by. This was a world as old as time itself. The gentle beating of my heart was the only thing that reminded me of my mortality. I felt buoyed and joyful. My mortality was irrelevant, my toes curled as I smiled and leapt into space.

These fancies arise in the soul, alas how rarely, only at epochs of most intense tranquility, when the bodily and mental health, are in perfection.

There was hardly any physical sensation present in this world. It felt like my body was suspended from its soul. And my soul was all that was alive here. A sea of nothing which welcomed solitude and transformed it into a dreamlike euphoric suspension. But the music, the music rung over and over in my mind. It fit so perfectly that it made me want to cry. And so I did, gently letting a teardrop glide in perfect silence on my cheek.

And at those mere points of time where the confines of the waking world blend with the world of dreams.

As I floated further and further away from the grainy surface under my feet, I turned to my left to see home, it was beautiful. Blue and radiant, it was the sort of place that would make the thought of a homecoming almost poetic. As my feet touched the ground after what felt like hours, I suddenly became aware of how lucky I was. A resident of a gem, who had had the chance to see it as an observer from another world, it felt like a dream, like something that I couldn’t possibly describe.

I walked over to the silver craft as it glimmered in the sun, and told the others I’d be coming home. I missed Earth. Who wouldn’t?

As the blast from the engines threw silver sparks of dust into the void. I took a picture on a camera that my son had given me.

And so I captured this fancy, where all that we see or is seen is but a dream within a dream.

Mushroom Sauce

2006-05-13T23:41:00.000+05:30

I do not want to write.

It isn't because I have lost my love for writing or that I have "Lost" it or anything. It's just that I have suddenly turned anti-social. Now the problem with using a word like that is that it has a very negative connotation. I'm no terrorist or anything, far from it. I'm not homicidal or suicidal. It's just that I'm having a hard time dealing with people right now. I feel like a quiet entity that's aimlessly floating around. It's so funny how little one's existence seems to matter to the rest of the work.

We're like little specs of dust really. We could spend all our life, just drifting along from point A to point B with nothing in particular on our minds. I got into college as a drifter. I went into IIT because it was the most obvious choice for any kid with any ability in math. And here I am still flowing about, like liquid wax... gooey and uncomfortable.

I've always had a fear deep in the back of my mind, behind a very confident facade. I've always known that I never really found anything that I would die for. I manufactured a lot of things to stave off that fear for as long as I possibly could. I told myself that business was in my blood, that I was a genius at finance and economics, that I wrote like a natural, that I could act with a lot of passion. But in they end all they are are hobbies. Period. Things that I'm quite good at but wouldnt really give up my life for.

I know I'm being a romantic by behaving like an idealistic teenager and that I should've grown up by now and realized that life isn't all black and white. But I somehow feel a deep sense of loss whenever I think about it. Somehow it feels like I'm cheating myself everytime I do something that I'm "good" at but I wouldn't die for. Which is the whole reason behind why I stopped writing.

at first I didn't know what it was. It started off as an uneasy feeling whenever I hit the keyboard and tried to write something. I dismissed it as writer's block and decided to wait until my muse returned or whatever. But slowly as time went by, I realized it wasnt writer's block. I would find beautfiul mental images everytime I took a walk or had a conversation with a niece about the games they'd play as kids. And I could see the post, in its full form, beautifully structured, perfect cadence. Something... complete.

And everytime that happened I'd run to the keyboard thrilled to bits about what I'd seen. Right up to the moment I reached the keyboard my eyes and heart would be full of that lovely full feeling that I get everytime a beautiful idea hits. But this time around it was different. Everytime my fingers touched the keyboard and I thought about what the reader would want to see, or even what I would want to see on a computer screen or on paper, my chest would deflate like a saggy balloon. And I would feel a little nauseated.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry so much.

I couldn't for the life of me give life to those beautiful images. Something that I thought I loved to do. And somewhere I'd never really understand why I allowed myself to walk away. It was a very uneasy feeling everytime I hit the keyboard. It was a strange sort of guilty disappointment. Almost as if I had cheated on someone.

I spoke to Pi about this and he told me all great writer's wrote not for themselves but for their audiences. He was talking in reference to great writers of graphic novels like frank miller or alan moore. Real geniuses they were and I really liked their work. And I was told they developed a particular style based on what the cult liked. Refining their own signature until it went hand in hand with taste. And they really liked what they were doing. Refining their style was like honing their craft for them. And they loved it.

Heck, lets even talk about the idealistic writers who were not appreciated when they were alive, evern they wrote because they loved it. I write just because I think I do it well. I like writing, I might even love it, but my life would go on without it. And I know that's not reason enough to stop writing but there something in my hard wiring that just hits me.

I feel guilty for not having anything that I love more than my life. I didn't feel that way when I was in love with a girl, or when I had thoroughly convinced myself that business was my life. But now, I have opened my mind. And I find that I have a lot of options before me. And somehow that's killed life for the moment. I loved being in love with something. I loved being ready to die for something. Now my life seems like european food... Classy, good-looking, expensive... but bland.

I am now Chicken Steak in Mushroom Sauce.

I'm going to be walking into the office of my dreams on Monday morning. The office building of DSP Merrill Lynch in Nariman Point, Mumbai. I will be working in an investment banking firm as an intern. The office of my teenage dreams. No less. And I'm nervous, no I'm terrified. Not about whether I'll do well or not. I know I'll be fine. I'm afraid of the fact that at the end of two months I'll know whether I want to do this for the rest of my life or not. And if I come back disappointed. I won't "Know" anymore.

And then passions will die. One by one. And I'll live life being brilliant but bland.

I'm scared. Somebody make me fall in love again.

With something. With anyting.

"Paint House"

2006-03-04T23:55:00.000+05:30

O maga koraga, yencha barpa na?
Karkala-da Gommatana kunde thoopana?

I grew up in a big town that never really became a city. And I come home to find that it still wants to say hello to me.

I sat at the table in a very lush restaurant tonight. I sat smiling and a little tipsy. Not from the beer that I'd had about 4 hours ago, but from the silly jokes that me and my Dad were cracking. My little sister and my mum sat with us, laughing uncontrollably at every lewd comment we cracked in crass Konkani and Tulu words. We sang those lines over and over again in rowdy celebration. We are your typical happy family.

I wouldn't want to tell you too much about my family. A certain Ms.Albert Wooster once told me it was an odd thing to do.

But I will tell you a couple of things. The stories aren't any fun otherwise.

As we sat at the table the tension would build every once in a while. When you find a couple that lives and works together all day and night, I'm figuring you'd end up with your hefty slice of issues. But they do a splendid job of dealing with it. They're awesome people, really.

And then there's me and my kid sister. She's the diplomat, the smooth talker. She works her angles with my Dad, with brilliant panache. And if that doesn't work, I cut in with some pointless story about IIT that manages to calm all of em down. It's been a very fun 20 odd years I say! And you don't go through em without learning a thing or two about cutting tension.

Bottom line? Home feels great. Especially when monotony is the issue that's been wearing me down.

I come home and find that Dad always has something embarrassingly interesting to say. That Mum will still run around the house left, right and center, never once complaining about how shamelessly we tend to take her for granted, just to get me a glass of mango juice when I lie on the couch.

That my kid sis still looks up to me to give her direction in what she's doing. That my old pals from school are still always there, even after months of zero contact, to say hello to. That my dog Suzy, will still drool all over my freshly washed jeans and run back and forth in a fit for no apparent reason. That my fridge will always be there, stocked with the sambar that was cooked that afternoon and a bar of 5-star tucked away behind the curd by my sister so my dad won't find it.

That, home still feels like... home.

O maga koraga, yencha barpa na?
Karkala-da Gommatana kunde thoopana?

A Couple Thing

2006-02-09T05:25:00.000+05:30

They sat quietly on a very normal dirt road. It was romantic, but not quite. The autumn leaves had fallen, but they were a little wet, a little crushed and very squishy.

"Autumn leaves are supposed to be crisp aren't they?" he wondered, while at the same time listening to the girl speak. There was an exhaust fan in the back ground, and the light from a flourescent lamp in the building nearby slowly streamed out onto the dirt.

"Why do flourescent lamps remove the magic from the air?" wondered the girl as she spoke. She spoke about nothing in particular. They were a couple, the two of them. They were 'seeing' each other.

Two very normal people, having a very normal relationship.

He'd say "I Love You."

She'd say "I Love You too."

They'd both tell themselves that they loved the other person. And everytime they tried to think of a reason, they'd just wonder for a while and then decide it wasn't worth the effort. Every time they spoke on the phone they'd ache to drag the conversation further, in the hope that it would suddenly turn spontaneous and happy. But it wouldn't happen. It would stay. Just like that. Normal. Two people talking, about nothing. Period.

"How many times can I possibly tell her about my day and still make it interesting?"

"How many times will he say 'I Love You' just to make this conversation passionate?"

And so they went on. Sitting on that dirt road. Him having run out of anecdotes and funny stories. Her having run out of nice things to say about him. Two people talking, because they felt they ought to. Period.

"Autumn leaves are supposed to be crisp aren't they?" he said.

"I know, its so gross when that happens. I mean, they make it out to be so romantic don't they. Miles Davis with his jazz solos, they never talk about how the leaking water from a nearby drain can make it a stinky pile of mush."

"Exactly! They try to make these everyday things sound all lovey-dovey and poetic. It's funny how the air never really feels that way."

"Don't you think tubelights remove the magic from the air?" she asked.

"Yeah... yeah, totally. The light feel so artificial, so like.. I dunno, it just feels like its trying too hard."

"Kinda like us sometimes no?"

He chuckled, "... Kinda like us, yeah." and shook his head slowly.

"Chal, let's go get some coffee." she slowly stood up slid the hair-band off her wrist and bit it as she bunched her hair up, tying it into a ponytail. And he wondered why women never understood how hot they looked when they left their hair open.

"Yeah lets..."

And they walked holding hands. They had to you know. It's a couple thing.

To Pinni

2006-01-28T00:42:00.000+05:30

Listen kid,

There are a few things I need to tell you. It's not like it can't wait, but life's been good to me of late and I'd much rather talk to you when the going's good. Life's too beautiful to be talked about in any other way. You're almost 17 now and that was a hard age for me. Seeing how you look up to me so much, I can pretty much tell how you must be feeling right now.

First off kid I'd wanna say I'm sorry. It hurts me more than you can imagine. I want to be there for you now more than anything else. But I can't. And life's like that sometimes darling. You don't always get what you want. Shit happens, what can I say?

Maybe I started on a sombre note, but I wanna say I love you kid. More than my heart can take.

Before you start getting all sentimental, let's get right down to the good stuff. I'm so excited for you kid. I feel like I'm gonna get to live all those golden years all over again through you. I know it sounds all preachy and cliched, but you're my star and I'm gonna live vicariously through you, yes at age 20 I'm a fuckin dad. How cool is that?

To quote steely dan... "Your everlasting summer you can see it fading fast, so you grab a piece of something you think is gonna last." So I'm grabbing hold of you kid. Live life, and live it like I did kid. Right up to the hilt. By the way, start listen to jazz seriously, ditch tripping on floyd. This shit is where its at! You'll know what I'm saying soon enough.

But now I'm gonna be very generic kid. Cuz that's all I can be when I'm telling you stuff like this. The specifics of 17-18-19 just kills the experience so just go out there and have yourself a ball. But please please please kid, never ever ever forget your priorities. Study hard kid, your marks definitely arent a sign of your intelligence, but it sure as hell tells another person about your ability to take shit when its thrown at you.

Sure you'll have ups and downs, sure you'll feel like shit sometimes, you may even get to the point of feeling pointless and suicidal. But I'll tell you this kid. It gets better, much much better. You're too much of a toughie for things to go the other way. Whatever happens at home with mom and dad or with your acads or with men, it'll get better.

Speaking of men. I'd like to tell you to stay the hell away from our slimy race but all I can say is be careful kid. Be smart about how you deal with em. Heck I know you will, but its my job to tell ya anyway. And if anybody ever hurts you, you know I'm just a call away and I'll kick the shit out of the asshole!

All said and done kid, I just wrote this to tell you that I'll always always always be there for you pinni. Watching with the proudest smile I can muster. I know you'll go far. It's just a matter of time before you realize the same thing. I'll tell you more to make you cry when I see you next.

Take care of yourself kid. You know I love you.

Interview with Zakk Wylde of Black Label Society (NY Rock)

2006-01-23T15:06:00.000+05:30

Interview with Zakk Wylde of Black Label Society (NY Rock) - "All I do in my life is make sure I have massive sex with my wife, take care of my kids, practice guitar, write songs, lift weights and clean up Rottweiler dog shit. If anything gets beyond that, it gets confusing."

Funny man. Great musician. (Thanks, Goat-o)

Baby, Please Don't Go! (My first blues number!)

2006-01-19T18:02:00.000+05:30

I see you and you see me,
Strangers alone on a one way street,
Smiling quietly, heading away,
Baby, I like the way you sway.

Turn around sunshine,
I'd like to tell you a story of mine,
Quietly standing in the sun,
Of tears fought and battles won.

Yes it has, it's been a while,
Since I made a stranger smile.
Quirky conversation beside a cafe window,
Your hair moves in wisps as the wind blows.

You smell of peaches and cream,
Smell so good darlin' I could scream.
Could I fall in love, in love over just a few lines?
I'm a lost kid, please, baby, please be mine.

So this is a kid, writin' you a song,
He'd like you to sing along.
And hold his hand like a good baby girl,
Dance with him and give his hair a nice good twirl.

I see you and you see me,
Strangers alone on a one way street.
Smiling quietly, heading away,
Nothing happened, cuz, there was nothing I could say.

N.B: Listening to Muddy Waters while writing a poem can lead to "happy" bluesy poems. It's that blues scale. It does something to you!

I promise

2006-01-19T13:11:00.000+05:30

To my brothers in arms,

I call today, to speak to you as an equal. Not in distress and not in joy. But in the sheer spirit of respect. I call today to welcome you into a world that I have only just discovered. Into a world in which I am but an infant. The world of men.

A world where every man stands on his own two feet. A world where responsibility is not a chore but the breath in our lungs making our chests swell with pride. A world where class isn't accquired or sought after or put on, but lived. I call today from a place my fathers and fore-fathers have wished me to see. I call today for I have learnt the meaning of friendship.

I speak as a friend, as a brother, as an equal.

I speak today with a certain hope in my heart. With promises to keep and lives to live.

To awake each morning with a sense of purpose. To treat each man as I wish to be treated. To laugh, but laugh only with a heart so light, that it may fill the room with an air of truth. To never speak without concern and without respect for each word that is being said. To listen with an intensity that the speaker has merited. To write, with a clean precision that the written word deserves. To bow to courage, a virtue so seldom seen. To love with complete abandon, irrespective of the hurt it may cause.

To live deep, to write verses in powerful plays, to suck the marrow of life.

I promise.

I Look Like A Monkey, And I Act Like One Too!

2006-01-18T12:24:00.000+05:30

It's my birthday today. I've had a blessed life. Yes issues and all. I say it today and i mean every bloody word. I've loved every moment. I stand today with no regrets. And lots to look forward to. I'm not in a zen like state of complete peace but I'm happy. I think thats what counts.

So here goes, this one is for everyone that has stuck by me. My sister, my parents, my pals, my teachers and everybody who thinks I'm worthwhile. As for the others, I'm not going to bother being politically correct in my own little nook in cyber space. FUCK OFF! I mean it, get the hell away from me! *grins* Now that I've done away with the riff-raff, I'm back to the people who matter.

To everyone... Thanks!

I am who I am because of the people I've met. This is not a poetic exaggeration. My tastes, my interests, my opinions, my persona has been shaped almost completely by the people I've met and cared about or respected. I don't know if thats a good or bad thing but that's how it has been. And I think its turned out OK. I stand today, with a long but beautiful road ahead of me. With a deep breath and a smile, I plunge on. World Domination awaits!

Cheers everyone!

Have a beer on me. I'll pay for it later! Hic!

The New Year.

2006-01-01T01:54:00.000+05:30

I danced with my sister today. She made me smile.

This will be a happy new year indeed.

Cheers everyone.

Truth Be Told

2005-12-25T19:41:00.000+05:30

I'm lost. I am alone. I need a beer. I need a coffee. I need conversation. I need self-esteem. I need a clue. I need sex. I need somewhere to go. I need to think. I need... something.

I'm ok by the way.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Tell-Tale Heart

2005-12-20T22:13:00.000+05:30

TRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily --how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

The boy sat on his bed in the dark of a eerie silent summer night. He slowly opened the leather bound tome, knowing what macabre tales of horror and melancholy lay in them. He wanted to be thrilled, to be haunted, to be... alive. The pages fluttered gently in the still air, the boy's heart skipped a beat. He skimmed through the pages wondering which tale he should choose. Running his fingers absently along the spine of the book, his eyes suddenly caught something that was perfect for the night. A tale, of a tell-tale heart...

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees --very gradually --I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

As he read these lines, they seemed to take him or rather possess him in a certain way. Instantly he was carted away into a time when lamps lit the night and the wood of a door creaked. Where things still went bump in the night. The boy began to read the lines out aloud, to nobody in particular. He felt as if it was him telling the sordid tale... the tale of man who didn't know madness from sanity. The man who heard heaven and hell and lived to tell the tale until that one old man entered his life.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded --with what caution --with what foresight --with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it --oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously --cautiously (for the hinges creaked) --I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights --every night just at midnight --but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

The boy's voice grew louder and bolder. Like an actor but also like a man who's very soul had been saturated with a madness that had consumed him. Sanity was no longer an option. In his mind's eye all he could see was that repulsive vulture eye and how the hatred filled the boy in his room. He retched and grunted as he read on louder and louder consuming and narrating the story at the same time. The old man was the one thing that was his end, he spoke on with nothing but the words on the yellow paper to guide him, slowly becoming more and more animated with each word. Telling the world, how he wanted to kill the old man and why it was wise of him to go about it as he had so far. He felt a deep soulful pain at the thought of speaking to the old man every morning. "Such a creature shouldnt be allowed to breathe." He said to himself as his his throat gulped to keep himself from regurgitating in sheer disgust. "I won't, I won't, I can't... I can't allow his eye to look at me any more... I CAN'T!!!!"

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out --"Who's there?" I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out --"Who's there?"
I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; --just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall. Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief --oh, no! --it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe.When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little --a very, very little crevice in the lantern.

The boy smiled with mad glee... The old man feared him. He was in mortal terror and he the boy--- who had never before done anything that even resembled madness ever in his life--- had put that old man in that dreadful condition. "Yes, yes... he is afraid... he is so very afraid. Go on old man, feel the fear, for you are the reason for my madness. You and your vulture eye." And in all this anger he began to breathe hard. The words which were loud and confident until now suddenly became a stuttering shudder... he breathed the story into the room in quick gasps, the anger was consuming him. He wanted the old man to die of sheer fear... he shook from side to side as he uttered each word, telling others about his tale of madness. And as he did so a solitary tear trickled down the side of his face. The kind of tear that is so charged with anger that one doesn't even notice it. He knew it was soon going to be time... the time to...

So I opened it --you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily --until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.It was open --wide, wide open --and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness --all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.
And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? --now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! --do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me --the sound would be heard by a neighbour!

His eye... his disgusting dull blue eye... The boy shivered with a madness that he couldnt understand and slowly he began to hear that thumping.... resonating in every fiber of his being. The summer night was as still as can be and not a soul stirred that night, but the boy, so moved by the writers words, rocking back and forth in the self-consuming madness, heard the drum, he heard the distant drumming of the clock, enveloped in cotton. The boy began to panic, he sneaked peeks at the door every other instant, growing fearful, anxious, scared... insane. "The drumming... oh! the drumming of his heart!" He muttered feverishly in his sub-conscious mind as his fingers shivered over the black lines.
"The neighbours they'll hear me... they'll see my madness and they wont understand, they won't understand, they can't understand... no wait I have to... I have to do something." He looked around in panic, jerking his head from his left to his right and back to the worn page, reading each word as mortal fear consumed him... The neighbours...

With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once --once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

The boy lunged forward with his bare fists and began pounding the air, the bed, the cotton from the pillows spewed forth generously as he finished the old man off... the drumming... it had to stop... it HAD to! He kept swallowing hard and looking at nothing in particular as a glazed look fell over his eyes, veiled in madness he had to finish what he had started. He can't let that heart beat any longer, the eye, the madness.. it has to stop. All of it, it has to stop. And then... abruptly... it did. The beating was no more. Sweat slowly dripped from his brow as he looked at the remains and breathed hard, the madness.. it was over. The eye... it was no more. Now he had to be shrewd. He had to do something about the old man...

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.
I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye --not even his --could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out --no stain of any kind --no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all --ha! ha!

Yes, yes... the boy at thought of everything. Meticulously he cut open the body of the old man. Each arm, each leg slowly sliced and dismembered all the while maintaining an engineered precision, after all he was wise. There was no reason to fear he had been like a predator. Quiet, efficient and deadly. It was all over now. He giggled like a dizzy school-girl as the night hummed on. "I did it... that eye... Its no longer alive.. I , me, I did it!" He shook with a gleaming mad delight. HE was the genius. HE made the kill and HE would now deposit the body without so much as a whiff of a scuffle.

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock --still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, --for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled, --for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search --search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.
The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: --It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness --until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

Ha! What could those stupid men know. The boy was the wise one. He was the one who so exquisitely executed the plan of finishing the old man. And he was the one who had so brilliantly deposited his body. The neighbour listening in was just pure co-incidence. They had no reason to suspect any foul play whatsoever. The men in uniform could be lead anywhere. Why he would even lead them to the very spot of the body. What could they possibly know. After all, he wasn't MAD... of course he wasnt.... but...the drumming... no... wait.... the drumming.... it can't be... he swallowed again and began to sweat, wait... no... how could it be. He spoke quicker... no no no... they can't... it can't. How? How? HOW?!

I gasped for breath --and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly --more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men --but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed --I raved --I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder --louder --louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! --no, no! They heard! --they suspected! --they knew! --they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!
"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks! here, here! --It is the beating of his hideous heart!"

The panicked... he lied....ran, he screamed...and then he dove into the pillow and pulled out the beating heart... Crying hysterically he collapsed into his own lap in deep sobs. "How could they not hear? how could they mock me like that... am I mad? I must be mad... here here I won't lie any longer. I'm not as wise as I think... take this tell teale heart! I confess to my insanity... I confess." Slowly his sobbing ceased. The spinning world, came back into his view. The tears dried up. He look around and smiled. And then.... we pulled up the blanket and went to bed.

Thank you Mr.Poe for a great bedtime story.

For those of your who haven't read "Tell-tale heart" by Edgar Allen Poe, I recommend you read the original draft for I have taken a couple of liberties by editing the story. I couldnt possibly have done it any justice and I apologize in advance for the liberties I've taken. This post is just meant as a thank you to a man that has taught me and so many others what true emotion in writing is. Thank you again Mr.Poe.

Seduction

2005-12-18T23:14:00.000+05:30

Easy rock n' roll music spewed forth fluidly in the background. The lighting was sombre, the mood undeniable. She was dressed in cotton and denim, roughly cut, almost as if it had been half torn off her in the heat of the moment. Her skin visible through the intentional rips in the fabric was like porcelain. It had a very sensual flow to it, a radiating almost trembling flow that was both enticing and intimidating at the same time. Her hair was windswept and dark and casually flitted across her perfectly sculpted breasts. Slim and athletic at the same time her body seemed only to be an extension of her eyes, soulful and fiery at the same time. She moved with a slow purpose, her movements accorded a relaxed certainty to her intentions.

He watched her across the room, approaching him. He stood his ground, tilting his head in a manner that likened him to a predator and clenched his jaw. A glimmer of a smile slid across his face and sweat slowly trickled down his chiseled chest. He wore pair of worn denim jeans and nothing else. His long hair matted with sweat was disheveled, almost taunting. He watched her with his steel grey eyes without even blinking once.

The heat in the room almost hummed in their ears as the atmosphere tensed. Almost as if the room was slowly holding its breath in anticipation. The music in the background moved, relaxed and free, rhythmic, a deliberate contradiction to the scene that was filled with electricity. They touched. His hands firmly on her hips and her fingernails gently scraped across his chest. They closed their eyes and their open lips fluidly melted together. They breathed hard. They tasted each others sweat. He slowly ran his lips across her nape and gently nibbled on her ears. Their hips slowly rocked together and her toes curled as she turned her neck seductively and breathed his name...

Damn Mick Jagger and Co. can make a music video!

Shall We Dance?

2005-12-18T01:23:00.000+05:30

My dad has given me a lot. That's probably a no-brainer. But I'd like to share some of the finer things that the man has shown me over the years.

There's this one club in Mangalore, the town I live in, which to put it very mildy, is something else. Quaintly named 'Mangalore Club'. It was set up by the British in the mid 1850's and has a very colonial feel to it. Very old world with its cane and teak furniture, its library with a few dusty tomes which have quietly eroded over time and its opulent and impeccable snooker table. But the real charm of the club lies in its location. Perched so calmly on the edge of the Nethravathi river, it overlooks its pristine waters with quiet dignity.

The view is stunning and leaves me at a loss for adjectives everytime I have the privilege of experiencing it. At night the moon serenly glistens over the waters of the relaxed river. And the rail bridge over the water is the icing on the cake. The trains passing over the river at night make for a sight that is quite out of the ordinary. Under the shroud of a quiet saturday night, the train looks like a string of pearls gliding effortlessly over a veil of shining velvet. It is, Magic.

Its rooftop balcony is a place that has long held an invaluable spot in my Mills and Boon-esque fantasy of the "perfect proposal". A candlit proposal here with nothing but some light jazz (Django Reinhardt style) and the distant hum of the passing locomotive to give me some courage and rhythm was what my 16 year old self fantasized about when I first fell in love.

It's also special for so many other reasons, my most memorable father-son conversations have taken place in this delightful place, the most striking one being the one in which my dad bought me a beer for the first time. In a comic digression to this so far formal and descriptive post, I'd like to quote the incident.

Dad: So done playing snooker?

Me: Yup, played three frames, sick of it for now. What're you upto?

Dad: The usual. (now calling for the waiter) One UB pint.

Me: (Looking around a bit confused) You don't drink beer dad, where's my kebab btw?

Dad: It's on its way.

(The beer approaches, my dad waves the waiter towards me, the waiter places the pint *nicely chilled one* in front of me)

Me: (Now just plain shocked, jaw-dropping and everything) Huh?

Dad: Do you take me for an idiot?

Me: *sipping my beer, WITH MY DAD!* (subconciously) Dad you rock!

Following this incident me and my dad have had a good few beers together and each time the conversation has been something that I'd remember for the rest for my life. And when it comes to talking to someone who's seen as much of life as my dad, well, let's just say you can't get better advice.

Now, back to why I'm writing this post. Tonight there was a very cute wedding reception that took place at the club and we'd gone there just for a drink together. But after a pint I decided to see what all the music was about and wandered on to the balcony.

It was a lovely night tonight, the weather was absolutely perfect, the cool evening wind that slid along the wide balcony made it perfect for a stroll. The moment I stepped out, I felt light and airy, content with the world in general. I ambled on until I could see the reception party below me on the outdoor moonlit dance floor. They had a live band playing and the party seemed to look, well, happy.

They had couples dancing on the floor and two of them were particularly good. I stood there watching the men twirl the very pretty girls around, all of them smiling and laughing and generally having a great time. I watched them dance to 60's pop music for quite a while and as they danced, I felt a slight twinge. I'd never learnt how to dance. In my quest to become one of the engineering elite, I'd never learnt how to ask a lady to dance. I know it's not tragic or anything. Heck I know that I did what I had to. I did the straight up mature thing and studied my butt off. This is by no means a post of desperation or complaint. And this is defintely not a post of regret.

It's just that this kid would like to dance with a pretty girl.

The Tag

2005-12-03T23:01:00.000+05:30

The tag virus has infected me... for further refernces, contact Camphor

7 things that I plan to do:
Rediscover Mangalore.
Find myself.
Smile.
Make others smile.
Write.
Rule the universe.
Live life... yes, just live.

7 things that I can do:
RULE THE UNIVERSE.
Act.
Write.
Eat like there's no tomorrow.
Do a great "Gay guy" imitation... for further references, ask pierre.
Imagine I'm in free form flight.
Drive a car really really fast and do those funky powerslides.

7 things that I can't do:
Create music like Floyd did.... But then again who can?
Stop time.
Watch Ekta Kapoor serials for more than 4 nano seconds.
Dance...Well I could, but it would probably pose a problem to world peace.
Abstract math.
Men.
Fly. Not the marijuana powered shit, I meant the real thing.
Play chess to save my life... what a fucked up boring game!

7 Words I use most Often:
F*&(
Bhen C&^%
Shit.
Putits. Yes as in put+its... IIT lingo for do something... I know we're sad.
Dude.
wtf?
Worrsht. A corruption of worst.

7 blogs(untagged ones) that I wish to tag:
Damn... Fuck it... I tag anyone who reads this. Balls to all of you, for bothering with this scourge of the internet.

Thank you

2005-11-12T23:45:00.000+05:30

I remember a road.

Which led home during the magical days. Days when I was not a kid, and not a man. And now whenever I think of it, I smile. Its beautiful to have something as simple as that bring a smile to your face. It was plain, just like any other road you've seen, narrow, bumpy and packed with potholes, nothing special... Except for the fact that today, two and a half years after leaving that sleepy little town, I still remember every gentle twist and every jarring pothole. I remember how the road would look in every shade the weather in that town had to offer. I remember how the rays of the sun filtering through the foliage in the late afternoons would cast tiny spotlights on that road.

I remember running on that road, being late for a class. I remember sitting by the side in the lemonade shop, with friends I've drifted away from but never forgotten. I remember crying alone on the walk back home. A quiet thursday evening when I thought I wasn't enough. I remember flying over the tarmac on my brand new scooterette yelling out loud the name of a girl I'd fallen for and consequently running over a chicken because my eyes were not where they were supposed to be. I remember slowing down one sunny sunday evening and gliding over the quiet empty road with nothing but the hum of the engine and the wind to keep me company. I remember getting a backache after running over a pothole with a particularly heavy buddy riding behind me. I remember smiling as I sat on the ledge of a little bridge that was part of the road, on a silent july night with a brother that I wish I hadn't left behind, throwing stones into a brook.

I remember the first time I saw the road and wondered how I'd live happily so far away from what was then my home. I remember watching nervously as my parents drove away leaving me to fight my own battles. I remember learning to ride a bike on that road. I remember falling in love and driving back on that road after my first kiss. I remember driving away after saying goodbye. I remember.

I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you to every inch of brittle tarmac, every breath of air around that road, every leaf that made it what it was and every person that was there, when I grew up. Thank you.

And thats all I have to say about that road. A road like so many others. The road I'll never forget.

Happy Birthday to the Pi-zza delivery boy

2005-11-12T23:15:00.000+05:30

Senti and cliched, but I'll still say it. You've been the big-brother that came out of nowhere. Thanks :)

And I'm an ass. I'm sorry I forgot.

Happy birthday brotherman.

Still waiting for Godot

2005-11-07T13:35:00.000+05:30

Vladimir: Dumb... Since when?

Pozzo: (Suddenly furious) Have you not done tormenting me with your accursed time. Its abominable! When? When? One day, one day is that not enough for you? One day he went dumb, one day I went blind, one day he'll go deaf, one day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second. Is that not enough for you? They give birth astride a grave, the light gleams an instant, then its night once more..

Vladimir: Was I sleeping, while the others suffered? Am I sleeping now? Tomorrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of today? That with Estragon my friend, at this place, until the fall of night, I waited for Godot? That Pozzo passed, with his carrier, and that he spoke to us? Probably. But in all that what truth will there be (Vladimir looks at Estragon.) He'll know nothing. He'll tell me about the blows he received. (Pause.) Astride of a grave and a difficult birth. Down in the hole, lingeringly, the grave digger puts on the forceps. We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. (He listens.) But habit is a great deadener. (He looks again at Estragon.) At me too someone is looking, of me too someone is saying, He is sleeping, he knows nothing, let him sleep on. (Pause.) I can't go on! (Pause.) What have I said.

These lines are taken from the play "Waiting for Godot" by Samuel Beckett. These lines are my personal favourite. We did this play for our inter-hostel dramatics competition. We came second, which considering the quality of the script is proof that we didn't do it justice. But it remains a beautiful piece of literature and I highly recommend it as a great read for a quiet evening.

You may read the full text of the play over here. I'll end with another of my favourite lines.

Estragon: We're all born mad. Some people remain so.

P.S: I was Pozzo. Cheers!

Time

2005-11-05T12:13:00.000+05:30

I walked out onto the corridor...

The favourite part of my day had just passed. Distant cries still rang out below me, they were still playing, in the yellow light created by four floodlights placed on the corridor ledge. Somebody missed a pass and I smiled, I could smell the air, smell the scent of oncoming rain, like a moist and cool shiver running across the air I was breathing. I slowly stuck my hand out into the open sky, knowing it would come any moment. I heard the clouds hum and groan and then a silence punctuated by a trembling breeze that whistled in my ears...

I looked up and a drop struck my eye, blurring my sight and making me giggle. Feeling like a kid, its such a precious feeling, really. My open mouth waited and watered at the prospect of tasting those fresh light first few drops, and it floated gently onto my lips. Like a kiss from a teasing lover. Another drop slid slowly onto my tongue, so light, so... ethereal and yet at the same time alive, like a soft white wine, intoxicating and at the same time full of a certain colour and life.

I looked down at the floodlight on the ledge, it was beautiful. The rain and the lamp were having a conversation. The rain persistent and the lamp angry... The light lively droplets would hum on the hot metal skin and disappear. Each successive droplet staying for an instant longer. The lamp wouldn't listen... not just yet. The drops began to form alternating rosettes, coming and going. The metal going dark and shining in an alternating rhythm, each beat slightly out of tune from the previous one. The smoke would rise in wisps, straight and fast near the skin and then pirouetting out of control, mingling with the vapourized droplet nearby and singing in patterns.

The air around the lamp became a turbulent and glowing smoky grey... Patterns like kaleidoscopes would dance, just for me. The rain would sing and glide along my skin touching me, the air would dance and tingle my sense of smell, and the lamp would slowly relent.

I just watched, smiled and wondered. This is what time must look like, turbulent, gentle, persistent and and... beautiful.

"Gravedigger,
When you dig my grave,
Could you make it shallow,
So that I can feel the rain"

- Dave Matthews Band "Gravedigger"

2005-10-14T12:22:00.000+05:30

Spread the word, y'all.

Of IIPM and people going "What the bloody hell?!"

2005-10-14T09:20:00.000+05:30

http://www.desipundit.com/2005/10/08/lies-damned-lies-and-fake-blogs/

Once in every person's life, an opportunity presents itself for that personto do something; to stand up and be counted as a real person. More so for bloggers. Sure we hide behind the facade of fake IDs and email adds, but we know how to raise our voices when one of our fraternity is pissed upon (!).

Calling all to put their mite. Dare to dream beyond this?

We've got to kill them, each rat bastard one of them.

Just Another Saturday Night

2005-10-09T01:45:00.000+05:30

Quiet peace is something I’ve been looking for a long time. There have even been moments where I have genuinely believed that I had attained it. I "knew" that I had gotten it. And then not quite suddenly, but with a pace that was gradual and receding at the same time the mundane nature of habit would charge its almost inevitable and quiet determined march. I would then return to become a creature of habit, forgetting to appreciate the morning breeze, the evening coffee, the feel of cotton on my skin and so many other sensations that I fall in love with whenever I take the care of paying attention to them.

I really don’t want that, I like that I can see life in a different way, its one of those things in me that give me some sort of solace. I can care about and love the world very deeply because I can find things about it that I think matter a lot. But then when I have behaved this way for such a long time it is quite probable that I might fall prey to habit. It’s easier in the beginning to live like I do, on habit. It doesn’t matter much, and easiest of all, one doesn’t have to think too much. I could meander through life without really caring about anything and I would be none the wiser. But there are moments when I feel what I want to feel. Moments where I care. Moments where life seems like a pretty girl that I could so easily fall in love with over a cup of coffee and a conversation.

I like having conversations with life. They make me a happy guy. I like looking at how the sun makes patterns when its rays pass through the leaves on an early Thursday evening. I like looking at city lights cast a light delicate haze over the Chennai night sky and hide those twinkling stars under a sliver of a veil. I can see those stars, so can you. Just keep looking at them real hard and then before you know it, entire constellations that you hadn’t spotted before will suddenly start popping up and you'll start smiling. I did at least.

I like thinking about love, I think one of the most beautiful things about life is that it allows you to lose yourself so completely in another person that you find meaning. Meaning in being there for the person you love, meaning in your lover being someone that helps you see life as something that was fuller. It allows you to be thoroughly intoxicated with life without having a drop of any superfluous chemical flowing through your veins. I like knowing that.

Rarely have I seen anything more beautiful, more sensual, more tender or more sombrely meaningful than a woman and a man, unclothed, bare and completely in love looking at each other. No apologies for having loved one another, no care about what mean mouths might say, no regrets period. The purposeful flow of skin, the shapes that fit each other so perfectly. It has an air of electricity around it, a quiet, complete and glowing fire. The glint in the eyes of somebody when they live life so completely is something that deems life worthy of living. I understand at these moments the simple truths that most people seem to have forgotten. That people exist to complete each others lives. The simple truth of yin and yang. I don’t want to forget these things even for a moment. I want to pay more attention to life.

I want to live like that. I want to smile at the little things in life more often and not lead a life that’s filled with so much inanity and so many frivolous and unimportant feelings that they fill your heart with lead. Making it too heavy to carry it with you. Hearts are better, light and airy smiling about who you are and how you live.

I like being happy, I think that’s the point of the whole thing. I've read a bit of philosophy and I’ve thought a lot about it a couple of years back. I've seen a lot of people asking what the point of life is. I think it’s a good question, and like all good questions, I think it has a nice simple answer. The point is probably to just be happy. Like life. Smile when you walk, look at the sky, breathe in the air, feel warm coffee or cool water go down your throat and the touch of another on your skin, love somebody and be loved in return.

I know that tomorrow morning I will wake up and walk out into my little word with that facade very firmly back in place. I'll be sarcastic and self-assured. I'll be suave and the "pseud" guy. I'll be the cheat that I've grown to hate. But I will say this... I liked who I was tonight. I was somebody that I don’t know too well, but I have a feeling that it was me.

Did you come along?

2005-09-29T02:10:00.000+05:30

Did you come along and smile?
And make my lips tremble a while.
Come along shivering and cold
And leave, before I awoke?
Before I was bold?

I’ve seen you around haven’t I?
In those childlike fantasies of mine.
Made love to you under the night sky,
Giggled with you and made you cry.

I wish I could’ve shown you,
This tiny little world I know.
I wish I could’ve known you,
And made you laugh
Seen that face glow.

I didn’t know I swear…
I didn’t know who you were
Those quiet feet have passed me by
Tell me; tell me, it was a lie.

Did you come along?
When I wasn’t looking?
Did you come along?
And leave me looking for reason.
Did you leave me...?

This one is for someone whom I haven't met,
that someone, whom I hope hasn't passed me by...

Waking Life

2005-08-03T17:53:00.000+05:30

I keep thinking about something you said.

Something I said?

Yeah. About how you often feel like you're observing your life from the perspective of an old woman about to die. You remember that?

Yeah. I still feel that way sometimes. Like I'm looking back on my life. Like my waking life is her memories.

Exactly. I heard that Tim Leary said as he was dying that he was looking forward to the moment when his body was dead but his brain was still alive. You know they say that there's still six to twelve minutes of brain activity after everything else is shutdown. And a second of dream consciousness, right, well, that's infinitely longer than a waking second. You know what I'm saying?

Oh, yeah, definitely. For example, I wake up and it is 10:12, and then I go back to sleep and I have those long, intricate, beautiful dreams that seem to last for hours, and then I wake up and it's… 10:13.

Yeah, exactly. So then six to twelve minutes of brain activity, I mean, that could be your whole life. I mean, you are that woman looking back over everything.

- Waking Life

I open my eyes slowly.

I have stepped into wonderland.

I begin walking and I notice that there's a candle by my side slowly melting away. The flame flickers for what seems like a fleeting moment. It's odd though, for you see, the air is deathly still. I shiver and slowly turn around to take in the full view. Life as you know it. I begin my walk, and notice the candle again, hovering faithfully by my side, a silent commentary on the present. Existentialism personified one would say.

My thoughts are broken, they feel like still life images that stay in focus for a moment and then dissolve into the murky depths of my sub-conscious, all but forgotten. A memory that won't return, not until I resort to inebriating myself. To destroy the conscious, to strip that veiled layer of my mind with chemicals. A distant ringing in the back of my hollowed skull tells me that time is ticking and the wax, oh that soft shapeless wax, is melting. The flame flickers again.

Voices now flood the stream of thought, a crawling insect that I crushed lets out a silent wail of protest, the heat hums in a threating baritone as the leaves rustle and tease, they sound like the rain sometimes. The clouds make empty promises and never speak of them again. Time, that old and sometimes oppressive partner of mine, now seems to be having a conversation with the candle by my side. The candle seems to be listening, moved and shaped by the diktats that the oppressor lays down without mercy and without consent.

"If I melted time today,
There wouldn't be a tomorrow."

I turned and stared at the flame, the one that flickered and crackled in a raspy voice. It was ironic really, that this fragile flame had an ego. I silently laughed, and continued walking... Slowly becoming conscious of what I was seeing. It was a memory, of time that was distant and recent at the same time. The trees, the deer, the insects, the heat, the humming.... I knew this place.

A part of my brain suddenly went numb, boiling hot, but numb. I could feel the blood rushing to my head and the pressure building, rapidly, incessantly, but I was numb. The numbness started to spread, to my face, the left eye twitched, half my lip curled and locked itself into place. My head tilted to one side and I felt my tongue to stiff. Through this hell, all I could think of was the fact that I finally knew what the term passive aggressive meant. A voice in my head laughed, silently again, only this time, it was because a voice was a luxury I couldn't afford.

And then, I fell. The air slowly whistling past the one ear that could still feel... I watched the clear blue sky as I fell, a colour that I wouldn't know again. The trees, the deer, the insects, the heat, the humming... I could hear it all. Ain't life grand. The wind, which was dead until this moment, spoke. The last thing I saw, made me scream... The flame flickered, the flame died.

I open my eyes slowly.

I have stepped into wonderland.

A conversation

2005-08-02T01:26:00.000+05:30

I just want to scream… hello.

Speak to me.
Speak of things that matter.
Of life and of love,
Speak of things that move your world.

Tell me what makes you smile.
I’d like to smile along.
Take me on a ride,
It’s been too long.

It’s there, right there.
Inside me, inside everyone,
Welling up as the winds sigh
Before it drizzles in the sun.

Speak of the life you wish to lead
And the lives you’ve lead,
And I shall tell you of how I forget.
I forget too much too fast,
But it isn’t something I regret.

Do you know why?
Would you care to hazard a guess?
I get to live moments over and over again.
Every laugh, every caress.

I feel like a child sometimes,
Like an adolescent, who never grew up.
I smile whenever I think of it,
A child, beginning to see the big big world.
Now isn’t that something?
What do you feel like today?

I just want to scream… hello.

To Mukka

2005-08-01T02:14:00.000+05:30

With taste like this, I can only wish I'd gotten to know you better. Here's to you.

I seem to recognize your face
Haunting, familiar, yet I can’t seem to place it
Cannot find the candle of thought to light your name
Lifetimes are catching up with me
All these changes taking place,
I wish I’d seen the place
But no one’s ever taken me
Hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away...

I swear I recognize your breath
Memories like fingerprints are slowly raising
Me you wouldn’t recall, for
I’m not my former
It’s hard when you’re stuck upon the shelf
I changed by not changing at all, small town predicts my fate
Perhaps that’s what no one wants to see
I just want to scream...hello...
My God it’s been so long, never dreamed you’d return
But now here you are, and here I am
Hearts and thoughts they fade...away...

Hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away...
Hearts and thoughts they fade...away...
Hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away...
Hearts and thoughts they fade...

- Pearl Jam - Elderly woman behind the counter in a small town.

I just want to scream.... hello. Genius.

The Orkut Chronicles

2005-07-19T09:36:00.000+05:30

I know all you dipshits are on orkut. Well so am I.

That said, it immediately implies that I have been infected. Soon I shall de-evolve at an exponential rate until all that is left of me is a pile of worthless, gooey, steaming pile of dung-like, sedimentary brain matter which is incapable of any sort of individuality. My IQ will then drop below that of Mr.George Bush's flaccid weener and I will only just stop short of making statements like, "We will smoke Osama out." *shudder* OH THE INHUMANITY!

I will of course make a valiant effort to save the universe by inviscerating orkut on paper before I do so. It's the least I can do for mankind.

So here goes. This is what I spotted on orkut yesterday.

Community Name: This is not a community
Community Owner: A SOD!

The very last word in oxymorons ladies and gentlemen. This community is where the so called "witty" guys congregate to discuss earth shattering issues like, "Katrinaz da babe man!" and "Would you kiss the person above you?". And they do so under the pretense of having a heller-esque spin on their weltanschauung. This is probably how the conversation went between the community founder and the first invitee.

*Dramatization*

Stupid Orkut Devotee (SOD) 1: Hiiiiiiii yaar! ur prfil is 2 kewl! Cn v b frnz?

SOD 2: Yo mn! YO! bt onlie if u join my new cmmuniti

*SOD 1 goes to the aforemnentioned community, has multiple orgasms at the sight of the name and exclaims!*

SOD 1: Wow! dood! This iz nt a community!

SOD 2: No no, it iz a community.

SOD 1: Wt?

SOD 2: Huh? This iz nt a comuniti is a comuniti.

SOD 1: eh wt ya? wt u said me?

Me: *Franctically searches for a pair of really sharp scissors*

The scissors would be jammed up my own colon. In the vain hope that the blinding pain would take my mind off the complete and total self-destruction of humanity. We have lost ladies and gentlemen, we have lost.

*Fades away to a chorus of "Bad, Bad, Kini, No donut for U!" sung to the tune of any britney spears number* sigh!

P.S: This post is dedicated to hil. Oh, Whatever, Nevermind brother.

2005-07-18T23:38:00.000+05:30

I just saw a community on orkut for students of Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan.

Apparently it's a community for global bhavanites... or... brace yourself... *drumroll*... GLOBHAVANITES.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you humanity after orkut.

P.S: sob.

Nothing

2005-07-13T00:03:00.000+05:30

I’m blank… a thoughtless void. The feeling of being drained not because of fatigue but just because of feeling nothing, a nothing so intense, so confusing and so debilitating that I don’t quite know what to make of it myself. A feeling so unadulterated, it seems to grip my mind like a vice. Wearing me down, slowly grinding the veneer of sanity off the surface of my consciousness.

It’s probably only the result of an overload of thought…a nothing that can be formed only by the elimination of thought by its excess. A nothing that’s not unlike the feeling of being immersed in oil.

The feeling renders me deaf, to activity, to grief, to life… it’s muffled, dead, like the sound of the evening on a graveyard just after it’s rained and the clouds have suddenly lifted. You want to think but you’ve thought about so many things so many times that it only seems like an exercise in futility. It’s so terribly cold in here. The lethargy, the mindlessness, oh god, insanity is such a relentless monster.

The grimace on my face couldn’t possibly tell the story like I want it to. There are times when lucid consciousness shines through. But mostly, it’s murky waters. Its amusing, ironic even, that I seem to be suffering from fatigue because I’ve been doing too much of nothing.

I fear nothing... I really do.

Wish you were here

2005-07-12T23:40:00.000+05:30

We first met a long time ago, a time when I was just a boy. Thoughts would swirl about in my head with such a pace it would sometimes make my head spin. Uncertainty drenched each conscious moment. But an identity that was being sculpted for me with every passing second... what a time it was! She was something else... the way she moved in that lazy gait, dragging her feet as she walked, kicking the scattered pebbles on the road back absently.

She smiled, she understood and she listened. God that smile. She was everything I thought a woman should be and more. We talked about everything from music to life, shared hours on the phone that felt like nothing more than a few instants. I’d spend the rest of the day in a state of beatific satisfaction and yet at the same time pine for that little more, one more second of her angelic voice. All the words I can think of seem dreadfully bland whenever I try to describe those days.

She didn’t know this but with everyday that she would listen to me, she was saving my life, dragging me more and more back into the battle I wanted to fight so desperately. The uncertainty and fear that threatened to consume me waned when she was around, she was the light, and she was the colour in my world, that spark that lit every other aspect of my life ablaze with passion. Darn, I even started liking mushy love songs…

And then one day, when all the battles had been fought and won. When the dust had only just settled. When the boy had just about begun to grow up and live and smile… She packed up and left.

Funny how curveballs can come straight out of left field eh?

“Life’s like that” said me dad.

Is it really?

"Oh, how I wish
How I wish you were here...
We're just two lost souls, swimming in a fish bowl,
Year after year.
Running over the same old ground, having found,
The same old fears.
Wish you were here."

That song always makes me smile and cry and the same time. Wonder how pink floyd knew. *chuckles and shakes head*

The Gates of Dawn

2005-07-12T22:58:00.000+05:30

"Come on, I hear you're feeling down
Yeah I can ease the pain...
Get you on your feet again..."

I woke up one morning. Bent, broken and all but alive. I haven't woken up since. Where did everyone go?

"I took a look but it was gone,
I cannot put my finger on it now,
The child has grown, the dream is gone,
And I?"

I don't want to be comfortably numb.

The Good Life

2005-07-12T22:43:00.000+05:30

“To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest of places. To pursue beauty to it’s lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never to forget.”

Arundhati Roy [The End of Imagination]

My ode:

To respect thought. To live life. To maintain a sense of pride with dignity. To accept oneself. To smile. To always start everyday like you meant it to happen. To make this world what it ought to be. To become what you ought to be. To honour the opinion of others. To always remember your roots. And to never, ever lose hope.

P.S:Marry me arundhathi.

Solitude

2005-06-27T00:07:00.000+05:30

I leap into oblivion...

Gently I glide through the world around me, suddenly experiencing sensory deprivation. No sound, no touch and only a dim aquamarine light to keep me company. Languidly I move through space. It’s a beautiful feeling, a feeling of being suspended in space. It isn't quite flight, but gravity doesn't seem to be a factor anymore.

My inner-child wakes up after a self-imposed sabbatical. I haven't allowed myself to be free in such a long time. And so I smile, I glide and I lay there suspended... both in mind and in body. My world sudden seems to have taken to a free flowing lethargy, slow motion redefined. My thoughts which are usually a whizzing blur, sudden crystallize and move by me in an almost slide show like manner. Clarity, aquamarine clarity, where have you been?

The answer lies there, within my grasp, within my comprehension. This was what I had been looking for, for so long. The answer is to let go, to flow, and to move as languidly as time seemed to move in the beautiful new world. I look around and see shimmering lights right above me, stretched and rippling. Heaven... this is what it must feel like. A loneliness so complete and so full of joy. A kind of solitude granted to you by your thoughts, revealing themselves in an easy flourish of shimmering colours, like a satin scarf shivering in the evening breeze. I smile once more.

And then my chest begins to tell me its time to leave. The ache makes its way to my gut and my neck, gripping my body like a vice. And suddenly, there isn't any room for my thoughts. Poignant as the moment is, grief is the last thing on my mind. Gentle, delicate, transparent spheres stream slowly past me as I slowly and deliberately exhale... My feet touch the ground and I push off into the shimmering surface.

It’s been a while since I last went swimming.

Home

2005-06-21T03:00:00.000+05:30

Here's a tiny experiment. This post was originally written in the third person with the lead character named Mira. It was written in the third person because I believed it would help me dissociate my personality from my pieces. After a conversation with a jazz-band buddy though, I wanted to see this piece in a new light. It remains to be seen whether it will flow better in the first person, for I believe that it was a tad constrained in its rhythm earlier. One thing is for sure though, it'll strip away the artificial veils of forced fiction. What say?

I reached over and pulled the soft white cotton blankets over myself. I couldn't help smiling as I snuggled deeper into the soft welcoming bed. It was late in the afternoon and it had been ages since I had come home.

The dark monsoon clouds hung low over the garden outside, as water from the tiled roof dripped continuously, the early afternoon showers were making their presence felt again.
The west coast was always intoxicating during the monsoon months. The clouds made the day seem like one long evening. There was a sudden burst of life all around, almost as if nature had just woken up and stretched comfortably.

Moss began to grow on every pore of the bricks that made the compound walls, caterpillars made their way across the moist grass, the air smelt fresh, as if it had been given a spring clean itself. Inside every second home you could see the clotheslines being rearranged and the clothes being hung to dry, with table fans directed at them.

Today the air had an easy Sunday-like feel to it. It was the sort of rainy day that made you feel glad to be home. The sort of afternoon where the gloominess was over-ridden by the comfort of being indoors and the prerequisite warm cup of coffee. I heard my mother making coffee downstairs and began to feel like a little kid all over again.

I had come to my parent’s place in the heart of a town that wanted to be a city. The house was in a quaint residential area, mostly surrounded by apartments. This only made the home more enchanting, a small garden with four coconut trees, a shed and a Great Dane. The house was made completely of exposed brick and was built by an architect when he had just graduated from college, it was bold, maybe even modern, but at the same time it was a work of art.

The entire home had no pillars at all, the roof was split into four parts all slanting downwards at different angles and all cupping together to form a little nest of a home. The house had an open courtyard in the middle that allowed the monsoons to say hello to everyone who lived there, it was elliptical in shape with tiny drains at its two foci that allowed the rains out. The floor in the courtyard was made of white chipped marble and black marble rays emanated from one of the foci on the floor that made the artists vision clear,

“The home is like two hands held together, as if to receive the sunlight and illuminate this beautiful nest.” the architect had said.

It had odd but striking touches, like a bedroom that had fourteen walls all at odd angles to each other. The roof was made of sandwiched tiles, a brilliant idea that had protected it from continuous onslaught of the severe rains, it was plastered on top so you could see the tiles only from the inside, if you looked up that is.

But what made it special to me was the fact that the house felt like it had a soul, every time I slept alone in a room it felt as if the home spoke to me, quietly. Always comforting my buzzing mind, almost as if it was, trying to tell me to take it easy. The cool surface of the painted brick walls would soothe me as I ran the tips of my fingers slowly over them as I walked through the house. The home was a companion that was always there waiting for me when I came back and never seemed to ask any questions. It understood. This was what I had come back looking for. It had been a while since I had taken a break.

With a lazy stretch I slipped out from under the covers and slipped into my favourite t-shirt from my days in high school. I smiled as the worn and almost frayed top rested lazily on my lanky frame. I smiled as I thought of the days when the t-shirt was more or less the only thing I wore. A lot of things had happened since then, life had moved on. Victories had been won, hearts broken and a boy had slowly grown, into a man. I sighed and turned towards the door, home always had a way of making me feel younger. I yawned lazily as I walked down the flight of stairs, made of dark wood. I had always wondered it the wood was teak but always forgot to ask my parents.

“Is the wood teak mum?”

“Rose” she replied as she offered me a steaming mug of coffee, which I accepted with both hands. “Your father had it made in ’69 a year after the house was built, why?”

“Just always wondered that’s all.” I said as I warmed my fingers by wrapping them around the mug, I always did that. I found it to be one of the small comforts of life.

Slowly sipping from my favourite porcelain mug, I smiled and shook my head gently as I thought about my mothers ability to summon a cup of coffee exactly when I needed it. "The little things" I thought, as I drank deep. I let my mind sample nostalgia as I drifted towards a window. I looked outside to see an apartment standing in the place of a home I’d always loved when I was a child. Things had changed since I left. I always came back to find some small reliable nook of the city-like town altered beyond recognition. She was growing as well. It didn’t make me sad, I had a way of reconciling my sentiments with reality. It was just that sometimes, I wished it would hit me a bit harder.

I put the mug down and walked towards the door. I laced up in my favourite worn sneakers and decided to relish an early evening jog. Breathing was something I needed to relearn.

I picked up my trusty old discman and fumbled as I snuck the phones into my ears and then with a short goodbye I stepped into my mood, quite literally. The air was crisp, the light, dim and the jazz, sublime. I sauntered up the lane for a bit, and then slowly, deliberately broke into a slow jog and a smile.

I had come home.

Question?

2005-06-15T00:07:00.000+05:30

I haven't spoken much in the past few days. I haven't said anything of any relevance for quite a while now. I don't quite know if I have anything left to say, I know I'm barely 20 and I probably have seen nothing so far, but I feel saturated nonetheless. I am aware that this is a rather common feeling among dysfunctional post-adolescents, with holier-than-thou mindsets, but somehow something has made me quiet, I talk, but I no longer speak. I smile, but there is no twinkle in the eye.

This is not a schopenhauer-esque dissection of the pointlessness of life, no, far from it. This would be the search for an answer. The search for the light that would make my eyes shine again.

There are things that tell me there is a purpose to things, when music plays for example, when collective soul croons "Shine" with those easy chords, when my dad chuckles, when I see the rain. But I haven't found purpose yet. For the longest time I thought life was about goals, finish lines, objectives, and specific tasks on whose completion one would feel a certain sense of achievement. Of late though, finish lines seem to be something of a joke. They never end, there's always one in the distance and it has occurred to me, that if you make your life about lines then you'll forever be running.

There is another theory that tells me life is about living, the moment, NOW. I don't know about that either, I know if I was thrown into a debate I could probably be able to make a brilliant case for both of these viewpoints and get applauded for it, but the fact of the matter is that in my heart I don't know which theory to support. The irony of it all though, is that I seem to be living life trying to figure out how I should be living it.

Yet another thing that has been keeping me quiet for so long is my newfound loneliness. Sometimes I feel like I never really invest any real emotion in any relationship, this thought occurs to me because of my absolute inability to mourn consciously for loss.

I can't cry when I want to and that believe me is one of the worst expressions of claustrophobia you will ever come across. When your emotions are trapped in a box, you'll find it so damn hard to breathe. This is probably why I refuse to think these days, I make a conscious effort and all I end up with is fuzz. My powers of contemplation seem very limited of late, the limit being, wondering what I'll be having for lunch. A pathetic fate for someone who wishes to write.

Answers? Anybody got any?

LSD

2005-06-06T22:36:00.000+05:30

Ok people, this would be one of my rare non-original posts, but this was too darn interesting to let go. What will follow is an extract from an article titled "LSD - My problem child" by Dr.Albert Hofman the creator of the legendary drug. I've picked out the best bit, and by the way, this bit of reality is waaay cooler than any piece of psychedelic literature i've ever read. Enjoy!

Discovery of the Psychic Effects of LSD

The solution of the ergotoxine problem had led to fruitful results, described here only briefly, and had opened up further avenues of research. And yet I could not forget the relatively uninteresting LSD-25. A peculiar presentiment—the feeling that this substance could possess properties other than those established in the first investigations—induced me, five years after the first synthesis, to produce LSD-25 once again so that a sample could be given to the pharmacological department for further tests. This was quite unusual; experimental substances, as a rule, were definitely stricken from the research program if once found to be lacking in pharmacological interest.

Nevertheless, in the spring of 1943, I repeated the synthesis of LSD-25. As in the first synthesis, this involved the production of only a few centigrams of the compound. In the final step of the synthesis, during the purification and crystallization of lysergic acid diethylamide in the form of a tartrate (tartaric acid salt), I was interrupted in my work by unusual sensations. The following description of this incident comes from the report that I sent at the time to Professor Stoll:

Last Friday, April 16,1943, I was forced to interrupt my work in the laboratory in the middle of the afternoon and proceed home, being affected by a remarkable restlessness, combined with a slight dizziness. At home I lay down and sank into a not unpleasant intoxicated-like condition, characterized by an extremely stimulated imagination. In a dreamlike state, with eyes closed (I found the daylight to be unpleasantly glaring), I perceived an uninterrupted stream of fantastic pictures, extraordinary shapes with intense, kaleidoscopic play of colors. After some two hours this condition faded away.

This was, altogether, a remarkable experience—both in its sudden onset and its extraordinary course. It seemed to have resulted from some external toxic influence; I surmised a connection with the substance I had been working with at the time, lysergic acid diethylamide tartrate. But this led to another question: how had I managed to absorb this material? Because of the known toxicity of ergot substances, I always maintained meticulously neat work habits. Possibly a bit of the LSD solution had contacted my fingertips during crystallization, and a trace of the substance was absorbed through the skin. If LSD-25 had indeed been the cause of this bizarre experience, then it must be a substance of extraordinary potency. There seemed to be only one way of getting to the bottom of this. I decided on a self-experiment. Exercising extreme caution, I began the planned series of experiments with the smallest quantity that could be expected to produce some effect, considering the activity of the ergot alkaloids known at the time: namely, 0.25 mg (mg = milligram = one thousandth of a gram) of lysergic acid diethylamide tartrate. Quoted below is the entry for this experiment in my laboratory journal of April 19, 1943.

Self-Experiments
4/19/43 16:20: 0.5 cc of 1/2 promil aqueous solution of diethylamide tartrate orally = 0.25 mg tartrate. Taken diluted with about 10 cc water. Tasteless.

17:00: Beginning dizziness, feeling of anxiety, visual distortions, symptoms of paralysis, desire to laugh.

Supplement of 4/21: Home by bicycle. From 18:00- ca.20:00 most severe crisis. (See special report.)

Here the notes in my laboratory journal cease. I was able to write the last words only with great effort. By now it was already clear to me that LSD had been the cause of the remarkable experience of the previous Friday, for the altered perceptions were of the same type as before, only much more intense. I had to struggle to speak intelligibly. I asked my laboratory assistant, who was informed of the self-experiment, to escort me home. We went by bicycle, no automobile being available because of wartime restrictions on their use. On the way home, my condition began to assume threatening forms. Everything in my field of vision wavered and was distorted as if seen in a curved mirror. I also had the sensation of being unable to move from the spot. Nevertheless, my assistant later told me that we had traveled very rapidly. Finally, we arrived at home safe and sound, and I was just barely capable of asking my companion to summon our family doctor and request milk from the neighbors.

In spite of my delirious, bewildered condition, I had brief periods of clear and effective thinking—and chose milk as a nonspecific antidote for poisoning. The dizziness and sensation of fainting became so strong at times that I could no longer hold myself erect, and had to lie down on a sofa. My surroundings had now transformed themselves in more terrifying ways. Everything in the room spun around, and the familiar objects and pieces of furniture assumed grotesque, threatening forms. They were in continuous motion, animated, as if driven by an inner restlessness. The lady next door, whom I scarcely recognized, brought me milk—in the course of the evening I drank more than two liters. She was no longer Mrs. R., but rather a malevolent, insidious witch with a colored mask.

Even worse than these demonic transformations of the outer world, were the alterations that I perceived in myself, in my inner being. Every exertion of my will, every attempt to put an end to the disintegration of the outer world and the dissolution of my ego, seemed to be wasted effort. A demon had invaded me, had taken possession of my body, mind, and soul. I jumped up and screamed, trying to free myself from him, but then sank down again and lay helpless on the sofa. The substance, with which I had wanted to experiment, had vanquished me. It was the demon that scornfully triumphed over my will. I was seized by the dreadful fear of going insane. I was taken to another world, another place, another time. My body seemed to be without sensation, lifeless, strange. Was I dying? Was this the transition? At times I believed myself to be outside my body, and then perceived clearly, as an outside observer, the complete tragedy of my situation. I had not even taken leave of my family (my wife, with our three children had traveled that day to visit her parents, in Lucerne). Would they ever understand that I had not experimented thoughtlessly, irresponsibly, but rather with the utmost caution, an-d that such a result was in no way foreseeable? My fear and despair intensified, not only because a young family should lose its father, but also because I dreaded leaving my chemical research work, which meant so much to me, unfinished in the midst of fruitful, promising development. Another reflection took shape, an idea full of bitter irony: if I was now forced to leave this world prematurely, it was because of this Iysergic acid diethylamide that I myself had brought forth into the world.

By the time the doctor arrived, the climax of my despondent condition had already passed. My laboratory assistant informed him about my self-experiment, as I myself was not yet able to formulate a coherent sentence. He shook his head in perplexity, after my attempts to describe the mortal danger that threatened my body. He could detect no abnormal symptoms other than extremely dilated pupils. Pulse, blood pressure, breathing were all normal. He saw no reason to prescribe any medication. Instead he conveyed me to my bed and stood watch over me. Slowly I came back from a weird, unfamiliar world to reassuring everyday reality. The horror softened and gave way to a feeling of good fortune and gratitude, the more normal perceptions and thoughts returned, and I became more confident that the danger of insanity was conclusively past.

Now, little by little I could begin to enjoy the unprecedented colors and plays of shapes that persisted behind my closed eyes. Kaleidoscopic, fantastic images surged in on me, alternating, variegated, opening and then closing themselves in circles and spirals, exploding in colored fountains, rearranging and hybridizing themselves in constant flux. It was particularly remarkable how every acoustic perception, such as the sound of a door handle or a passing automobile, became transformed into optical perceptions. Every sound generated a vividly changing image, with its own consistent form and color.

Late in the evening my wife returned from Lucerne. Someone had informed her by telephone that I was suffering a mysterious breakdown. She had returned home at once, leaving the children behind with her parents. By now, I had recovered myself sufficiently to tell her what had happened.

Exhausted, I then slept, to awake next morning refreshed, with a clear head, though still somewhat tired physically. A sensation of well-being and renewed life flowed through me. Breakfast tasted delicious and gave me extraordinary pleasure. When I later walked out into the garden, in which the sun shone now after a spring rain, everything glistened and sparkled in a fresh light. The world was as if newly created. All my senses vibrated in a condition of highest sensitivity, which persisted for the entire day.

This self-experiment showed that LSD-25 behaved as a psychoactive substance with extraordinary properties and potency. There was to my knowledge no other known substance that evoked such profound psychic effects in such extremely low doses, that caused such dramatic changes in human consciousness and our experience of the inner and outer world.

What seemed even more significant was that I could remember the experience of LSD inebriation in every detail. This could only mean that the conscious recording function was not interrupted, even in the climax of the LSD experience, despite the profound breakdown of the normal world view. For the entire duration of the experiment, I had even been aware of participating in an experiment, but despite this recognition of my condition, I could not, with every exertion of my will, shake off the LSD world. Everything was experienced as completely real, as alarming reality; alarming, because the picture of the other, familiar everyday reality was still fully preserved in the memory for comparison.

Another surprising aspect of LSD was its ability to produce such a far-reaching, powerful state of inebriation without leaving a hangover. Quite the contrary, on the day after the LSD experiment I felt myself to be, as already described, in excellent physical and mental condition.

I was aware that LSD, a new active compound with such properties, would have to be of use in pharmacology, in neurology, and especially in psychiatry, and that it would attract the interest of concerned specialists. But at that time I had no inkling that the new substance would also come to be used beyond medical science, as an inebriant in the drug scene. Since my self-experiment had revealed LSD in its terrifying, demonic aspect, the last thing I could have expected was that this substance could ever find application as anything approaching a pleasure drug. I failed, moreover, to recognize the meaningful connection between LSD inebriation and spontaneous visionary experience until much later, after further experiments, which were carried out with far lower doses and under different conditions.

The next day I wrote to Professor Stoll the above-mentioned report about my extraordinary experience with LSD-25 and sent a copy to the director of the pharmacological department, Professor Rothlin.

As expected, the first reaction was incredulous astonishment. Instantly a telephone call came from the management; Professor Stoll asked: "Are you certain you made no mistake in the weighing? Is the stated dose really correct?" Professor Rothlin also called, asking the same question. I was certain of this point, for I had executed the weighing and dosage with my own hands. Yet their doubts were justified to some extent, for until then no known substance had displayed even the slightest psychic effect in fraction-of-a-milligram doses. An active compound of such potency seemed almost unbelievable.

Professor Rothlin himself and two of his colleagues were the first to repeat my experiment, with only one-third of the dose I had utilized. But even at that level, the effects were still extremely impressive, and quite fantastic. All doubts about the statements in my report were eliminated.

Lucky mothers got some free acid!

Flight

2005-06-01T22:46:00.000+05:30

He casually let the basketball drop and he stepped onto the court after what seemed like ages, the lights were on and he had just taken a bath, he found that thought very funny, when he was in college he almost always played just after he'd taken a shower, which of course rendered the shower redundant. Somehow the feeling of gliding through the night as the cool air flew past his fresh skin was intoxicating to him.

Hello my friend we meet again
It’s been a while where should we begin...
Feels like forever

He picked up the ball and apprehensively dribbled it a couple of times, almost checking to see if he remembered the game. Slowly he grew a little more bold and began to move the ball around, behind his back, between his feet as he walked casually, the ball slipping from one side of his body to another, each time ringing with that fully inflated twang.

Within my heart are memories
Of perfect love that you gave to me
Oh, I remember

He smiled as he slowly grabbed the ball in his hands and looked at the rim, his first shot in 3 years. He kissed the ball ever so gently, cocked his elbows and in a barely audible whisper said "Do this for me baby." and let the ball fly, slipping off his fingers in a gentle flick... the ball looped into the night sky, and for a moment nothing else existed for him as his eyes carefully followed the path of the ball.

When you are with me
I feel...I’m careless...i believe
Above all the others we’ll fly
This brings tears to my eyes
My sacrifice

It hit the part of the rim that made the basket protrude from the glass and violently bounced out... he'd missed.

At that very second, he looked at the rim in mock indignation and let out a throaty laugh, "Damn those six inches of metal." and jogged to get hold of the ball again, he immediately began to feel younger. He moved back to the three point line and began to sprint forward with the ball, in a gentle arc approaching the rim sideways, he stepped once, then again and then flung himself into the air with his arm stretched out, ball in hand, and then he felt it...

We’ve seen our share of up’s and down’s
Oh, how quickly life can turn around....
In an instant
It feels so good to reunite within yourself and within you mind
Let’s find peace there

That one moment that he'd always look for while playing ball, that moment where everything else faded away and the only thing that remained was the sensation of flight, the feeling of floating through the air, a perfectly lucid reality. Yet he never quite understood why that always felt like a dream, it was such a distinct moment, he could even hear an ecstatic voice in his head say "Wow!" , As he let go of the ball and began his descent he was already smiling... the ball swished by the net. 2 points… he smiled again.

When you are with me
I feel...
I’m careless...i believe
Above all the others we’ll fly
This brings tears to my eyes

He kept playing remembering the years in college, the ambition, the depression, the work, the joy, the smiles, the good-byes, the loneliness, the hope and the life that he had lived so far. After playing for hours that barely felt like minutes, he heard the hum of his mobile phone… He reluctantly let go of the ball and walked up to his phone and began to chuckle when he saw the name of the caller...

"Will be home in 20 minutes babe... love you too."

He wasn't really done for the night. He kissed the ball again… dropped it into his car and drove home into her waiting arms.

I just want to settle again
I just want to settle again
My sacrifice

Have a Drag

2005-06-01T12:37:00.000+05:30

Take a cigarette... have you ever smoked one?

People have talked to me about why they like cigarettes plenty of times, abhishek gurumadhva a senior of mine, once told me that it was a Freudian addiction, that sucking on a cigarette reminded them on a subconscious level of suckling their mother's teat. It was a return to infancy, so to speak where the warmth of your mother’s chest made you feel safe.

Crawling into the foetal position is the most common reaction to a nightmare. We all it seems, want to go back to where we came from, back into that safe environment, where we don’t have to think, talk, smile to make others happy, love with the risk of being hurt, or any of the other things that make life what it is. Cowards we have become... I spit on myself.

Then the same person as well as pi spoke to me on how sadism and masochism were so deeply ingrained in the human psyche, so much so that it drove the impulse behind grabbing a smoke.

"Think about it", he said to me.

"That’s the reason we all love wrestling so much! We see a guy grab a huge chair and maim the other fucker right across the face, we can almost feel the pain as the sickening thud of wood against flesh reaches our ears, and we go..'Oooh! That must've hurt' and we want more... its the fucking colloseum of today!"

It is said that whenever you smoke you feel a slight pain at the base of your throat and this pain was what generated the whole masochism.

Consider this,

Situation A: You've totally fucked up your life, you feel like life's been treating you like a bitch, so you grab yourself a cigarette and inhale deeply, sucking on the butt like there's no tomorrow and you feel that sting and then you say "that’s the shit!" that’s exactly where the pain is at, this is so much easier than actually dealing with the problem. This way I can feel sorry for myself. Yippee, self pity for Rs.3 only!

Not very different from this is the concept being cutting, you cut yourself, with a razor blade, a blunt knife, heck with a rusty nail if you want to and then you see the blood, red as hell rushing out of your punctured skin and then some perverse part of the human psyche takes hold and you go, "this pain is in my control, I caused it, I’m to blame and so finally I have control!" Ha! This train of thought makes me laugh the fucking hardest, you can't take the pain from the fucking outside world so you become the ultimate hypocrite and pick up a fucking blunt blade and shove it into your own skin. Great idea Sam! You’re gonna get real far with that sort of rocket science!

I write this not to say that I smoke, or that I cut myself. I've tried out cigarettes a couple of times and I’ve never cut myself. But I’ve done something far far worse, I keep trying to make everything to be my fucking fault, so that I at least feel like I’m in charge, and that my dear friends is the bloody oxymoron of the friggin century! I just realised the stupidity of it all after feeling sorry for myself for about a week, for what I beg you don’t ask...

For all those idiots weak enough not to overcome a freaking nicotine addiction, which by the way is fucking purely chemical, and hang on to vague oprah like justifications like, sucking on a nipple I bloody say, "You're kiddin yourself bud!" and for those geniuses who cut themselves so they can feel the bloody adrenaline rush... "Go jump off a cliff! And don't tie a rope to your legs if you still intend to go back to the blade!"

As for myself... I shall pick up the pieces, get a fuckin’ ego and move bloody on!

Quo Vadis

2005-05-25T21:59:00.000+05:30

“Buy me a drink young man”

The ragged beggar who made this request looked liked he’d already had enough…

“Go away you pitiful fool, drifters like you make me sick” came the reply from the protagonist.

“Drifter! Ha! Quo Vadis Senor?!! Quo Vadis?” said the beggar and staggered away laughing to glory… all the while yelling “QUO VADIS?”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He drove home that night… knowing quite well what he was going to do.

As he entered the apartment complex there was the cursory nod to the valet, somehow he didn’t feel the pleasure of driving anymore. It was just one more mundane activity. He went straight for the private elevator and pressed the button that would take him to the penthouse.

Staring at his own reflection in the silvered surface of the elevator doors he let the maze of thoughts running in his head take control. As the elevator beeped he stepped out into the penthouse or rather his home. At 27 he’d made quite a life for himself. He swiped the card as the door opened and the lights came on. He liked pools of light… he always had, just like his dad.

The place was something that he had always dreamed about when he was 17, minimalist yet stylish furniture that was an elegant combination of metal and wood. Low flung couches, top of the line home-entertainment systems and walls that were completely made of glass and afforded a fantastic view of the city that was strewn below. The lighting was almost always somber in his room; he loved the way the pools of light would play on the metal surface.

There was a reason he liked pools of light, it gave him a sense of solitude. He would sit on a chair and switch on a table lamp that would just about light up the area where he was working leaving the rest of the room blank. It was a blanket, an artificial blanket created by darkness, he somehow found a sort of solace in being alone in a room with an atmosphere like that. The kid always wanted to be alone.

He tossed his coat aside and walked towards the balcony, sliding the glass door open he stepped out and was greeted immediately by the nippy winter wind. The kind that sliced across his face, he smiled. That sort of a sting only made him smile these days. He stood leaning on the railing looking at the city whiz by him. He was part of the race now; he was well and truly a part of the rat race. He had almost begged for it when he was younger, now when he thought about it he could only chuckle softly and shake his head.

He thought of how much life had changed for him, the mere concept of love for example. At 17 when he’d first fallen in love, he’d been the ultimate romantic, going to every possible length to make the woman he was then in love with feel like the queen of the world. Since then though cynicism had taken its toll. Now all the women he met felt like a parade of empty conversations and meaningless intimacy. What he once called making love, he now called clearing his head.

Work had always been something he had looked forward to; right out of his MBA he’s joined a top of the line consultancy company and moved away to live alone, since then loneliness had become a sort of addiction. He never was any good with friends, they had always either been the sort of stormy tight friends that never lasted more than 3 years or the loose acquaintances that popped in to say hello once in a while.

But what killed him the most was that work didn’t make sense to him. What killed him was that he had never found anything that he was intimately passionate about. He had always been brilliant at everything he did, maybe not the best but brilliant nonetheless, but the matter was that he had never found anything that he was ready to die for. It was empty, all of it; his mind, his heart, his work, his life.

When he pulled the compact colt from his trouser pocket, he was filled with a sense of defeat that brought him down to his knees. He thought about his dad that had told him about life and winning, he thought about the first girl that he fell in love with and how he’d promised the world to her, he thought about his days in college and how he’d wanted to change the world then, he thought about his writing and his philosophy that he had been so inanely passionate about when he was younger… then he thought about that one drunk beggar meandering about on the cobblestone lanes of Italy who had defeated him with a single question…

As he cocked the trigger he whispered the sentence again, just before his hand touched the metal for the last time…

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Quo Vadis?”

“Where are you going?”

Remember when you were young,
You shone like the sun.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Now there's a look in your eyes,
Like black holes in the sky.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
You were caught on the crossfire
Of childhood and stardom,
Blown on the steel breeze.
Come on you target for faraway laughter,
Come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr, and shine!

You reached for the secret too soon,
You cried for the moon.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Threatened by shadows at night,
And exposed in the light.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Well you wore out your welcome
With random precision,
Rode on the steel breeze.
Come on you raver, you seer of visions,
Come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine!

-Pink Floyd "Shine on you crazy diamond"

Clutter

2005-05-16T22:32:00.000+05:30

I fell in love once... I don't feel like doing it again...

I wrote very well once... At least I think I did.

I felt magic once... Not really I haven't felt it yet.

Random thoughts and random asks... Its always very hard to clear that clutter in your head.. I always thought that people would do so much better in their lives if they could manage to remove all that gibberish from their brain. The state of my brain is very much like one of those rooms in which you just cant concentrate no matter how hard you try. It used to happen to me pretty often when I would study for the jee. I'd sit there in my room under the tubelight at my table in front of this very annoying math problem. Not that it was exceptionally hard or something, it was just that within a matter of about 5 minutes I would even forgotten the whole damn problem. I would just sit there staring at the last line I'd written wondering what I was doing. There would be this indelible fuzz in my brain. I wouldn't think of where the fuzz came from or what I was doing with that problem or even why I was doing... I'd just sit there frustrated as hell telling myself "I'm bad at math... I'm bad at math." I never really understood why I did that.

Then I would suddenly get up and look at my room. This was when I would notice the clutter. The pants and the t-shirt that I'd worn earlier that day would be strewn recklessly over the bed and my table was a mess.. 3 pens that didn't work, a notebook that didn't have any empty pages or any useful information and 2 random plastic folders that I had absolutely no space for would just be lying there with absolutely no purpose. And this obsessive compulsive side of me would take over and I'd move really quickto clean up the mess and within 10 mins of such activity I'd be sitting in a white Spartan room staring at the problem again "telling myself.. Ok now I've cleared up the clutter, now I can do this problem." and still...Nothing.

The reason I'm saying this is that I feel a similar clutter in my brain right now.. Only I don't think that this clutter could possibly be cleared by becoming a minimalist when it comes to my habitat and by setting everything I'm using at right angles. How does one sort out and compartmentalize one's emotions. Is it even possible? Does that help?

Does it help if you can classify, separate and place, heartbreak, loneliness, lethargy, frustration and nothingness into neat and dusted wooden shelves in the back of your fuzzy mind? I wish I knew... Because then I could at least blame it on myself and say that I'm not in touch with my own mind... I'm insane. Right now, I can't even call myself that. Insanity is not a luxury I can't afford, and sanity is proving to be too darn tedious. Where does limbo fit in? *chuckle* sometimes I'm led to believe that extreme happiness and deep sorrow (the sort that one writes about... Ironic isn't it?) is only fictitious and that the better of human existence is this.. Limbo.. Neither here, nor there. Just fuzz...

NITK, the college that played home to me for a whole year had 4 suicides this semester. What does one say to something like that? One cannot empathic for if one could, they'd already have hung themselves by a fan using a nice thick nylon cord. Nor can one dismiss them, for these were lives that would've gone on, I don't know whether they would've changed the world, but I do know that they would've lived. Did they not "like" life? Or was the clutter just too much for them? Gosh I ask too many questions. I probably shouldn't, I don't want to end up hanging from a fan you know.

I listen to this band called coldplay very often. I didn't realize why I was doing it until I realized this guy was actually talking to me... Not me specifically, but he talks to his listener, in a very quaint and easy manner. He says things like "we've been living life inside a bubble", "everything's lost" and "careful where you stand" I dunno why I like it... I dunno why I like that falsetto voice or those careless acoustic chords, though I think its because he tells me simple things, things I can understand and react to immediately. he doesn't like clutter either.. There's something about his voice tells me he's felt it before, the same thing I'm feeling right now.

And that's the whole kick about writing too isn't it? I mean you sit down and read that article that your friend has written, hoping like hell he's mentioned you or something that you would understand and relate to on a very personal level. Where you could read something and say " hey yeah! I know what he's talking about" here's a funny thought though... The writer probably doesn't. The most brilliant lines are inadvertent, and even though the oh-so-modest writer takes all the credit for it later, there's a really good chance that to him it just looked like just another line while he wrote it.. Oops did I give away too many secrets?

I'm pretentious, I know it. it probably shows too sometimes but I also know this: and I do not say this as a defense, I just quote a classmate of mine when I say "vanity is so deeply ingrained in the human heart that everybody wants to be admired". I never really knew what to say to that. I probably would've nodded in assent but that would've been pretentious, I could've called the writer a brilliant observer, but then my dad says things like this every night. Does putting life onto paper make you a genius?

Some people who read what I write tell me I'm pretentious, some like me, some say I'm depressing, some say I don't make sense, some say I'm honest and some say ouch... Could I actually be all that? Too may sides to one coin I thought. But then I sat down and tried to call myself something... Guess what met me? Fuzz... Hilarious, life is.

I don't know if I like who I am. I don't want to end up hanging from a fan though.

Good night.

The Lover

2005-05-13T09:56:00.000+05:30

With a gentle stroke he was in bliss. The chemicals coursed through his veins hitting all the right spots, the pupils dilated, the pulse quickened, the air was being let into his lungs in short quick breaths. This was it...ecstasy.

There was a certain electricity in the air, the kind that was palpable... It had been quite a while since he had experienced happiness on such an unadulterated scale. He blinked slowly with an expression of pure satisfaction on his face. He relaxed and let go for the first time in years as he felt the crisp white cotton blankets brush against his bare skin. He felt safe. It was a feeling he had yearned for, for a long... long time.

He thought of all those days when he had worked like a fiend, never stopping, not even to breathe. It hurt sometimes to think of the past, but not right now. He wasn't going to let the pain hit him in this moment of self-imposed sanctity. But he thought of those long hard days nonetheless. It seemed to him that been so goddamn naive, following blindly a path that hadn't even been set for him by his own thought process. He almost felt sorry for himself...

He looked out at the mirror as images and words flashed across the hazy horizon of his satiated mind. He was in paradise now and he wasn't going to feel guilty about how he had got there. He'd felt guilty, afraid and inadequate too many times. But this was not going to be one of those times... He thought of the days when his mind almost gave up on him, when the insanity of it all had come rushing towards him with a force that threatened to push him over the brink. Thank god that was then.

It was sunset right now and he closed his eyes and breathed in the air, slowly letting his eyelids slide open as he exhaled. He tasted bliss with his lips again and then glanced outside the window looking at the surreal image of the dew slowly forming on the blades of grass as the night settled lightly like a bridal veil over the earth. His thoughts then slowly drifted to the times when he would sit alone on the earth... He pictured himself, all of seventeen touching the ground with his fingertips and with a smile on his lips that radiated a pride in his self and a love for the world that only unlimited hope could harbour.

He would sit and imagine that all of the earth was born straight from his fingertips and those seventeen year old fingers would be what was holding the earth together. He thought of how the seventeen year old would look at the sky, the sea and all of creation with this look of ambition, with the burning desire to create a legacy that the earth would be proud of. Then he thought of how the world had behaved then and how easy it was to kill a seventeen year old. One "Impossible!" was all it took.

He cringed as he thought about those days but he gained a tentative grip on himself not before a tear rolled involuntarily down his right cheek. He curled up on the bed clutching his only answer to the world as tightly as he could. He thought of how hope could be murdered as he lost his grip on his emotions a second time...

"He could've LIVED then!" he begged as his body began to be wracked by wrenching sobs. He buried his face in the pillow as the last rays of the sun dipped below the horizon.

"He IS living... Right now" he heard her say as she gently stroked his hair and turned him over."You've been living all this while... you lived when you didn't take your own life, you lived when you didn't give up and you lived every time you fought. Words don't kill a man love," she said "Only you have a right to do that to yourself."

And with those last words she wiped away the last of his tears and lowered her lips to his...

He tasted bliss once more.

"I took a look but it was gone,
I cannot put my finger on it now,
The child has grown, the dream is gone,
And i have become comfortably numb..."
- Pink Floyd "Comfortably Numb"

Playing Sane

2005-05-06T23:27:00.000+05:30

I walked slowly through the dim sunlight towards the edifice. The winter sunsets were especially nippy these days, so I held my arms tight around myself as I made haste to get to the door. On reaching the doorstep I religiously took off my footwear and smiled as I pushed on to open the heavy teak door. The place was classy; there was no doubt about it. I walked in knowing that I would not be myself for the next three hours.

Climbing two flights of stairs I saw a few familiar faces and nodded in response to their enthusiastic waves. I was to be somebody else. I reached the tiny room at the back that had been allotted to myself. Closing the door I took off my clothes and changed into the cloak. This was to be a very surreal evening and I knew that it was the case. I walked out into what was at that moment an empty hall; my leather shoes rapped the hardwood floor as I made my way across the room.

I stood there alone looking around me and thinking about the night to come. How strange a thing it is I wondered as I walked into the lonely pool of bright light. Standing there I savoured a moment that was beyond anything I could possibly explain. Immediately in front of me were tiny spots of dust that shimmered in the light, moving around with a distinctly purposeless flight, never seeming to settle down. Amusing it was to watch these things, they looked like they had a life of their own, I turned sharply, not for any particular reason, I just wished to see them controlled, however wildly, by my movements. My cloak swished violently as I found even more reason to do what I had come here to do tonight.

I moved across the room to the table where I'd kept the gun the previous night. I pulled open the drawer to find it laying exactly the way I’d kept it. Right out there in the open. Thankful that nobody else had taken it, I pulled it out and looked at it glint menacingly in the light and I smiled. I was going to enjoy this night more than I expected. I put the gun away in the inside lining of my cloak and thought about what I was going to say just before I pulled the gun out and finished it all. I rehearsed each line, with an almost perverse glee, for this was something that gave me an unexpected rush. I thought about every expression on my face, I wanted to appear merciless, cold, unforgiving and maniacal, as perverted as I could be I thought.... and I as I thought about this I began to laugh… softly, menacingly raising my arms with sheer adrenaline anticipating the rush that was to greet me very soon…

At that very instant somebody unexpectedly barged into the hall and yelled...

"Oi kini! Stop goofing around in the spotlight! The play begins in an hour!"

This isn't in any way shape or form... fiction, the aforementioned escapade actually took place (yes..evil laughter and all!) just before the first screening of stagecoach 2005, an IIT Madras production of which i was quite obviously the villain! Cheers... Hic!:D

Errata

2005-05-05T15:55:00.000+05:30

I write at this very moment from a senior's room in my hostel post all the last minute packing drama.. And here's the big anti-climax. Turns out that I as of now am left with absolutely nothing to do even with my train journer 4 hours away...Ergo the result? An unadulterated rant on my blog which by no means should be taken by the reader as any sort of literature save for maybe cathartic madness! Should any reader happen to notice any spelling or grammar mistakes in this post its simply because I didn't give a shit to correct the damn thing.

I leave madras tonight and I shall be gone for the next three months, leaving this heaven for that long is not an easy thought to stomach at all.. But then I remember those final years that are passing out this year. My heart bleeds for them! Best of luck guys.

I just thought I should as a literary left-over party of sorts, write down a few of the thoughts that I couldn't manage to change into actual posts.

"Is this as good as it gets... I'm afraid it might be" http://ferriswheel.blogspot.com

"...Now make no mistake, even as kids we knew what we were reading was quite, quite shitty!"
-this brilliant guy called vishal patel on reading champak http://www.vishalpatel.com
I particularly recommend the tasha files and "a psychedelic champak story"

and a highly recommended read... http://openpages.blogspot.com woman can write!:)

and finally a few left over haiku's.. I'll try and place them in context.

This was me doing a very bad imitation of Keats...

"Windswept locks tease me,
her coy smile melts my heart,
blissful happiness."

This was written in Bombay during mood indigo... The view from the 10th floor is quite something.

"Lemony blue hues,
Bright globes dot the horizon,
Cool calm Bombay nights"

This was me thinking of the monsoons... I really am a rain-man.

"Skin itches flesh swells,
Blunt nails scrape relentlessly,
Monsoon mosquitoes!"

"Pale glow covers her,
Noisy critters flutter by,
Palm leaves in July."

Me and my pal went to a disco once and I felt terribly out of place, though I did have fun writing vague lines that I never used. Finally a chance to get them off my phone!

"Lights shimmer music pounds,
Spirits soar as the night falls,
Shiny disco balls!"

Adios IITM!! I'll miss you!

Lessons from home

2005-05-04T14:27:00.000+05:30

There are times in life where the world just seems to grab you by the collar and forces you to take notice of it with such strength that all you can do is stare…and smile. As a friend of mine put it in one of her blogs, "That’s the thing about beauty. Sometimes it just rushes at you with so much force that you don’t even have time for thought. You just let it fill you up and suddenly there is no room for anything else."

It was the night before one of my end semester exams. Things were looking especially bleak and the heat of the city in summer was really getting to one’s head. I headed over to grab myself some solitude and saturate it with some sweetened carbonated water. After gulping down something cold I began to cycle back to my hostel, thoughts still leaning on exams. I hadn’t received an iota of relief from my little sabbatical from work. Hope was fading fast… this was when nature cut in.

Growing up in Mangalore teaches you a few things. Things like the smell of the ocean, and how walking on the sea shore feels like... with crystals of sand whipping across your face and how your hands get sticky because of the salty sea-side air. It shows you how the clouds swirl, smile and build just before it rains. It shows you the surrealism that darkened sky creates and tells you that even clouds can speak in that unmistakable baritone

You learn to recognize that particular cross wind that nothing can possibly match. Nothing can match it because it brings with it a sense of hope and a sense of relief that is indescribable. Relief, not just for me from the heat, but for the world around us from the disastrous thought that the world is mundane.

You learn to sense the electricity in the air… You learn to see the anticipation, not just in the faces of your friends but even among the trees around you. Even after the cross wind has passed you still see those leaves trembling in that tense manner, as if they were breathing in short clasped breaths. Then you realize they know it as well… they want it as well… they ache for something new… something beautiful to wash over them, just like all of us do.

You realize at that moment why it is that people talk about the eco-“system”… all of us aren’t that different at all. These are the moments when you see how the world waits for the beautiful things in life. How the earth lives for those moments which teach you what being alive is all about. Those moments of sheer beauty when you can just fall back and let it hit you… The magnitude of life.

You learn to smile at how the cold air fills your lungs with expectations… at how the bike ride you were taking about a moment ago now feels like unadulterated flight and how closing your eyes and listening to those sounds, the howl of the wind first… the exquisite silence that follows and then that divine sound… like little raps on the hardwood floor… makes you feel ecstatic to be alive.

Yes it rained in Chennai that night.

When I shake my marakkas they go chik chikki boom

2005-04-28T11:19:00.000+05:30

'Swallow it whole, such a jagged little pill...'

I've got so many stories to tell you guys! The last couple of months have been plain bizarre. For now though, hi. I've missed fsftd. Kini, Hil... (waves hand wildly).

Drops of Heaven

2005-04-26T01:52:00.000+05:30

I drop the basketball after half an hour of flinging it at an iron ring 10 feet above the ground only to hear that characteristic twang that a bouncing ball makes when it’s fully inflated. I move on to switch of the lights on the court (playing at night has a certain romance associated with it), pick up my shirt, mop the sweat off my face with it and fling it over my shoulder and head for my room. It is then that the Madras heat really begins to hit, like a jacket with a stuck zipper that envelops you rather mercilessly, after grabbing a glass of water I desperately search for an antidote to the heat and walk towards the bathroom praying that there's still some water left...

I come back to my room, flick the towel off the bar in a rather stylish movement, grab my soap-box and shampoo and head for the shower. The slippers slap in a sticky sort of way as they move over the moist surface of the bathroom tile, I reach the battered plastic door and unlatch the worn aluminium latch smiling at the flimsy arrangement that ensures a certain privacy of sorts to its inmates. Flinging the towel over the bar I remove my wrist watch, pausing at that moment to think about how humans are such creatures of habit. The fact of the matter is that my watch is completely water proof and I almost always wear it when I swim, besides it inevitably gets soaked in the shower anyway when it’s placed on that little ledge to my side, then why do I bother taking it off? My thought process then moves to that stunning observation of Chandler's where he says "Donald Duck never wore pants... yet when we steps out of the shower, he always has a towel wrapped around his waist! What’s that about?"

I then feel the fabric of my clothes glide across the skin as I undress completely, pause again, this time to think of how we've become so programmed to wear clothes that the only time we actually are without them is when we take a bath or have sex. Funny indeed. I step a little bit off centre from the shower head and reach out for the cold stainless steel valve of the shower. Twisting my wrist, I jump as the first droplets hit bare skin, and then I listen to the familiar hum of a stream of droplets hitting the tiled floor. Such a characteristic sound isn't it. It’s so amusing how almost everybody I know would be able to hear that sound if I just say the word "Shower". Tentatively I move directly under the shower head and then feel bliss.

The water slides over my bare skin like a potion meant to rejuvenate me, it mixes with the beads of sweat to form a warm liquid at first that slowly slides down and then drips off my ankles and tows, it's such a surreal feeling, water when it hits your chest is cold, like a stinging barb but when it slides off your ankle is just as warm as you felt an instant before. I reach out for the shampoo, I always shampoo first, not that it makes a difference but it somehow appeals to my skewed sense to logic to work from the top down. There's a funny thing I associate with shampoo, the thing is that just before I shampoo my hair, it feels like a coarse clumped mass of steel wool, once I wash off the lather, the wool miraculously straightens out into individual strands. Sodium salt of a fatty acid as my eight standard text book would have it, but to me it will always be the funky stuff that somehow straightens my hair.

As the water continues to beat down on my skin, now rippling along my flesh like an expert masseuse, I pull back my shoulder blades and stretch feeling like a feline predator that’s just woken up from its nap, I shake myself out of my reverie to inadvertently find myself humming coldplay's "everything's not lost" nodding in agreement to the lyrics I finish the formalities of my bath and lather up the rest of my being, the back is always an awkward spot to get, I wonder if there's a special technique to it, won't you be a darling and let me know?

After rinsing myself, I find myself shaking my head vigorously while holding the towel firmly against my head; this is when I usually miss my mother the most in my life in college. She used to give me the best shake-of-the-towel-to-try-my-head routine, mom you're the best! Proceed to dry myself of absently and then wrap the towel very neatly around my waist, thinking of the priest who taught me to do that with a silk dhoti during my brahmopadesam. With wet feet I step into those slippers to hear that unmistakable squinchy sound of wet feet in rubber slippers.

Humming Bobby McFerrin I skip along the corridors wondering one little thing...

"Why don't I take a bath more often?"

Gusts and glory

2005-04-25T00:42:00.000+05:30

I sit on my chair, a comfy one it is as I listen to "the great gig in the sky". Floyd tells me that death isn't something I should be afraid of and then this beautiful voice spirals into what I consider is one of the best pure vocals that any human has come up with. At times like this I try and live everything, the note of pain and regret in the vocalists voice, the feeling of my fingers on the plastic, my breath as I sigh from saturation and the letters appearing one by one on the screen. At the same time I wonder, "how can we take life for granted so easily?”” why do we need something drastic to see something so obviously beautiful?"

Two days ago Chennai suddenly was struck by heavy winds, not a blizzard just heavy gusts, it felt like the city was being resuscitated. I walked to my hostel roof... then proceeded to live for a good 20 minutes.

The moon was out; I think it was about 3 days to full moon. I learned to read the phases of the moon when I lived in udupi and would go out onto my terrace every night and my neighbour would tell me how many days it was to full moon. The concrete was cool and as I climbed up the cold metal ladder onto the top of the water tank a gust threatened to throw me off. I sat on the concrete letting my thighs get used to the hard, coarse and yet cool concrete and as I did so rubbed my hands together to get rid of the flakes of paint that inevitably appear on your hands when you climb those ladders.

I looked around to hear my heart skip a beat, what I saw immediately made me sigh, the night had descended very lightly on Chennai that night, not like any other it was just that tonight it felt like a veil that hadn't quite landed on the earth... it seemed like the lights on the horizon were just keeping the veil off the ground, almost but not quite. Lights shimmered, both earthly and divine, as I asked that question that little kids always ask "why do those stars twinkle mom?” there was such a romance associated with that gust of wind. It didn’t feel harsh at all, more like a caress...

Almost as if a gentle lover had wrapped her soft hands around me and welcomed me into her abode. I sat there smiling as the wind slid across my face, I didn't know why I was smiling, until I realized that the reason was a feeling that I had yearned to feel for a long time. The feeling of being happy to be alive. The feeling of just being. I highly under-estimate the joy of being at peace with myself, I struggle constantly with who I am and what I’m doing... but the fact of the matter is, all these questions will be answered all in due time, provided I learned to be at peace with myself. Hard to believe that the wind answered all these questions.

"A Soul in tension that's learning to fly,
Condition grounded but determined to try,
Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies,
Tongue-tied and twisted, just an earth-bound misfit, I"
-Pink Floyd

See you soon...

2005-04-21T12:45:00.000+05:30

"In a bullet proof vest
With the windows all closed
I'll be doing my best
I'll see you soon

In a telescope lens
And when all you want is friends
I'll see you soon
I'll see you soon

And oh, you lost your trust
And oh, you lost your trust
No, don't lose your trust
And oh, you lost your trust"
- Coldplay see you soon.

This song inspires so many emotions in me that i almost always smile this poignant smile inadvertently. Reminds me of when i was a kid and would run around the rain in mangalore without a care in the world trying to splash my socks with as much muddy water so i could see those funky dirt spots on them when i came back home and took them off. There would also be times when i would look out the window when it was raining in that gloomy atmosphere at 11 in the morning and try and convince myself that it was six in the evening. The games we'd play!

I wish i never grew up.

Return

2005-04-19T09:27:00.000+05:30

Hello... Hello... Hello...

Is there anybody out there?

Hello?

Mike testing... Testing... 1, 2, 3...

Ah. It works. I'm back. In black.

This one's for all of kin's IIT-type-200+IQ-type-readers.

Hello.

I'm Sahil.

No, seriously.

I am.

Learning to fly.

2005-03-25T20:50:00.000+05:30

Standing here, my senses reel,
Feeling freedom from the fear to feel.
Questions fade and fears die,
Happiness drips from the corner of my eye.

Words calm me, words be quick,
Before I forget, before mortality sticks.
My arms stretch and pine for the sky,
To learn to be free, to learn to fly.

Eyes closed tight, I breathe the air,
Free from darkness, free from despair.
In the wind’s embrace, in sunlight’s kiss,
I understand life, I feel its bliss.

Born to know, born to glide,
Born to learn, born to fly.
The edge nears, I begin to smile,
Home calls… “It’s been a while.”

Home beckons with an enchanting sway,
On the clouds, I watch the light play.
I step off and head for the sky,
To learn to be free, to learn to fly…

The Formula

2005-02-23T13:02:00.000+05:30

Of all the people that have struck a chord in the corridors of my perverted mind in the short span that i have existed on this planet, few have inspired as much awe as this one name... Mithun Chakraborthy! (i don't know if i've spelt that name correctly but what the heck when it comes to THE disco dancer it doesn't really matter!)

What i wish to discuss following a rather unusally long silence in my literary ventures is the power that men like him and rajnikanth wield over the world of indian cinema. No, this will not be a conspiracy theory session where i compare the "reach" of "superstars" to that of the FBI or the NSA. Hmm i seem to be using a lot of double quotes, but then again unbridled sarcasm is hard to attain until shoved into the face of the reader, for i wish to be very blatant! No sir, this will be a thorough discussion or rather dissection of what pioneers like the aforementioned have done to take movie making to new "heights" (double quotes again! this will be fun!).

During what was one of my many elightening verbal tirades in the company of good folk (no sarcasm intended here) we stumbled across the concept of hindi movie formulae. Many are of the opinion that the formula was best epitomised by Ramesh Sippy's "sholay" with all the chakki-peesing and the basanthi calling, but i dear readers beg to differ. I'm a strong believer of the theory that the formula was best used, over-used and abused by the men of red plastic disco jump suits and auto-tie lungis. (for names refer above)

Yes Sir! where would the art of cinema be but for breakthrough "hits" (quite literally!) like "khopdi - THE SKULL" and "Khanjar - the knife" , at this point i'd like to take time aside and try and convince the poor reader that movies with this hallowed nomenclature do indeed exist and are very much part of lore! I myself have been fortunate enough to catch them on zee cinema. These pieces of work appear on this daring channel during the wee hours of the night.

Same time as when you catch those brilliantly picturised rape-scenes... read gulshan grover advancing with supposedly menacing eyes which are lost in delirium and chanting "bad-man" as if it was supposed to be some not-so-subtle subliminal message to the unfortunate viewer that he was indeed a bad man! and cut to scene 2 where the actress (preferably a sufficiently vague actress with a generous dash of adipose tissue deposited in the abdominal region!) with a ripped blouse and torn sari in tow withdraws with a look that would make psychiatrists think twice about prescribing any anti-depressants! (note: he hasnt touched her yet) and then there's the ceremonial breaking of the random glass bottle and the customary "aage mat aana, aage mat aana...mein police to bulaongi!" this being said in a cabin in the middle of Mr.Bad man's fortress complete with black-sunglass wearing, shiny suit donning, crappy fighter side-kickmen. (read one punch from hero= broken sinus generously spewing bodily fluids)

Now coming back to khopdi and their ilk.. lets return to the primary focus of the discussion. The formula. Now at the risk of sounding like a 10th grade social sciences paper i shall say, there are 2 bifurcations to the formula of movie making in this land of yore.. they are..

1) The MAA formula.
2) The Girlfriend formula.

Please note that these are only broad bifurcations, in fact quite often the two are mixed in not-so-rare occurences called "Blockbuster Hits!" whatever that means. Now i shall meekly try and shed some light on what these essentials really are and how they are used in combination with miscellaneous components to complete the movie. To use a gardening similie this the compost heap..i still have to get to the pitch-fork!

The Maa formula goes something like this.
Hero graduates from college.
(Hero is usually called Vijay /*i still don't get the funda behind that*/)
The beta is a goodest of good boys.
Beta tries for job.
Beta gets butt-fucked by the junta having uncles in offices who get job first.
Beta gets cynical.
Beta becomes police officer.
Beta rapes the shit out of the bad guys "daru ka adda"
Villain gets shit pissed. "is Inspector Vijay ne mujhe karoodon ka nukhsan pahuchayan hai!"

Villain gets hold of Beta's younger brother, who at this time is either in the same college flirting with some vague chick in a pink frock and a huge thick 80's madonna belt with a gold buckle (seriously..does anyone wear a frock to college? let alone a pink one?) or a kid in a pitiful school uniform.
/* The pink frock woman can be amply used to generate the prerequiste amount of pelvic thrusts per movie or PT/M in engineering terms*/

Villains beats the crap out of college boy brother or doesn't give food to school boy brother
/*if the kid bro is a school boy brother then there is the inevitable call where the phone is shoved into the kids face and there is the touching "bhaiyya! mujhe bachao bhaiyya!" followed by evil laughter... essential component in hindi movie*/

After getting screwed at hands of villain..chote bhai ultimately dies.(what a waste of celluloid.)
Beta pissed.
Maa pissed.
Maa asks beta to take badla.
Police Kanoon ka lamba haath is not lamba enough.
Beta thrown out of police force.
Beta goes out to rape Villain dada back.
Villain now kidnaps maa..(seriously the beta doesnt watch his home often enough.)
Beta cries out "MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA"
/*defining moment of the movie*/
Beta beats the shit out of the fortress guarding crappy fighting sidey dudes.
*Evil laughter*
Beta fights villain.
*More evil laughter*
Beta initially gets ass kicked.
*Did i mention Evil laughter*
Maa says "you can do it beta"
*nike ad...oops...sorry..more evil laughter*
*barbaric...aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah from hero after wiping blood of corner of mouth*
Beta keeps thulping villain to glory..villain almost fights back...and right then the end comes... either villain is shoved into an unusually large spear or he is electrocuted or he is thrown into boiling oil or whatever...
Beta saves maa. touches feet. Movie ends. Inspector Vijay walks into sunset. Pink frock woman in tow.

Now for the Girlfriend formula.

Very similar beginnings.. only minor modification being pink frock woman is now totally enamoured by Vijay and the dude is now a bhaiyya to another suitably vague sister.
Lets cut to the chase.

Sister walks on road.
Sister catches Villain's roadside dada's attention.
Sister arbitly gets raped.
Note: This can be coupled with ambient rules as described in the "Bad-Man" paragraph.
Sister runs with torn blouse and sari through the streets of this colony.
Junta watch sister running.
Note: This is in no way due to public concern. This is because director dude was too lazy to get rid of random junta. so you sometimes even get to see the over-enthu spectator smiling and waving at the camera.
Bhaiyya gets pissed.
Bhaiyya runs with insanely huge blood spattered talwar
Note: He hasnt killed anyone yet...conservation of mass says..where did the blood come from. /*newton rolls over in grave*/
Bhaiyya beats shit out of dada.
Villain gets pissed. and then the ending is very similar save for one thing.

This genre has what we call the "mandir scene" again the defining moment of the movie. This being when the hero enters a shiva temple. with trishul next to shiva statue./*essential component*/ and asks bhagwan for insaaf. Usually coupled with a storm blowing and causing a hell of a lot of noise in combination with the temple bells. Also a part of this scene is the only chance where the cinematographer gets to have some fun. To generate the effect of violence. The camera dude generally swivells the camera around like a nut on acid and with the music in the background makes for a very touching scene indeed. This is followed by the divine sign from the heavens where a flower arbitly falls to indicate approval followed by hero's journey to villains fortress.

At this point i'd also like to discuss the various similies used for love-making in hindi cinema. Most common being the leaves randomly overlapping, a bee sitting on a rose??!, fireplace closeup, lighting thunder and other vague natural calamities and here's the studliest of them all...a horse running on a sea-shore. And they say we can't express our sexuality. sheesh!

Ending being Vijay walks into sunset. With pink frock woman and blessing of suraj bharjathiya in tow.

There are certain movies that definitely surpass these genres by a looooong way. Most of them have THE MAN..i.e: Rajnikanth behind them. Auto-tie lungi's, revolvers lighting cigarettes, telugu movies where the hero stops a train by stylishy (garishly?) slapping his left thigh and a generous dash of "Mind-IT"'s make for movie making thats just beyond words. So i won't even try!Until next time....MIND IT disco dancers!

Staring At The Stars

2005-01-13T02:13:00.000+05:30

3 days and no food.

I looked at my kids again. Innocence stared back at me. God they were so young! They deserved a chance, I know they did. The guilt was catching up with me, I know I was trying as hard as I possibly could but it just wasn’t working out like I wanted it to.

Summer was always the worst. The heat, the dust... the afternoon sun would hang threateningly over the dry grass. This was when I would feel the loneliest. I trudged along thinking of life and more importantly survival. It had always been a fight for me, making ends meet. But I’d always managed to pull something off, this time though things were looking bleak.

I thought of how unfair nature can be, abandoning a single mother with 2 completely helpless children. I knew I was adept in my own right but I couldn’t help thinking that there was an inevitable gender bias in nature itself. I kept searching for a reason, but then decided that the matter probably was under the purview of what I thought was a higher power. More pressing matters were at hand anyway.

It had been two years now, two years during which it had been just me the kids. It had been a hard time, very trying actually, but the kids were learning... and in a couple of years I thought, in a couple of years they might even stand a chance if they had to fend for themselves. I knew I wouldn’t last for much longer than that. But that was ok... nature worked like that and I respected the system. There seemed to be some underlying order to the whole world. Everybody I saw was so intricately connected. It just couldn’t have been a coincidence. The level of understanding between the components of the system was just too great. It was almost as if the entire system would fall apart if you pulled out a single block from it. I would think of this and the possibility of even bigger things when I would lie down at night staring up at the stars. There had to be a much bigger world out there. And I taught my children to respect that. That’s the way it should be.

Just then a rustling caught my attention. In the distance I saw something that might... just might be able to provide me and the kids with our next meal. I turned, alert as ever. The hunger, the heat, the despair all forgotten. This happened sometimes, it was almost as if I would enter another plane of thought. Singular and focused. At that moment I knew it was now or never, I lunged forward and sprinted... just sprinted. Eyes locked, mind blank, legs spinning on the edge of losing control. Closer, closer, closer...

And then my claws hit flesh... the kill was made. Breathing hard, I sat over my meal for a while. My mother had always taught me to let myself cool off before moving. And I’d teach my kids the same thing. I know they have a chance. I know they do...

The savannah is after all a magical place.

My name is... (all over again)

2005-01-10T13:47:00.000+05:30

This post was originally called "My name is..." on my other blog, for the record it was posted on Jan 4th, much before 'Madam A' showed up. This happened because I'd been asked by friends what SNT meant. I searched thru' and thru' for a reference to this 'druggie' thing. I couldn't. It must be this thing that happened to me after I hit puberty, when I realized that growing up to act the way adults do, is quite cool. Of course, arunamatata seems to think there's a drug-related connection to it. My dear readers, you decide.
--------------------------------------------------------------
It's Saturday night, and there's nothing left to do but plop yourself in front of the tv, remote in one hand, crossie in the other. You're too lazy to cook, so you order cheap takeout food and wait for it to come. The wallet's comfortably set a few metres from the door so you don't have to go looking around when dinner arrives.

It's all boring, but that's alright. These 'boring' periods are when most of your thinking gets done. The tv rambles on, and 2 hours of canned laughter still can't bring about the faintest giggle from you. The crossie's got three clues left, damned if you can get them.

Across 8: Sounds like comfortable clothes for the computer, maybe? (8)

You catch yourself staring into nothingness for a few minutes longer than necessary. A fleeting desire for productive work passes over you, but that's lost in the commercial blaring out into space, urging you to buy the latest stomach crunch apparatus, mingled with black and white dramatizations of why all previous apparatus were worthless. Seriously, don't they get the fact that their target audience is a bunch of fat morons?

Down 11: Old beer's stinky vapour? (10)

The food's all gone, and you scrape away the little disgusting cold cheese that's stuck to the cardboard; after staring at it for a minute it disappears into your mouth. No regrets. Channelsurf for 30 seconds before you realize that it's all bullshit, so you might as well watch the regional softporn for a while. The nausea takes over, and it's got more to do with the excess cellulite on screen than the odour that's coming out of your armpits. Switch back to [insertrandomchannelname] and watch [insertinanetopic] being discussed on [inserttalkshowname], like the world would change because of it.

Your mind wanders, and you think of the chick you bumped into that afternoon. It sure would have been nice if you had gotten her cell number because then you'd have asked her out to coffee and then maybe dinner and then long chats on the phone and drives through open highways, her hair being thrown every which way by the breeze and then you'd get married after dating for six months and maybe a couple of kids and that beachhouse you always dreamt of and by then you'd be a successful novelist/businessman/whatever and you'd buy a spanking new car and you'd still be madly in love and...

Across 14: This sport angered the ant (7)

Yawn. Your hand reaches out to scratch your knee, and you realize that your whole left foot's gone numb. The irony of the situation is amusing, now that you'll have to hop about for a while just to get the pinsandneedles out. A sleeping foot, hilarious. Might as well go and blog for a while, then crash into the usual 12 hour slumber routine. After all, tonight was named after you, wasn't it?

PS: Software, Flatulence, Cricket.
-------------------

PS- Kini dude, give me a high-5. Konak pura apeth re tu hanga? Makk kai problem na, I'm thoroughly enjoying this. Yet, do I still have to suffer thru' bad bandwidth and slow pageloading to endure such pitiful attacks? Gatti ashilel janank apay re, I'm game for a challenge! 'High'-5, get it?

[And in the embrace of a really bad joke, Pi sits back and waits...]

The Disembodied Observer

2005-01-06T22:45:00.000+05:30

Light clicking noises emanated from a corner of this universe. Continuous sometimes, sometimes abrupt. Something like what happens when we write with a ball point pen when the ink in it has almost gone dry. Worlds were being born, very hazy worlds, the kind that have no detail, just a broad shape and in a wisp of silvery white smoke, those worlds too would disappear. They would merge with different creations and form an alternate plane of reality.

The void in this plane wasn't unlike the vacuum in space, cold, dark and most importantly blank. It would just wait... Then the void would quietly consume the breathing entities in that reality no objections, no questions. But at the same time a disembodied observer would watch as all these events unfolded. Again not objecting, not questioning. Slowly though the observer began to wonder, whether creation was ever possible in this hazy plane. The more he strained his eyes for some sort of order in the reality, some sort of story, the more the void seemed to take over.

The observer paused... The straining stopped. The disdain for the disorder was withdrawn. As he relaxed, slowly, consciously, the haze began to lift. Things began to come to him. Not drawn by a pull, but just passing him by almost as if suddenly they'd given him the permission to live in their world.

The observer walked in this world, thrilled to be in it. He saw the lives of people being lived. He saw some people he knew, many he didn't. Love was something he could understand here, on his own terms. He saw another earth, but this time it wasn't the jaded perspective he otherwise had. He could see the smallest atom, to the largest galaxy all in one blink. The scale, the system, the sheer magnificence on this reality was something that overwhelmed him. He saw the earth, a glimmering blue sphere, glimmering even when it had turned away from the sun. The observer saw men creating some of the sparks, but this wasn't as if they were separate entities. Here in this reality, they were part of life itself and the glimmer was no different from the red glow of the molten rock that would flow underneath the blue shimmering. They were not just people, water, dust and stars. They were life itself.

Nature was almost...Nay truly surreal on this reality. He would walk and he would smile. Thankful to be there.

And when he'd seen enough, the observer would lay back and let the silver wisps appear again. Letting this reality dissolve into itself. Leaving nothing but the clicking noises, a laptop and a very happy boy of nineteen.

Deja Vu?

2005-01-06T20:34:00.000+05:30

I just love MS bashing tales.

I can try, can't I?

2005-01-05T05:11:00.000+05:30

I can and will speak and write with just one sound per word. It may soon sound bad, but just the fact that it can be done at all is good. Like plain math, you are meant to get the whole thing with few bits. Of course, not a lot can be said to you this way. Let's just say that I want for this to be new: free speech, that's not so free. Do you get what I say? It gets hard, too fast for me. But it's still my fight with those who use big words that no one gets. This is cool. More than the big words. Quite neat. Yet, all is passed on to the ear. Could you do it too? Please tell me more, on this blog. I would love to hear of your try. Just be sure not to cheat, else the game will die out. Or you could just pass by, like you did not see this post at all. Don't be mean.

Squirrels

2005-01-04T23:48:00.000+05:30

ok me back this time with a little bit of catharsis..new flavour of the moment and all.

setting: pi sitting in room reading a stephen king novel. me generally fooling around with seniors laptop as my comp remains buried in another senior's room.

strange things happen sometimes (fragment consider revising...thats usually what i see whenever i run grammar checks on my articles) guess thats what makes this stuff so damn disjointed to read. but then again i digress. back to the strange things that happen sometimes. today something very very very grotesque took place (notice the use of very simple english in this post...this is ala salinger). here we are all in the room grabbing some desperately needed sleep and this really disturbing odour slowly builds up in the room...not like it hadnt been there earlier, its just that once someone in the room noticed it all of us couldnt help but smell the same shit.*interesting simile*

anyway the damn time passes, sleep takes over lazy evenings pass by blah blah blah...me and pi go out to the pattisserie (we really like saying that by the way) *pasta pastry and pattisserie all come out from the same word - pi* and when we come back we notice that the unearthly odour has only gotten worse... this i think happened cuz we had gotten a whiff of fresh air. so this is the conversation that ensues...

Pi: Dude...i gotta find out what that smell is about.
Me: ok man..hang on...(yelling)...dude hemanth has a rat or something died in your bag.
(at this point hemanth my dear room mate dutifuly walks in lifts the flap of his bag, takes a cursory glance around.)
Hemanth: No man.
(thats the thing about living in this hostel...it makes you believe anything..even random accusations about dead animal carcasses in travel bags.)
Me:*chuckle* you actually thought i was serious?
*shrug from hemanth*
Me: (damn.. humorous moment ruined and all that)
Pi: OH FUCK...OH FUCK...OH FUUUUUUUCK! dude there is a fuckin animal trapped in your desk!!!!!
Me:wtf?
Pi:look under the table dude...
(now i hang from my bed and get a look under the table and recoil in digust...cuz i see a furry tail happily dangling away....la la la la laaa..and all that!)
Me: *repeat pi's loud sentence with higher decibel levels*
Pi:get your friends man...maybe they want to watch.
Me:iiiii don't think so
Pi: we need to wiggle it out.
the thought of wiggling brings back images of the bee gees...man those were weird people, even with a squirrel lodged in hemanth's desk...newspaper collected, wiggling done, smashed* quirrel picked up and dropped behind mandak.(* no references to enthanol.//sad pun) meal on verge of regurgitation...

//catharsis done.

Until Tomorrow - Part1

2005-01-03T22:46:00.000+05:30

[I'm back. Won't put any more personal blogs, just the literary ramblings. Inspiration from the 'tada!' style of conventional suspense thrillers. This is part 1 of a story in progress of being written. Please comment. Criticism welcome. Thanks Kini for proof-reading]

I woke to find myself lying face up, chained to a rough, stone floor. My arms were cut, and blood flowed freely down. I looked up, and the stars mocked in stark silence. A pity, that silence said, but we can't help you. The metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth. Then, a faint lumniscence teased my periphery. I tried to turn, but the spikes dug into my flesh and held my head solid. Whoever had done this definitely didn't want me to look around too much. The light danced in teasing range, but soon disappeared. I asked myself the obvious question- "What the?" No answers came, none were expected. The pain was quite unbearable now; I could feel the pain in the centre of my skull. My bare feet were aching on the cold floor, and realization dawned that I was quite naked. This was bad, because the rain that started to fall was icy cold, and it felt like a shower of needles on my bare chest. I tried screaming in agony, but only a whisper escaped my throat.

And then a voice behind me spoke, "Will the promise be upheld?" What promise? Had I damned my soul to purgatory that I may live some worldly dream? Maybe it was the fury of God himself, condemning me to an eternity of misery for sins committed. Perhaps it was a dream, and soon I would find myself awake in bed, sweating and trembling, safe to be out of the clutches of yet another nightmare. Again the voice asked, "Will the promise be upheld?". My silence must have infuriated the tormentor, because the next thing I knew, a sharp pain passed through my body, numbing the mind in a flash of white light and followed by a searing pain that rippled through and through, unwilling and unforgiving. I passed out, and when I opened my eyes again, the rainfall had ceased and the stars had shifted position. Somewhere in the distant darkness I could sense the presence of other beings, the animal growls that accompanied them gave me the goosebumps.

Ok, so it's not a dream.

I screamed out (and the voices came), "Yes, yes! I will uphold the promise! Oh, in the name of all that is good, release me from this horror!" Of course, at this point I couldn't remember what promise it was, but I was willing to say anything to save me from this beastly impending death. It worked; the growling subsided, and soon I felt the solitude return. But the chains still bound me, the pain still blinded my senses. It was only after a long time (how long, I wasn’t sure) that the tears stopped rolling down my cheeks. But the agony of being in my pitiable condition (as the stars had so rightly justified) still had me confused, in a sad-angry-hurt kind of way. It was reality, no doubt, even if it was a reality not seen by (or heard of) by me. And what could I do?

Through the matted blood and hair that covered my eyes, I glanced down at myself. There were several wounds, like those inflicted by the lashings of a whip the size of a redwood. Some seemed newer than the others, it was almost as if they had been continuously administered on my body for long periods of time. I managed to bend my neck downwards, enough to stare at my chest, and the moonlight showed an inverted pentacle etched into my flesh, covering the entire torso and part of my shoulders. All through this, one question raced through my mind, again and again.

Why couldn’t I remember how I got here?

To be continued…

tata, horn ok please.

2004-12-28T22:22:00.000+05:30

I quit 'free speech...' today. Nice hanging around here.
See you all in another life.

Wee Wee chu a merry christmas (and a happy new year)

2004-12-27T21:57:00.000+05:30

This blog goes personal from today. I will fight the temptation to write for an audience. I shall become withdrawn, and blossom into a butterfly by the end of it all. A monarch.

72 hours without sleep, a new presonal best. Insomniacs anonymous, unite! Where everything's in 2d, and language is beyond gibberish!

All it takes is one moment to change a desiny. For the worse, I mean.

Quants - 800
Verbals - 630.

Lost out on the draw of choice of verbal section getting evaluated. Now I've got to walk around college with virtually everybody else hitting 1500+. Embarassing. I wish I believed in god, then I would have somebody else to blame. But no, the weight of grief is heavy upon my heart, and there's no one left to shout at but myself.

Ever wondered about fate? What does one do when he realizes he's stuck in the land of the poor, and there's no way out?
[Cliche incoming]

Fuck the system.

Need alcohol. Inundatory amounts. Till I bleed sweet ethanol.

I've noticed that I'm writing more for myself now than anything else. Is this unexpected, or something that was bound to happen?

[Light filters in through drawn curtains. Streaks of acrid light fall across Pi's face.

Cut to OUTSIDE THE ROOM. Pi's dad, an aging plump man, over 50, is knocking softly on the door, with a vexed look on his face. What's happened to his cheerful son?

Cut back to INSIDE THE ROOM. ZOOM IN onto Pi's hand. Involuntary twitches. Our friend is obviously not on this plane of existence. The knocking stops. We hear footsteps walking away.]

Pi1: We fucked up bad. Big time. We're going to disappear amongst a sea of indistinguishable faces, and it's all our own fault.
Pi2: I agree. So this is what anger at self feels like. I don't like it. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK,

[banging of keyboard echoes in cold desolate room. The phone vibrates silently, but Pi isn't paying any attention. He looks up and stares at the screen, wondering what so many vowels are doing in one word. ]

aoieiaeoiauaei

Pis 1&2: Huh? Huh? HuHu?h?

[Slowly the two voices merge into one deep voice. In the distance we hear the faint sound of bells tinkling. ]

Pocosriretlilatvionalely

Posicorrelationaltively

Perfectly alright.

[It's the dawning of a new day. The curatains are drawn back and the wind blows in,almost gale-like shots, to russle up, to tussle up, to play a game of ignorance with the constant. Camera follows a circular path, focusing on the centre where pi is hugging himself. Suddenly, a flash of bright light, followed by the pleasant scent of strwberries. ]

Pi: Hello world. I've been reborn.

Till next time. That'll be a couple of hours from. From the land of guise and deception.

What me sober?

Fuck- what a beautiful word. Strong, expressive, short, profound. Like tequila.

Wee Wee chu

2004-12-27T04:57:00.000+05:30

Please don't read this blog. It's inconsequential. It's cathartic to me, ergo I'm posting. If you feel you relate at all, on any abstract basis, drop a comment.

Blogging after a really long time. This blog comes the night before my GRE, so I'm positively freaked out about impending doom. Dad's going to scream at me for dumping cash down the loo, but what the hell? ETS owes me a booze treat for all the pain I've gone through.

Nothing substantial to be written now, though I have been jotting down notes at regular intervals in a text file hidden on the comp. Must remember to write about them soon enough.

No sleep for about 60 hours now. I can literally see phantoms of light and darkness passing before my eyes, teasing my peripheral vision and making me glance sideways despite the knowledge that they're not there. I wish they were real, life is approaching a thoroughly boring anticlimax. I'm 21, and I feel like I've seen it all. Nothing, absolutely NOTHING amazes or surprises me anymore. A burst of interest surfaces sporadically once in a while, while I feign pleasure and all the conventional oohs and ahs that are expected of me. The only genuine happiness happens when I read a book, so I owe Mukka a big thanks for introducing me to the Blossoms book store. Picked up a couple of short story collections there, VOX2 and O'Henry award winners of the 1970s. Brilliantly different from the usual stuff.

Also, I personally recommend that you, the reader, to pick up 'The End' series from Marvel. Just read 'The Hulk:The End' and it's god-awesome. Not faking that emotion, I promise you. I expect the rest of the series to be as good.

Sleepy, but the will refuses to let my eyes close. Burning eyes.

Thoughts- (will elucidate on next blog)
->If at all a God exists, then he/she has forsaken mankind.
->India loves mediocrity. Correction- Indians love mediocrity. I see it around me all the time.
->Loneliness is bliss. Expect a full-fledged blog on this.
->Science is heading for a standstill. Every 'breakthrough' is relevant only to human needs, not to the objective of furthering knowledge. I dare you to think of an idea that'll NOT benefit mankind, yet is knowledge nonetheless. Theoretical physics is not an option.
->Zen works; there are certain inimitable advantages to letting the world think you're a fool and non-productive, things even the Zen masters couldn't percieve to work in a modern world. Pirsig, you ain't one; you aren't even close to becoming one. You fooled the world, you won't fool me.

Who will be a friend to the one who feels he's friendless?
Who can love someone who doesn't desire to be loved?
Who will talk to someone who talks mostly to himself?
Who can understand the silence that is this person's most profound speech?
Who will open the doors to the mind that refuses to unlock?
Who will talk to me?

"Can Anybody fly this thing?
Before my head explodes,
Before my head starts to ring?
We've been living life, inside a bottle (2)
Well, confidence in you,
Is confidence in me,
Is confidence in a High Speed."

2004-12-18T19:22:00.000+05:30

Last night I managed to catch a Spike Lee flick on Star Movies, his version of a 9/11 movie. Nothing to do with the actual towers crashing, but a story that's set in NY post-BinLaden. A truly brilliant movie, Lee manages to catch the ultimate sliceoflife demonstration and makes a thoroughly engrossing 2 hour timepass. Gripping stuff. Sorry I didn't catch the name of the movie, but it did start after midnight, and starred Edward Norton. (Produced by Tobey Maguire, strangely enough)

That was followed by 'Dead Poet's Society'. Groan. I wish they wouldn't make movies like that, with hajaar impressionable kids ready to lap up anything that tells them that it's ok to 'seize the day'. A good performance by Neil's dad (Red Foreman in the 70's show), but the story dies somewhere. What a pansy chickflick. An abrupt ending, a mockery of Tennyson, and omigod- a love story hidden in the script somewhere. Throw in a ghagra choli and some songs, and you've got yourself a hindi movie. Hold up... Mohabbatein? Damn. I still prefer "Good Morning Vietnam' and 'Mork and Mindy' as Williams' better works.

Also, the 9 o'clock movie was 'Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo'. Memorable quote: "Who's the HUGE bitch?" Snark, Snark. (So I'm gross. Bite me.)

Abstract thoughts
---Only randomness, or a stochastic likeness to reality, could validate Godel. Now randomness has been verified ages ago, so we might as well give up looking for a '42'. Ergo, GUT dreams go down the drain.
---Chicks are better than guys. They're smart and believe their own stories. Hence, their sincerity is genuine.
---In a few more decades, I'm not going to want to die. Right now, I don't want to live. What's in between? (Besides, I understand that none of us want to die. My question is- why are we AFRAID of death? Not liking it is one thing, but wher's the fear coming from?)
---(Bertrand R.) The world has been created just a few moments ago, with your memory being just an illusory past that's been programmed into your head. Worth some thought.

PS- The brickbats that're going to come for DPS, let me offer a preliminary defense- The movie said nothing new, it was obvious as hell where the story was going, and I'm not sure RW had more than a couple of pages of substantial dialogue throughout the movie. Oh captain, my captain... Patch Adams had more soul than this.

2004-12-17T22:48:00.000+05:30

Well, this blog comes extempore, from a stinky cyber cafe where the power's gone out and the queue is half a mile long. Suckers. Today I blog to satisfy myself, and to make sure I've got something to read a few years later when I'm 'soul-searching' and doing other psycho-bullshit.

1. Borges is my new literary God. The man is a true master of the short story, and has a knack for pulling twists to a story when it isn't even necessary. Inventive as hell. Notables were "Tlon, Uqbar and [something] Tertius", and the entire Artifices section.

2. This week, E.A.Poe slips down to second spot, but only because 'the purloined letter' didn't seem as mentally stimulating as any of his other works. Then again, maybe I'm too obsessed with the idea of gloomy writing to appreciate this piece right now.

3. No matter how much people claim that they're broad-minded, open and non-judgemental; through cracks in this viciously deceptive facade I can recognize sarcasm, hate and the opinions biased by atleast a decade of opinions being shoved down their throats. No need to be apologetic, of course, but I figure even the most wicked of witches (from the east?) can reform by adhering to the 3-step rule:
One- Honesty, let manners be damned.
Two- Like Aristotle said in 'Apology'; we're all stupid. (or something to that effect). Once that knowledge as been truly accepted by us, can we hope to achieve any sort of greatness.
Three- The ability to choose must be exercised at EVERY possible chance. And all choice must be determined by what you already know to be true, not by what someone has convinced you to be true.

Oops. There's a contradiction in there somewhere. Won't you be a darling and tell me what it is?

4. Last night I swore never to have anything to do with juniors. It's going to be just me and my buddies. Those kids sure can hurt someone. And I'm supposed to be the nice guy around. Giggle, pshaw and all that.

5. (Brag mode ON) Finally got a nifty new digital camera. Really cool. Awesome. Yummy. Say cheese, please.

My little world of readers, good night. Any questions?

PS- the whole iitm gang who visit this blog, hi there. My name's Pi, i hope you're having fun at my expense. Watch out for more incomprehensible doggerel. It can only get worse!

Nice Guys

2004-12-12T20:43:00.000+05:30

Hey people,
This is one post i'm republishing, cuz right now the flavour of the week happens to be short stories and many more people visit the blog now than when i had published this for the first time.. this one was written in my basic course in humanities exam, long long time ago(not really round 8 months ago!)...its retro-kini!:D hope you like this one. its one of my favourites.

--------------------------------------------------------------

I saw her then, looking absolutely ravishing in a blue gown as the sapphires she wore rested oh so lightly on the curve of her breasts, glowing with the same radiance her face seemed to exude. I was in town only for a few days and I’d already decided that I didn’t like London. I decided that I’d spend my last evening in the city with the only people that I ever liked, arrogant French painters…

There was an art exhibition of Auguste Renoir’s just off Bond Street and I forced myself to take the cab there. I didn’t know whether I was hallucinating or whether it was the scotch that I had during lunch but she was walking towards me. I offered her a drink and we talked through the evening. I was taken aback by how easy it was just to relax with her. It seemed as if it had been years since I’d known someone like her.

I decided to offer her a ride home, but before I could act she suggested that we go to my place for dessert. I took her to the plaza (I never stayed anywhere else). We entered the room and just then I felt the overpowering need to be intimate with her, the need almost bordered on obsession. I reached out for her and she never resisted.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

I woke up in the morning to find my wife and daughter sitting on the couch. The tension in the room was palpable. It was heady feeling. I didn’t know what to say or what to think. My daughter slowly got up and walked over to me and in an instant she had embraced me. I hadn’t seen my daughter in eight years. I hadn’t made love to my wife in eight years... until yesterday. I couldn’t believe it was happening to me. But then again, nice guys don’t always finish last!

P.S:- Pi hope you dont mind the fact that i used the hyphen line thingy to space the story more effectively, its a trick i rather like!:)

Mukka's Door

2004-12-12T16:53:00.000+05:30

an insight i found in final block...one of many insights on life to be gained in that mythical place... on mukka's door as the name suggests.

"This man is free from servile bands,
Of hope to rise or fear to fall,
lord of himself though not of lands,
he who craves nothing, yet hath all"

awesome shit!:D

The Haiku Dialogues

2004-12-12T15:12:00.000+05:30

hello everyone...
have been immersing myself in a little bit of creative conversation these days with some interesting people i know and at the front end of these talks has been the art of the haiku. couple of people i know, namely anushya and pi have been belting out haiku's at a frenetic pace and my sms folder is bursting with them at the moment, hence this post comes with a certain note of desperation attached to it.. i want to empty my inbox, its annoying me!:p

i shall try to state the context of each haiku comes up and memory failing will leave it to the readers fertile imagination to try and decipher what sort of ludicrous train of thought brought those collection of syllables together. a refresher for the novice...

haiku = ancient japanese style of poetry with three lines containing 5-7-5 syllables each. i encourage everyone who drops by to try composing one of their own, a word of warning though, this may lead to many a sunday afternoon spent mindlessly counting syllables trying to fit them into the requisite format! enjoy!

This one was written just a couple of days back, with me sitting in final block(NIT surathkal) pi had his last exam the next day and dare i say was in a very life's a bitch but what the heck sort of mood. entertaining conversations at night canteen ensued following this haiku, kinda was a sort of cry for help...i hate software enginnering too pi...whatever the heck it is!:p

The boy stares at the screen,
loves porn for all the big boobs,
wants to touch himself.
-pi

The next two were written by pi the night before my math end sem, the last one in line, me and anushya were sitting in the library with her desperately trying to get me to grasp the nuances of the art of abstract mathematics, with all its delta's and epsilons! god they were giving me hell when suddenly my cell phone beeps and i guffawed quite heartily for a while after reading what the msgs were. lol...a ray of hope and nothing else, showed me humour was possible even when math was being learnt!

light guides me at night,
relief for bladder and mind,
dont pee in the fridge.
-pi

frogs watch the sunrise,
tongues flash out in crimson sky,
oh poor dragonfly!
-pi

This was anushya getting all thoughtful when i was sitting on the train ride back home, we were pursuing the higher art of haiku dialogues via sms.. yay for technology!

look into my eyes
search not for what you do see,
but for what you dont.
-anushya

the only actual dialogue that we had via a haiku, she was gettig steadily more and more tangential as the haiku's began to flow and i sent her a reply this was fun to do! nice party game i say!(ok i just sounded like rajinikanth! whattaman!)

as you race by me,
remember its easier,
to stab from the back.
-anushya

stab you in the back,
how i'd love to do that,
damn, my brakes don't work!
-me

This was a result of anushya sending me a particularly sad haiku regarding a hungry girl...funnily enough it encouraged me to write my own haiku on the theme...kinda pointless this one..oh what am i saying..all of them are pointless!

hunger strikes full on,
loud cars, louder men honk on,
oh red light be gone!
-me

Anushya's best one to date according to me and pinni agrees. dont think it requires too much of an introduction. good work anu! profound, but i wish she was more hopeful sometimes!

in the maze of life,
i cannot get lost for i..
have nowhere to go.
-anushya

this was me a couple of seconds ago...its a sunday evening (duh!) and well am listening to a few senti songs and the sun outside is well..intoxicating to say the least! i love lazy times!

the glitter of spring,
earthy guitar notes fill me...
ah sunday evenings!
-me

well until next time guys!:)