dark alley

The 'Spirit'ual Emptiness of a Monk

2011-10-15T06:40:00.000-07:00

Death

2011-10-05T04:33:00.000-07:00

After the third peg, it rained.
When the last drop of water
Fell off the tip of my nose,
There appeared a sunflower field
That stretched to the horizon.
On the other side stood the
Pristine, immaculate figure
Who made me wonder once,
‘Can life be this beautiful or
Is it just another stupid dream?’
As she came forward, I could see
The gleefully moistened eyes and
The fine curves on her cascading tresses.
In her husky voice that gave me sleepless
Nights she whispered playfully,
“Come to me, come to me…”

The Standard Answer

2011-10-02T02:25:00.000-07:00

“It was wrong, what I did.
I feel guilty and it gnaws
Me sharp. You know, the
Pain is unbearable…”
Suddenly, as if annoyed
By my silence, he turned to
Me and grabbed me by the shoulders.
Shaking me violently, he asked,
“Do you think that what I did was right?”
Shifting my gaze from the ground
Beneath to his eyes,I gave him
The standard answer that contained
The word, ‘relative’.
Were I wrong?

Onam, the joys of being at home, and the memories they evoke

2011-09-17T04:46:00.000-07:00

A digital camera I purchased recently and an unusually long stay at home during Onam made me walk around clicking. I had hardly clicked pictures before. For reasons unknown I always shied away from taking photographs even when I was asked to. I don’t even know how to use an SLR. Once I saw three men in a mall sitting on a bunch right under a name board that shouted ‘scary house’ with perplexed expressions on their faces. It would’ve been a very good photograph had I got an opportunity to click, but just like unheard melodies are sweeter, unclicked photographs are greater. Imagine, I try to click them and they ‘pose.’

On ‘uthradam’ my nieces came home (rumour had it that they were sent to their grandparents because their mom found them unmanageable during the holidays: D). It was real good fun. Though most of the times ‘chechi’ and ‘aniyathi’ got on to my nerves with their noisy games and quarrels, it was just great to have them around. By evening they declared that ‘tomorrow we will do ‘pookkalam’ and I was the one assigned with the task of getting flowers from the market. Yes, from the market. I hate to lament the loss of the so called halcyon days. But the fact is that the once ubiquitous ‘thumba’ or ‘mukkutti’ were nowhere to be seen. So we had to be content with whatever I got from the flower market (not bad though, we got 10 colours somehow by adding hibiscus and mosanda that grow in the compound). I’m exceptionally bad at things which are even remotely associated with art. I can’t even draw a line properly. But still, I agreed to do the floral pattern. Thus the tree of us, me and the kids, with their suggestions, quarrels, protests and even walk-outs, finished it at last. And they even congratulated me saying that it came out pretty well and was way beyond their expectations: D

I don’t how many of you are familiar with ‘Onappottan’. It’s a custom in Malabar, especially in the erstwhile Kadathanadu. During Onam, ‘Onappottan’ visits every household and is given rice, clothes and money. Nowadays the emphasis is more on money. As the name suggests, ‘Onappottan’ doesn’t talk, he communicates solely with gestures. It was when I tried to click ‘Onappottan’ that I realized that I can never be a photographer. A photographer needs to approach his subject objectively. I found it impossible to treat the figure which I’ve been seeing since childhood (As a kid I used to watch him timidly from behind the door or clinging fiercely on my mother while my sister, 3 years younger, terrified me by trying to grab me outside and in the process terrified the ‘Onappottan’ too.)objectively. I felt that I was making fun of him. So I clicked the photographs trying not to bother or attract his attention.

There is yet another figure who was an inevitable part of my childhood. Unlike ‘Onappottan’, this man clad in a neat dhoti and shirt, comes with a small drum (edakka) to ward off evil during the month of ‘karkkidakam’. He sings in his mellifluous voice while gently tapping on his drum. After years of listening to his song the only words I could pick from it was ‘mullu muratu moorkhan pambu’. I think it had been 5 or 6 years since I saw him. However, his face, the jet-black spring- like hair and the lean figure is still afresh in memory. I would like to call him ‘Cleopatran’ for the man looked exactly as I saw him for the first time when I saw him last; ‘age cannot wither him’.

No matter how busy one is one should always find time for ‘spirit’ual activities? Don’t you think so? Though me and my friends didn’t drink on Onam we had it the previous day, a bottle of Johnny Walker Gold Label and then an Antiquity. Hope all of you had a wonderful Onam!

Me

2011-08-26T05:40:00.000-07:00

A familiar object photographed
From an unfamiliar angle;
Sometimes, that's how I seem to me.

Love, eternal

2011-08-23T02:58:00.000-07:00

Seduced by the ethereal night,
The day takes a plunge into her
Unfathomable depths, drinks in
Her beauty and resurfaces to
Experience the ecstasy of going
Back into the depths, again and again…

Two women in transit

2011-07-19T06:24:00.000-07:00

One, dangling herself on the strap
Amidst the jostling crowd read
Umberto Eco with fierce concentration.
The other, sitting comfortably
On the window seat leafed
Through ‘The Power of
Your Subconscious Mind’,
Often yawning.

Claustrophobia

2011-07-04T22:35:00.000-07:00

Just when he was about
To be lowered to the grave,
The dead man stood up
Causing the small gathering
To flutter.

Glaring at the pale faces
He screamed before falling
Down on his face; ' make a pyre
And set me on fire. Don't you know
That I am claustrophobic?'

Ah, puppy!

2011-06-19T23:51:00.000-07:00

Disposed off
the yellow van
the little ones
marched in silence
with huge bags
on their back.
Then, they lit up
the street
and lifted it off
its early morning
lethargy with a
collective 'ah, puppy!'
as they saw the
young canine
chained to the
pole near
the school gate.

The missed frame

2011-06-16T00:13:00.000-07:00

Strife- torn area,
A pair of feet
That belongs to the
Policeman who
Sits on a bench
Reading newspaper,
His gun and lathi
Beside him,
Seen slipped out and
Placed upon his shoes.
Strife-torn area...

Perception

2011-04-28T05:28:00.000-07:00

On the second floor balcony
I stood, holding the railing and
Wondering at what I saw
Beneath, a portion of the ground
Neatly paved with cement bricks.

‘Strange’, I judged, or else why
That area no one treads got paved?
But then, in the next moment
I realized that it was not a pavement
But a wall collapsed in last night’s rain!

The valiant lizard and the slimy cockroach

2011-04-28T04:05:00.000-07:00

I tend to stand by the prey, but this time my wholehearted support went to the predator.

On the white tiled dado with leafy patterns they struggled, one for life, the other for the means to sustain its life. When I saw them, a quarter of the cockroach’s body was in the lizard’s mouth. The roach was in no mood to give up, it put up a big fight often dragging and shaking the reptile. I watched the process keenly without battling an eyelid, though on the backyard of my mind were running all the chores that await me at office. At one point it seemed the cockroach would escape. I felt the lizard was dealing with something which was way beyond its capabilities. The whole affair brought back to mind two entirely different things from the past. 1 A scene from a movie in which the fisherman and his boat were dragged along by a shark. 2 A couplet from a Malayalam poem which I studied in school, ‘chakshusravana galasthamam darduram bhakshanathinnapekshikkunnathu pole' (like a frog that got trapped in the mouth of a snake pleas for food). I took my toothbrush, applied some paste and started brushing, all without taking my eyes from the battling duo. It was a slow process, the merging of two bodies - acquisition in corporate parlance - not as in sex, but in a different way in which, only one lives, to tell the tale. As time passed, the prey went into the mouth of its predator bit by bit. Though the resistance had not ceased completely, it was evident that the roach started to accept defeat. Once the lizard finished its breakfast, it raised that cute head, said ‘thank you’ to me for the silent support and scurried away.

2011-04-20T00:23:00.000-07:00

Content and joyous
Just like a floating feather
Rudderless, no control
Over the course
Drifting, drifting downwards
An imaginary spiral staircase.

Books

2011-04-18T06:38:00.000-07:00

Springboards are they,
Designed to catapult us
To a thousand worlds!

The Difference

2011-02-23T23:54:00.001-08:00

He who marries
The same girl he
Has been romancing
For seven years will
Die with an imbecile
Smile.

He who is to be dumped
By all the seven girls
He would love will die
With a mysterious,
Mona Lisa-like smile.

Here I go, alone!

2011-02-18T06:39:00.000-08:00

‘Cheers’, I shout
‘Cheers’ they echo;
My beloved friends.

Drunken revelry,
The unfathomable
Depths of friendship,
‘Count on me, buddy’
Promises, terrific bonding,
Silly misunderstandings,
Tearful reunions…

And at last, a farewell
Quite unsuitable for the
Boisterous life I lead, but
Truly complementing the
Indifferent coldness of a hospital
And the complex mess of wires
And tubes that surrounds me
In solemn attendance,
Adieu friends, here I go, alone!

2011-02-15T00:00:00.001-08:00

I want you to do with me
What a sculptor does
With a piece of marble;
I want you to liberate me.

2011-02-14T23:59:00.000-08:00

Is it that I’m so far away
That I can’t hear the ‘ssshhhh…’
When the blazing hot ball in the
Horizon takes a dip into the sea?

Pleasure

2011-02-09T22:05:00.000-08:00

Pleasure is like a ruthless moneylender,
Scheming and calculating.
It invites you with a smile
And cast its eternal spell on you
With the memories
It leaves behind
With a vengeance.

Hence you long for
Piping hot tea, dark rum,
Supple skin, wet lips…
On sultry afternoons
And Sunday evenings.

Our Love

2011-02-09T22:04:00.000-08:00

First it skyrocketed to the air
Then nosedived into the abyss.
Our Love.
Unfazed, we the brave souls
Shook hands, smiled, parted ways
And started to live happily ever after.

A Plea

2011-01-20T23:05:00.001-08:00

Descend upon me
Shroud me
Engulf me…
Oh! Darkness
Why does it take
So long to accept
Me to your soothing bosom?

Evolution

2011-01-17T02:49:00.001-08:00

“You prepared what!!!?
Fish curry? ha ha ha…
A decade had passed
But I still remember
You, standing there,
On the terrace of our
Hostel, fresh out of a bath
Refusing to take part
In the ‘farming’
While we muddied
Our hands.
That YOU prepared ‘fish curry’?
Nopes, no way, you
Can’t make me buy this.”

“Believe me”, I pleaded
With a sinking heart;
“I prepared it
And it turned out well,
Time, the ultimate leveler,
Had changed me too.”

A guffaw at the other end.
“What?” I asked irritated

“Time? I would like to give
That ‘time’ – the ‘time’
That changed you - a salute
If ever I get to see it!”

The Embarrassment

2011-01-14T02:31:00.000-08:00

The turd that puts up a fight
Against the swirling whirl wind
Instead of going down the commode
Brings forth memories of Kuttan,
Sathi Aunty’s eight year old son who
Washed away during last monsoon.

How the so called poet stopped writing the so called poems!

2010-11-24T01:01:00.000-08:00

The urge,
The obscene urge
To extract a ‘poem’
From anywhere
And everywhere
Had started to become nauseous.

It’d been coming for a while,
The urge, like a nouveau riche’s
Desperation to show off his wealth,
And the subsequent wrath towards the self.

The ‘poet’ first noticed it standing
Outside a chicken stall.
One among the chickens
Had been pulled out of the cage
And butchered.
A piece of the innards was thrown
To the cage, and the rest fluttered
And fluttered, eager to get their share.
The ‘poet’ assumed a ‘holy cow’ face
And pity the chickens’ unpardonable
Response to the tragic death of their comrade.

Then, one fine day the ‘poet’ got to know about
‘Thalaikoothal*’, blood oozed out of his heart for a while, suddenly
The ‘poet’ gleefully thought of cashing on the practice
Of killing mothers, fathers…, and settled down comfortably
In the evening at the favourite corner of his favourite watering hole nicely
Covered in a woolen sweater and cap in order to resist the November chill.
After a while the monk, the very old monk, told him what an asshole he had become.
Out of shame the ‘poet’ downed and downed the ‘monk’ till he couldn’t gulp anymore.
He paid the bill, caught an auto and proceeded home muttering to himself.

Constant knock on the door woke the ‘poet’ from his rum induced stupor the next day.
A woman and her teenaged daughter, all dressed up, were there at the door.
The woman explained why they were there at the ‘poets’ door; marriage of the daughter.
Despite her conditions, the daughter maintained an expression of dignity and humility.
The sleepy ‘poet’ shoved in the mother’s hand a 20 rupee note, closed the door and returned to bed. But sleep was adamant and unyielding. The rest of the day the ‘poet’ tried to figure out poverty rather than poetry and its thousands of manifestations, but didn’t reach anywhere.

Though, not quite sure when, it might be during one of those moments, the ‘poet’ realized that he no longer gets that high he used to get thinking about writing ‘poems’ and decided to put an end to it, forever.

*http://www.tehelka.com/story_main47.asp?filename=Ne201110Maariyamma.asp

Nocturnal conversations, overheard

2010-11-18T23:03:00.000-08:00

Last night
As I tossed and
Turned in bed since
Sleep had deprived me of her luxuries
I overheard conversations from my bookshelf.

Dr.Ayyappa Paniker was asking Gregor Samsa,
“What trick is this?*” and chuckled, quite satisfied.
Harold Bloom was consoling an attention seeking Naipaul
While Anne Frank gleefully joined the man who shouted "Teresa."

* I’ve heard several stories about the late Dr. Ayyappa Panicker’s humour sense and ready wit. One of them was his asking his student Patrick while giving him a helping hand, ‘Patrick what trick is this?’, when the latter tripped over.

Calm

2010-11-18T02:24:00.000-08:00

Like books on the shelf,
Holding all
The storms within
With stupendous dignity.

Healed!

2010-11-17T04:17:00.000-08:00

'Is there anything
Wrong with your neck?’
Asked my friend.

‘No, no, why?’
And I craned my neck
To show that it’s fine.

Then, at that moment,
I realized that my sprained
Neck has been healed!

13

2010-11-09T00:01:00.000-08:00

13 is not a number.
13 is the side view
Of a cat sitting
Expectantly in front
Of a closed door.

Expectantly like
Beggars or a humble
Lover. (Is ‘humble lover’
Redundant?)

Before we proceed
Any further I would
Like to have a word
With the sceptics.

Please do the exercise
Prescribed below
In parenthesis.

(Tilt 13 to your left,
A 90 degree tilt)

We have this bad
Habit of embellishing
Anything and everything.

Thus we have cornices
And platforms on top
And bottom of 1.

When I say 1
I mean a vertical line
Nothing less, nothing more.

And 3;
3 should have a horizontal
Line on top, then a connecting
Slash, and then a bootylicious
Bottom, just like Shakuntala,
The Steatopygiac
Damsel of Kalidasa.

13, my friends,
Is not a number.
13 is the side view
Of a cat sitting
Expectantly in front
Of a closed door.

Anticipation

2010-11-02T01:32:00.000-07:00

Raincoat in the saddlebag
Helmet on the head and a
Pack of ‘moods’ in the wallet.

An ode to masochism

2010-10-28T22:59:00.001-07:00

‘Leave it!
The problem
Is you keep on
Thinking about that,
Move on.’

Wiseman friend of mine
Who made a fortune in the
Gulf urges.

How does the poor fellow
Know the pleasures of
Having a school of piranhas
Deep inside gnawing, gnawing…

The one that gave me a chill down the spine...

2010-10-26T00:20:00.000-07:00

The Black Sheep

2010-09-28T00:55:00.000-07:00

He loomed large over me
Since childhood; the black
Sheep in the family.

‘He looks exactly like ………,
Look at his nose, eyes…’
They used to say, the women
From the neighbourhood
Causing greater worries
To mother and aunt which
Subsequently changed
To anxious stares, filling
Me with tremendous guilt.

I loathed the said similarities
And did everything I could
To overcome his shadow.
I picked up habits which he
Didn’t seem to have and
Groomed myself as different
As possible trying to shun
Even a distant possible similarity.

But I found him the other day,
The black sheep in the family
In the mirror, giving me a cold stare
Goosebumps and a sense of futility.

Memories

2010-09-23T06:15:00.001-07:00

They act like
Crabs in the bucket,
Holding me back
Every time I try
To make a way out;
Memories.

Tour

2010-09-20T06:47:00.000-07:00

With whom you go
Is as important as
Where you go.

A silly poem on people in particular and life in general

2010-09-18T00:40:00.000-07:00

Some people tend to believe that
Life is all about; ‘sorry’, ‘thank you’,
‘Excuse me’, ‘nice to meet you’…

Let me tell you that it’s also about ‘f**k off’.
Just f**k off.

Survival

2010-09-16T03:38:00.000-07:00

I’m no longer afraid of losing my humaneness.
I’m afraid that I’ve lost my animal instincts, to survive.

The Joke

2010-09-06T06:39:00.000-07:00

‘I wouldn’t like
To call you even
When I’m on my
Death bed’, thus beeped
Your ultimatum in the middle
Of the night, waking me up.

The morbid tone upset me,
And as you expected, I gave in.
But now I wonder why didn’t
It strike me then, that I wouldn’t
Be there for you to call when you
Lie there, on your death bed,
Surrounded with children,
Grandchildren and great grandchildren
At the age of 115, wrinkled like a salted mango.

The Mousetrap(s)

2010-09-03T00:50:00.000-07:00

You’re a rat.
It doesn’t mean
That I’m not one.
In fact, we are all rats.
Ah! The sense of unity,
No, the knowledge that all
Are equally distressed.
Nothing comforts like that.

By the way, it’s not about
Reveling in universal brotherhood
Or sisterhood. (You know, I don’t want
To make anybody feel left out.)
It’s about mousetrap, mousetraps to
Be precise; each outgrowing the other
Or belittling. Now, don’t rush for my
Jugular; it’s relative and is about attitude.
I mean what to call it; outgrowing or belittling.
Excuse me once again for beating around the bush.
See, I’m not focused. My Maths teacher used to say that.

Anyway, let’s come to the point. We are all trapped.
There are mousetraps of various sizes. We move from
One to the other. We are always excited to move, from one
To the other. But then, gradually we feel the confinement.
Then, it’s time to move to a bigger one. Now, you know why
We always feel bored at each stage and wait for the new ones.
Don’t you? You rat.

Burj Khalifa

2010-08-31T22:59:00.001-07:00

I was told to write
Four sentences about
The 828-metres high
Burj Khalifa, the tallest
Structure in the world.

I got stuck after two!

A few things along with Onam Wishes…

2010-08-19T03:40:00.000-07:00

My friends, do you have any idea how lovely it’s to be here reading and replying comments, reading your posts, commenting…All these make me feel so good, so damn good. Of late, I’ve been a bit late to reply to your comments. I’m sorry, it was just hectic and I was busy meeting insane deadlines.

Let me make a confession. It struck me very recently that you, one and all of you, reading my posts in the midst of your busy schedules. Till recently you’re just those pictures, but then suddenly it came to me, a banker here, a journo there, an editor, a poet, a writer…all reading my posts in their separate places; you adjust your position in the chair, you smile, you frown, you knit your eyebrows…I can’t explain it in words; the feeling. I thank you all from the bottom of my heart, thank you very much.

Wish You All A Very Happy Onam. Cheers!

Statutory Warning: Drinking is injurious to health. Any person who associates the above mentioned ‘cheers’ with drinking or view it as an indication to drink will be doing it at their own risk. Dark Alley or the very nice gentleman named Arun Meethale Chirakkal who writes it, is in no way responsible for their deeds or misdeeds. Cheers!

PS: For the last two months a bottle of ‘Chivas’ has been waiting for me back in my hometown. I can see that impatient friend of mine buzzing around it like an ill-tempered bee. Last time, I met a guy in a toddy shop. We are friends now and he has promised to introduce me to a new toddy shop. I’m all excited. I’ll be heading home soon.

Once again, Cheers.

Ciao

Blindness

2010-08-02T04:59:00.000-07:00

Your smile is crooked,
Teeth zigzagging,
Hair smelly,
Eyes like a dead mackerel’s…

I just wonder, why
It took me so long
To realize it all
Till now, till you
Told me; ‘get lost’.

“The reason is…”

2010-07-26T01:01:00.000-07:00

The reason is nothing
but what is assumed or
fabricated, depending upon
which side of the fence one is.

“the reason is …”
“f**k the reason.”

Alienation

2010-07-24T00:13:00.000-07:00

At the tavern they sat
Swigging cheap liquor
With a sense of urgency;
A group of labourers,
Like poor relations
At a rich cousin’s place.

My Desktop

2010-07-22T00:22:00.000-07:00

The elegance
Of Damayanthi
Portrayed
By the maestro
Kottakkal Sivaraman
Has paved way for
The hell-hath-no-fury-
Like- a- woman-scorned
Rage of Ms. Jyoti Devi,
The ‘lady of the house’.

I'm loving it

2010-07-21T23:51:00.000-07:00

Picture Courtesy: MSN India

2010-07-20T02:28:00.000-07:00

All it takes for
An all-engulfing
Devastating flood
Is a single
Drop of rain,
Of memories.

Post No. 101

2010-07-17T01:16:00.000-07:00

(It’s a revised version of the last post, thanks to the invaluable suggestions of erudite readers)

On bright,
Sunny mornings
They plod
Like herd of cattle
Dragged to the
Slaughterhouse,
And gush back
On pale evenings
Like excited calves
Let loose on the valley;
The school children.

2010-06-25T01:52:00.000-07:00

On bright,
Sunny days
They plodded
Like herd of cattle
Dragged to the
Slaughterhouse,
And gushed back
On pale evenings
Like water, released after
Dammed for years;
The school children.

The Kiss, Postponed

2010-06-23T00:28:00.000-07:00

You demanded it
But I restrained myself
Telling you to wait
For I know
It’s easier to plant
And impossible
To uproot;
A kiss
Upon those
Cherry red lips.

2010-06-17T22:54:00.000-07:00

‘Hi,
Hey,
Hru?
Fine,
Thanks,
Vow!
Great,
LOL
TC
Bye
:)
Oops
Sad’
:(
Thus we bask in
the warmth exuded
by monosyllabic expressions,
and symbols
that gleefully run away
from our finger tips
to each other
without having to decipher
the sparkle in the eyes,
the mysterious smile,
the shrug,
the quivering lips,
the knitting eyebrows…
The online friends.

‘How to Win Friends & Influence People’

2010-06-11T04:35:00.000-07:00

With that captivating smile
I adored, you thrust upon my face,
the book; ‘How to Win Friends & Influence People’.

That’s when I decided to sever all ties with you,
once and forever.

Bad hair days

2010-06-03T00:47:00.000-07:00

The hair dryer ad
in the magazine
grabbed me by my hand
and took me down
the serpentine lanes,
mossy, dark, to
the X-O barber shop
where I used to sit
wrapped in
a white sheet
enjoying all the
attention the man
had for me while
styling my hair
to the then
trend; Bachan cut,
and the occasional
warmth on the nape
of my neck as the
hair dryer blown
warm air.

Everything has
gone into oblivion;
the attention, warmth
of the blowing air…
for there remains
just a few strands
upon my head
that neither deserves
attention nor warmth.

Butcher, beautiful

2010-05-31T05:09:00.000-07:00

Plaited hair
shiny, dark
adorned with
contrasting
colours of
jasmine and crossandra.

The bangles
jingled coyly
when she stretched
out a hand to grab two
white chickens
from the cage.

The cleaver went up,
then, down.
Rivulets of red
went hiding
into the feathers;
white, dishevelled.

2010-05-23T23:56:00.000-07:00

They set
themselves
against
each other
in their
eagerness to be
unique, different,
distinct…
and ended up
being comically
identical!

2010-05-21T06:42:00.001-07:00

‘That’s a rose,
no, a bleeding heart,
no, a scarlet socks, wet, folded,
frozen blood,
the remains of a butchered fowl…’

The pandemonium rose into a crescendo
with each one trying to prove
themselves right.

Daggers and swords
were drawn
out of their sheaths.
Blood spilled,
warriors fell, beheaded.

And there remained
the rose, bleeding heart,
scarlet socks, wet, folded,
frozen blood,
the remains of a butchered fowl…

Metamorphoses

2010-05-19T22:42:00.001-07:00

Last night,
I turned into a cow,
grazing upon the hills
and valleys you’d become.

The Collector

2010-05-15T00:59:00.001-07:00

He collected, on the way,
whatever came to him,
not purposefully though.

It varied from
pebbles to petals
and feathers to splinters.

‘Leave behind some
in order to carry on smoothly’,
advised the wise men.

But he was clueless
what to abandon,
and hence he plodded
till crushed,
rather ridiculously
like a fat frog, squashed.

The Perfect Simile

2010-05-10T04:12:00.000-07:00

Snuggled against me
you giggled.
Sceptically
I scrutinized,
the accuracy of
the worn out simile;
conch-like neck.
Perfect.

‘I LOVE YOU’

2010-05-05T02:35:00.000-07:00

We sat there
against the purple sky
face to face
flowing into each other.

Then, you let out;
‘I LOVE YOU’.
Those three words,
like three giant pillars
in an ancient temple,
fell upon me,
leaving me dead
spewing blood.

2010-04-27T23:39:00.001-07:00

‘Don’t you feel hot?’
stepped in my colleague
post lunch
turning the fan on.

‘I felt something’s wrong
but couldn’t pinpoint exactly what’,
I replied, extracting the hanky.

It happens…

2010-04-20T05:10:00.000-07:00

It happens
just like
everything else
that happens anyway,
desired or not,
quite unknowingly;
falling into patterns.

How many deaths
do I need to die
till I DIE?

The Outsider?

2010-04-15T00:36:00.000-07:00

There descended
at his doorstep
along with the
dipping sun
the messenger.

He overheard him
squatting in the kitchen
and finished
the potful of rice
and fish curry
in a hurry.

Then he proceeded
to see the deceased,
his mother.

Don’t say…

2010-04-11T22:11:00.000-07:00

Don’t say,
'forget it’,
never ever.

For, from the rage
against forgetfulness
comes forth;
madness, poetry
and the like.

And hence,
don’t say
‘forget it’,
never ever.

Soft Terror

2010-03-26T23:47:00.000-07:00

In infancy they were a source
of motherly love and its nectar.

In youth they became the
cynosure of youthful fantasies.

Later, they provided the warmth and
softness of first love.

Now, they are a source of terror,
a soft pair about to explode!

Source: I was inspired / terrorised to write this a by a piece by Amit Verma titled ‘Exploding Breasts’ ( http://indiauncut.com/iublog/article/exploding-breasts/ ). Please copy paste the link to a google page and get to know all about ‘soft terror’.

2010-03-20T01:03:00.000-07:00

First I learn to expect, then life taught me to accept.

I Accept

2010-03-20T01:01:00.000-07:00

You’re gone, I know.
I accept it.
I won’t talk to you anymore
for it’s become like talking to a stone;
the warmth missing, the feelings unrequited.
I accept it.
But I always think
how it would’ve been if you’re around
when I go through something new,
each time, every time.
I can’t help it. I just can’t.
I accept it.
All that matters is that; ACCEPTANCE!

2010-02-12T05:38:00.000-08:00

Getting to know people is like reading literature. It’s not the obvious that matters but subtle, hidden or even buried stuff.

2010-02-08T23:33:00.000-08:00

You are dead and gone. And you find yourself in a far better place, with people and things - you thought were essential for you to be happy - around. How long you’ll take to stop repenting for thinking so bad about death? How long it will take you to enjoy the new life?

2010-01-24T23:55:00.000-08:00

Death holds a lot of hope. The only thing is that we need to change our perceptions about it.

Me and The Banker to Every Indian

2010-01-20T01:55:00.000-08:00

From now onwards, whenever you come to my blog be reverent for I am no more a Tom, Dick or Harry. I, Mr. Arun Meethale Chirakkal, have joined the league of extraordinary gentlemen, the kind that you can’t even dream of. Clueless about what am I arriving at or already writhing in jealousy wondering ‘how, how this goddamn moron managed to reach such heights in such a short time?’ Wait, I’ll tell. But before that let me add some more oil into the fire, I love doing it, you know.

I’ve Rabindranath Tagore, Jagadish Chandra Bose, Dr. C.V.Raman, Dr. Rajendra Prasad and the likes for company. Aah! I can almost see that; your eyes getting popped out, mouth agape and you try to conceal that horrible expression, indeed unsuccessfully.

I’ve been accorded greatness by allowing ‘The Banker to Every Indian’ to serve me. I’m damn sure that a day will come when they will be proud of getting a chance to serve me. But as of now they won’t admit it for reasons you can guess (no price for guessing, let me clarify). But once I’m dead and gone your great grandchildren will be able to see me in the bank’s future campaigns; ‘The Banker to This Indian’. But considering the fact that I managed to open an SB account in one of the branches of ‘the largest bank in India’ only on the 5th day and spent long hours there, I can’t help ruing about the things we might’ve missed. Things the great men of our country could have achieved – yet another masterpiece, yet another invention - had they trusted some other bank with their money.

Day 1: Around noon I go to the bank to enquire about the procedure. The bank is as crowded as a railway platform during peek hours. I spot a board hanging with ‘Customer Relations Manager’ (to be referred as CRM from now onwards) written on it. I approach the woman and ask her about the formalities/documents to open an account. She sends me to another person. He informs me what and all I should bring to get it done. Then the C R M gives me the form that runs into a dozen pages. I spend the whole afternoon writing everything about me in a thousand and one tiny boxes.

Day 2: I step in with the documents I’ve been told to present. The C R M directs me to Manager, this time yet another person. I ask him whether the documents are enough only to be told to ask the CRM again. I tell him I’ve been sent to him by her. He washes his hands of saying that he’s there temporarily and tomorrow I won’t see him. Lesson learnt: In the largest bank in India no one wants to be responsible for anything. He also informs me that since it’s Saturday they are going to close.

Day 3: I go to the CRM to present the documents. She is in no mood to listen as she talks in an excited manner to a person about someone’s ‘Bharathanatyam Arangettam’. I wait there wondering is it time for me to do an ‘Arangettam’ in violence. At last she pays attention to me and sends me to the Manager; this time the original. He seems to be busy and I sit there for some 20 minutes. Finally he snatches the form and documents and quickly declares that it can’t be accepted and I have to produce a salary slip if I want to open an account with them.

Day 4: This time straight to the Manager, only to see someone else in the place. Going by his expression, I assumed he has constipation. “Please wait”, he announced staring at the monitor and tapping the keyboard. He seems to be clueless of what he’s doing. After making me wait for sometime he takes the forms and documents from me. Scrutinising it he objects a couple of times stating that the address is not clear enough for a postman to find out the place and I haven’t mentioned a landmark in the address. Ooh! At least he’s concerned about the postman. “O.K. Moron, when I reside somewhere near Taj Mahal – famous enough for you to accept as a landmark, huh? - I’ll open an account here, bye.” I quickly erase the thought and assume yet another expression of extreme politeness. “The address is clear sir; I’ve mentioned the cross properly.” Hesitantly he accepts and asks me to write the pin and announces; ‘come tomorrow it’s time for us to close’.

Day 5: Directly to the Manager, the same person. “You have to wait” he tells grumpily. After a while he starts to scrutinize the form and marks the places to be signed / filled. He sends me to the CRM and she with horror announces that it’s mandatory to have a nominee and fill the page meant for that. (I had told by the Manager otherwise) ‘Show it to Manager and get his sign once it’s over’, she quips. I show it to him and his facial expression changes quickly as if I told him that I am in love with his daughter and we are planning to elope. “I am not going to sign this, I don’t want to be a witness, get help from her.” Then, again I come back to the CRM. Fortunately this time, may be absentmindedly, she accepts it and provides me a couple of sealed envelopes. Pinching myself to make sure, I ask her; “it’s over, right?” “Yeah, that’s all.” “That’s all”, as if it has been done in a few seconds.

PS: In this particular branch (I don’t know whether it’s the same in other branches as well) other than the Manager’s Cabin there’s yet another board that hangs in a corner that has the word “Manager’ on it. The funny thing is that ‘Managers’ keep on changing there as I’ve mentioned.

Adieu Mangalore

2009-11-26T23:20:00.001-08:00

About two decades back, as a school boy, I had passed through this city a couple of times, to the temple of Mookambika, then once to the ladies hostel of Kasturba Medical College, Manipal, where my cousin was a student. I vaguely remember a beautiful girl who got into the bus during one of those journeys. She, along with her family, boarded the bus from a place where lush green fields astride, in sharp contrast, the jet black asphalted road. I fantasized that we would fall in love with each other and live happily ‘till death do us part’. I don’t say that she was haughty - I want to maintain some objectivity you know - she was not. But she didn’t even bother to have a look at me at all despite my all- the- way- drooling. Yup, such a connoisseur of beauty I was even at that age. Sorry for beating around the bush. Ah! The female of the species, such huge distractions they cause.

Never would I have imagined then, may be too young to think about career and such stuff, that one day I would find myself in love with this city. It was a call from a friend during one of my ‘out-of-work-and-at-home’ stints that directed me to Mangalore. After the first visit that lasted for two days, interview and formalities, I was told that I would be informed to join soon. Then, there wasn’t any reply for sometime. After a month or so I got a call from them asking me to join immediately.

So I backpacked and left home for Mangalore by Parasuram Express one evening. That night I stayed in a lodge where I had stayed when I came for the interview. Next day I joined the office and was provided accommodation at the company’s apartment along with a couple of others. Thus began my sojourn in Mangalore on 10th March 2008.

I stayed in the apartment for the first few months before finding a room for myself. It was quite fun staying there, but then something was missing. And with the help of a colleague I found a room in a secluded, calm place and moved in. In the new room I fall asleep listening to the screeching crickets and wake up to the symphony of chirping birds. My room was in ground level and on the first floor stayed a retired Engineer from BSNL and his wife, who became Uncle and Aunty later, the only other occupants in the compound. Ah the Mango Payasam they gave me last time, heavenly!

Wherever I go there are two places that fascinate me more than anything else; bookshops and bars. For the first few months I was clueless where the bookstores were. Bars were everywhere, but bookshops I couldn’t find. Then I was told about one. I went there to buy a copy of ‘The Curious Incident of a Dog in the Night Time’ and ended up buying ‘The Reluctant Fundamentalist’ by Mohsin Hamid. I got ‘Curious…’ as they had promised, later. Both were excellent reads. After the initial visits I stopped going there. The owner, a middle aged stout gentleman with rosy chubby cheeks, was enthusiastic about books. But there was a fundamental difference between us. My idea of a book has nothing to do with the so called self help books. And for him books meant only that; ‘how to be a dash dash’ books. But thankfully there were enough well stocked bookshops in the city other than that one.

I didn’t inform Rathnakar that I would be leaving, probably I wouldn’t. Okay, you don’t know Rathnakar. He is a waiter at The Food Palace, a bar near to my office. There are a lot of other waiters in the 20 plus bars and one pub I visited who are quite friendly.But this man deserves special mention for he once joined me in my search for the ‘lost’ key. Time was around 9.30, I had paid the bill and was about to leave the bar when I found the key of my room missing. Watching my frantic search under the table, chair, table cloth… he came and asked what happened. As soon as I told him he joined the search, but it was all in vain. After that I asked his name; ‘nimma hesiru yenu?’ And he replied Rathnakar. Cursing myself for losing the key, I headed to my room. Uncle had closed the gate. The athlete in me took control of the situation and I found myself inside the compound. There, there…ah my joy knew no bounds! The door was just latched and on it were the lock and key, winking and smiling.

What’s it that come to your mind when you think of Mangalore. Has it got anything to do with violence, a group of men chasing and hitting girls? It was a blot on an otherwise tolerant and liberal city’s image. No, I’m not ignoring the communal tensions. It’s there, believe me. But still, the city has a humane side. People are more concerned, at least in comparison with other cities. Not that I’ve lived in a lot of cities, but I did enough to sense the goodness of Mangalore. But the pub attack was a blow. (I recently saw the pub, Amnesia, closed now, where it all happened). Mangalore all of a sudden became everybody’s favourite whipping boy and was portrayed viciously and with contemptuous wrath. A certain Mr. Muthalik became the ‘darling of damsels’ overnight and chaddis rained in Mangalore, pink in colour. Whenever I went back to my hometown, I felt that peoples’ interest in me had exceeded all my expectations. I was dragged into discussions about the pub attack even by those I barely knew. I doused all their curiosity and interest by brushing it off as ‘media hype.’ Let me reiterate, I’m in no way justifying or trying to brush the incident under the carpet. I had indulged in a heated exchange of words with a colleague of mine over this when he justified the attack. But, this city has a lot more to it, to be highlighted than, of course the highly condemnable, pub attack.

There are a lot more to be zeroed in on. The culture, the festivals, pristine beaches, delicacies especially seafood, cockfighting, the felling of hundreds of trees including sprawling banyans in the name of road widening…But I feel a lump in my throat. I know everything is transitory, and it is just another phase, and change is the only constant, but still…

Mangalore is changing rapidly. I’ve seen it from close quarters during my 21 months-long stay here. Malls are coming up everywhere. Traffic is becoming chaotic. But still I hope the city will retain its character despite a thousand and one challenges. I may not be able to love any city the way I loved Mangalore. I may not get a chance to come back and settle down here. I may end up in soulless cities acquiring their characteristics. I may get lost forever in concrete mazes. But still, along with home this city provides a beacon of hope to me for lifestyle here still suits to my laidback attitude.

When I began I didn’t think that I would end up this piece in this manner, but some where along I got so mushy mushy and all. Adieu Mangalore.

An Appeal

2009-11-17T02:21:00.001-08:00

These precarious games we play thinking that words are all that matter, this never ending conundrum, I’ve a feeling that this will cost us dearly. Where are you? Where am I? I can’t find either you or me in these labyrinths of blame games. My friend, we have been hijacked by words. Mighty, ruthless bamboozlers are they. Please try to understand. They were just pretending that they were at our service. See what happened now? We have been held hostages. Can’t you see that they roll over the floor laughing every time we go for each other’s jugular? I’m ashamed to make use of their service, that too after all these. But see, once again… I wish a time will come when we find solace and music in our silence rather than disturbance and cacophony. Peace, till then.

Fragmented thoughts of a demented soul

2009-11-06T03:38:00.000-08:00

“Nothing happens, nobody comes, no body goes, it’s awful”, perhaps one of the best lines that captures ennui in all its horror. I’m tired of the way things go; I’m tired of my ways of thinking. So stale it has become that nothing fresh comes out. ‘Take a break and wander’ says someone from deep inside. Nopes, too lazy to do that. I no longer believe in lasting happiness provided by others. Perhaps I’m too proud to admit that someone can just shatter me by their indifference, insensitive behaviour or lack of concern.

There was a time moods got changed so drastically that I used to think that I had bipolar disorder. Even now, sometimes I burst with energy and experience ecstasy. Despair no longer shakes me the way it used to. Even drinking has become kind of boring. It would’ve been great to sip rum sitting alone in a corner of my favourite watering hole after the end of a hectic week. But when there’s a slump I prefer to drink to overcome boredom. Now the routine itself has become boring.

“Suicide is an act of man and not of the animal. It’s a meditated act, a non-instinctive unnatural choice” says Italo Calvino. There was a time I walked around scattering such ‘borrowed wisdom.’ No longer. Even the other day I came across with that; my colleague’s husband. He didn’t wait for the bell to toll for him. Four pegs of Royal Stag Whiskey that night, an effort to shrug off the pall of gloom or my excuse to get drunk? No idea. And that person was sitting nearby, the one who is obsessed with the phrase ‘at the end of the day’. Last time he was sitting next to my table and was peppering each of his sentences with an ‘at the end of the day’ in his yellow voice. But fortunately, this time I was at a safe distance. Life teaches, life is the ultimate teacher. Across continents, decades back, in a certain market place a teenager named Florentino Ariza stalked Fermina Daza wondering why no one else’s heart fluttered the way his did at the sight of her. Oh! My…

I had thought myself as an existential hero on the lines of many Malayalam novels that herald modernism and which I devoured religiously as a teenager. Once, while talking, a friend opined how fortunate he was to have read ‘Catcher in the Rye’ and ‘The Fountainhead’ quite late in life. ‘Otherwise they would’ve fucked up my brain and ruined my life irreparably’, quipped he.

I’ve things to do. But I’m terribly de-motivated at the moment. Laziness bogs me down. Books get piled upon my table with ‘A House for Mr.Biswas’ being the latest. How much I longed, how eager I was to finish anything and everything by Naipaul as I was taken to ‘A Bend in the River’ just like the proverbial duck to water, a few months back. “THE WORLD IS WHAT IT IS.” What an opening line! And that promptly ushered me in. Hopeless romantics lay your hands on it if you haven’t yet, you may get cured. Naipaul, they say, has a cynical worldview. I think it needs to be changed slightly, to clinical. ‘The past doesn’t exist. It’s not an entity; it’s just your memories. Trample upon your past.’ That’s Indar’s advice to Salim. Can’t help thinking of Osho.

What’s it that I’m trying to do by putting it across the blogosphere risking ridicule? What it’s all about? Some may attribute it to inflated ego, psychic disorder, lethargy… ‘How fragile’, some may exclaim. Perhaps one or two may find it even interesting.

Today, as I was coming down from the third floor after having breakfast, the lift, yes the same ‘male lift’, closed in with a “tupa-tupa” as soon as I entered, yes, the very first sound one hears at the beginning of the song ‘buffalo soldiers.’

I know where happiness lies. But knowing alone doesn’t help. Perseverance is the key, the willingness to stretch oneself beyond. “Overcome thyself”, urges Nietzsche. But there are black holes, trying to gobble me down. “It’s no small art to sleep: it’s necessary for that purpose to keep awake all day.” I walk around during day time half asleep, pretending to work, and lose sleep at night, during those unearthly hours. Sometimes it’s
dreams that intrigue me. Indecipherable and unexplainable are they. Of the dream I had last night a name remains, ‘Kuppan Paappan’. I don’t know who’s that. It was a part of the sentence written on a wall in Malayalam that means “doesn’t Kuppan Paappan know that everyone will die”?

It’s one of my wishes to hover down on a feminist while she reads ‘Zorba the Greek.’ It will be great to watch her expressions change without batting an eyelid. When I said this to the friend who consider himself fortunate for not having read ‘Catcher…and ‘The Fountain… early in life he nodded in agreement with great interest. But all he wanted was to know their opinion, scrutinizing facial expressions he didn’t seem to believe in. Sane he is, I guess.

I used to smoke a lot. At one point in time I smoked two packets ‘wills’ a day. It had its toll on me, later. Still, I smoked occasionally. But nowadays, it’s come to an end, forever, I think. Zorba’s father, ‘who smoked like a chimney’ stopped it instantly annoyed at his annoyance for forgetting to take tobacco to work. It was then I saw someone overcoming himself with such great conviction.

Change, I need it so badly. It’s killing me slowly, this predictable cycle, my animal like existence. I need to get back to life with a lot of energy. I need to take myself beyond the ‘killing zones of comfort.’ Silence is golden; I’m talking about the silence one feels in one’s mind. A total absence of clamour. But often my mind is a battlefield “where ignorant armies clash by night”. And hence I know how precious it’s to have a calm, balanced mind. For sometimes, though rarely, I reach that blissful state.

2009-10-30T23:10:00.000-07:00

It has been quite some time since we did this. The first idea I came up with, though seemed good then, seemed to have lacking clarity once executed. Then came this one. As usual Art Partner’s Ratheesh. Though I was thinking to post this one for quite some time somehow it got delayed. Yesterday Ratheesh made an alarming noise while going through agencyfaqs and when I asked him about it, he showed me an ad somewhat similar to this. That moment I decided; no more delay.

Miracle of the highest kind

2009-10-08T05:00:00.000-07:00

http://www.hindu.com/2009/10/08/stories/2009100856672400.htm

A Bloody Evening

2009-10-05T05:39:00.000-07:00

As we sat there sipping the unusually sweet toddy we could see, just outside the window, a crowd gathers up, on the narrow stretch that borders the river. It was not a crowd in the actual sense, just a small gathering. Perhaps they must have been hanging around there for quite some time. The evening sky was blazing with a bright hue of red. Red, it was to come, to flow.

Then they came with the roosters; one a spotless white and the other a riot of colours.My friend suggested going out to have a better view, but then it was not required as we still had one. By that time the ‘warming up’ had begun. The majestic roosters were caressed, fondled and sprinkled with water by their respective ‘Chicken Georges’, of course the desi versions.

Then I saw a box passed over several hands. A close view and that it was, a Nataraj Instrument Box. It was neatly tied in the centre with a wide rubber band. What does a Nataraj Instrument Box got to do with Cockfighting? The ‘instruments’ it contained were lethal enough to decide the destiny of the roosters, I understood as someone opened it. Small sword-like pieces of steel, bright and shining. After carefully examining each piece the men chose two. One for each rooster. Once ‘equipped’, they were left in the arena outlined by the men around.

First, both of them sprang up in the air and in that flurry flew feathers and dust. Then, it began. Raw violence that erupts from the instinct to survive, kill or be killed. The method of overpowering was to jump on the other’s back and force it to the ground. And in that process, as if to offer a better show, there appeared a stream of blood on the white rooster’s back. Fatal it was, for it could never recover from that. Within a few minutes it was all soaked in blood. But the men were in no mood to allow it to give up. It was forced back to the fight and was ferociously attacked by the would-be champ. Whenever it made an effort to lift its head the winner ensured that it be grounded. Finally, when it became too weak to move, it lay there trying to capture a glimpse of the world in the last moments of its life through half-closed eyes. Then, it was taken away unceremoniously as the men went on with their business of counting the money.

What’s your idea of a cartoon?

2009-09-25T23:34:00.000-07:00

No cartoon ever disturbed me this much. Never ever. It’s not that I hold any such notion that the sole purpose of cartoons is to evoke laughter. But this one by Surendra published in The Hindu on 25-09-09…! What a way to show the sad plight of millions in our country!

2009-09-14T22:48:00.000-07:00

How boring life would’ve been if it was all about the seeming?

The Lift is a Male

2009-09-01T02:59:00.000-07:00

I’ve made that amazing discovery this afternoon. After having tea on the third floor I was waiting for the lift to come up. I had pressed the button a couple of times but it was showing a red G, and then came two girls who work in another office in the building. They were chatting and chatting as the future of the universe was depended upon it. I kept on pressing the button and it always showed G somewhat defiantly. Fed up, I thought of walking down all the way. Then, one of the girls, yup that dashing gorgeous damsel, pressed the button. Gosh! How could a machine be that bloody, damn mean? The moment she pressed the button (or was it a caress?) the arrow stood up showing 1, then 2 and finally 3.

DJP expels Sajwant Jingh

2009-08-22T05:59:00.000-07:00

FEW DELPHI: The Dharmik Janata Party on Wednesday expelled Sajwant Jingh, its veteran leader and an MP.

A meeting of the parliamentary board aka ‘Achinthyan Bhayanak’ in Vimla unanimously decided to remove the former Union Minister from the primary membership of the party.

The decision is being read in the party as a strong message to those who tend to deviate from the high morals set by DJP.

The expulsion, following his controversial interview to a TV channel in which he disclosed that he fathered his children by having sexual intercourse with his wife, has triggered a controversy in the party.

Ever since the remark was aired, the DJP leadership as well as its rank and files were up in arms against him. The DJP leaders dubbed it as morally degrading and as a going back from the culture and traditions of the land.

Senior leader and DJP Spokesman Gagan Gulgul justified the decision to expel Sajwant Jingh by stating that Mr. Jingh went against the party’s “core moral beliefs.” Answering to the reporters, he stated that both the leaders and followers of DJP live a life sans bodily pleasures and sire through co-yoga and transcendental exchange of karmic energy. He slapped a reporter who enquired further, saying that it could not be understood by lesser mortals.

“We don’t have anything to do with Mr. Jingh’s ideology and beliefs, but we condemn his expulsion from DJP strongly. For us either Mr. Jingh’s claim or the DJP’s claim about procreation don’t make any sense. Procreation by means of co-yoga is an attempt to opiate the masses where as it’s a bourgeois activity to make babies by resorting to intercourse”, said leader of the Contortionist Party of Bindia (Morons), Biplab Kumar. He refused to comment further without consulting the apex body of the patry, Fool-it Bureau. However, when this reporter contacted the Fool-it Bureau Chief, Kripesh Parat around midnight, he promised that he would air his views tomorrow after discussions with the immediately available Fool-it Bureau, Mrs. Parat.

Walk When You Talk

2009-08-09T03:27:00.001-07:00

What an Idea Sirji!

I set you free

2009-07-30T23:15:00.000-07:00

“God? No thanks, I’m on my own.”
- Albert Camus

Finally I’ve decided to do that. It’s not that I’m abandoning you once I made use of your service or being ungrateful. It’s out of compassion. (And of course I hold certain grudges against you.) How long it has been since I started to make you work for me. And the task in your hand, how many people might be using your service every now and then.

I remember the day I pleaded with you to make mother forget to tell father about the nasty word I uttered. That was on a gloomy evening. It took a summons from father and later a long burning red patch on my thigh to realize that you didn’t listen. I cried partly because of the pain and partly because of the thought that you let me down. But I was not willing to part ways with you. From then onwards, I made countless requests and appeals from time to time. It varied from killing the Mathematics teacher to make the cutest girl at School fall for me. Well, nothing of that sort happened. But some times you made my wishes true, though not exactly the way I had wanted you to. For example, I was a lousy bugger when it came to studies. I always yawned and fell asleep the moment I opened anything that’s even distantly associated with studies. But the day before results were announced, I always got butterflies in the stomach. I had wanted nothing less than a first class, and you would award me a pass, just a pass. But I knew in the heart of my heart that I didn’t even deserve it and it’s you who made it possible.

Then one day someone told me that you were dead, long back. And that sounded pretty cool. I pooh-poohed you in public and didn’t spare a single chance to scorn at you. But I secretly took initiatives to patch up with you, for there were troubled times. It was unthinkable how to move on without you. And God, some of the things I made you do for me, so silly, so damn silly. Had anyone ever made an appeal to you to keep the train coaches less crowded when they were on board? Have you ever had to make the queues at counters the shortest if not for me? Sorry dude. I’m really sorry.

What’s wrong with me, can you tell? Why I just hate all those goddamn fellows who are sitting next to me, or somewhere near me, in a restaurant, on a train, bus… Am I alright?
Okay leave me. Are you alright? See, you’re such a great guy and all. But don’t you feel bored of all these people who praise you 24x7. Are you some damn snob or what? I know this very rich guy who wears hell lotta gold chains, rings and all and appear in gleaming, printed silk shirts. I’ve heard a lot of people bitching about him. They show respect to him when he’s around. But they all say that he’s a damn fool and all it takes to get some favour from him is to praise him a lot. Sometimes you remind me of him. Okay, leave that too. After all who am I to talk about attention seeking and snobbery? To err is not just human; it’s Godly as well, huh? But why all these followers of you are so damn thin-skinned? They are always up in arms and too damn trigger happy. And is it with your knowledge that they organize themselves in different groups which they call religion? The funny thing is even those religions are further divided, further and further…Can you believe this that your ardent followers are the most touchy people on earth. Believe me, they are. And it’s not just about being touchy. These are the ones who cause a hell lot of problems all around the world. They blow away people brutally, kill mindlessly and perform countless such atrocities. But still, if you blame religions for such crimes, some goddamn fellow will come to the fore. He will then assume a fucking, phoney expression and preach, ‘all religions advocate peace, religious people are not responsible for the killings in the name of religion... blah, blah, blah’ What crap? Who else is responsible then, me? Each of these groups claims that you’re with them. Some claim that only through their religion one can reach heaven, of course only after dead and gone. Some of the promises are just like tempting advertisements. Lead a life of austerity here and you will be rewarded with voluptuous women and flowing wine up there, in the heaven. The fellows who wrote such compelling copy sure deserves a pat on their back. All these are fine, but you say something against any of these thousand and one religions, or their heads, or their brother-in-law’s uncle…all hell will simply break loose. If you think that I’m exaggerating, just come down from your ivory tower and try it yourself. A word of caution: Make sure that you’ve enough precautionary measures. If you think that you’re God, so that you can tell them and they will listen, you’re wrong. No one is going to give a rat’s ass about it. There are thousands in the midst of us who make the same claim.

Now let’s make a deal. Don’t worry, I’ve already told you that I don’t need your service here anymore. It’s for the other world. I’ve been so goody goody and all so far. But from now onwards I’m planning to be damn vicious and indulge in all those sins which will qualify me to the hell. In case if you think that you can put me in heaven for being pious and all, though for a shorter period, don’t dare to, you better don’t. I don’t like going to heaven, I prefer hell.

Blame it on my growing up reading tons of comics in which heaven and hell were featured quite frequently. The best things in heaven, as per my knowledge, are the women. Ms.Urvashi, Ms. Menaka, Ms. Rambha and Ms. Thilothama. I too like them, let me tell you, before you reach the conclusion that I’m gay. For a lot of my friends, the sole intention to go to heaven is just because of these gorgeous dancers. But those fools don’t know the fact. These beauties are just like a tempting offer. I don’t think that one will even get a chance to ogle at them. Of course they do dance and all, but rarely. They are eternally assigned with the task of tempting a rishi here and an asura there and will be juggling between traveling and tempting. Now, the other reasons, one by one. I think the place, heaven, will be filled with phoney people. Hence chances are there that I may need to shake hands with some of the phoniest guys around whom I hate like heaven. You got it? I’m no connoisseur of classical dance or carnatic music. I know a lot of idiots might be sitting through such boring sessions in heaven pretending that they enjoy it. I won’t, I can’t. How about the cuisine? Denizens will be served milk and fruits only, right? I need rum, at least on Saturdays.

Now the reasons why I prefer hell: I’m sure that I can find like-minded people there, people I can really relate to. I can sit in those dingy bars sipping rum and talking to them. When get bored I can sit with another bunch of guys and play a round of cards. And the women there aah! Devoid of all pretensions and snobbery, they will be nothing but women, of strength and character. May be less beautiful, comparing to their counterparts in heaven. But who cares. Beauty is skin-deep and beauty, as you may know, lies in the eyes of the beholder. About the terrible acts hell is known for: That’s just a misinformation campaign, right? Your way of keeping us humans scared. I don’t believe such crap that those sinned will be fried in oil. Nor I believe that one will be made to walk over bridges made of a strand of hair stretched across huge cauldrons of boiling oil. Phew, as if it’s bollywood movies of the 90s.

One more thing, I don’t believe your followers’ claim that you created the world. Actually it’s those people who created you. Am I right? Perhaps your ego may not allow you to admit it. It’s okay, I can understand for I too am damn ego-centric and all.

I know that I beat around the bush a bit. I would like to say it once again that I don’t have anything against you dude, God. It’s, as I have already mentioned, partly out of compassion and partly out of certain grudges against you that I decided to put an end to your service and set you free. You take care. I really mean it for I don’t know how you’re going to protect yourself from your folks. All the best.

Gay to run in 200 M in London

2009-07-16T02:08:00.000-07:00

Thus goes the headline of a single column news in yesterday’s (15-07-09) Deccan Herald’s sports page. What’s there in it, you may ask. Nothing except that it’s the athlete’s name and not an indication of his sexual orientation and this very fact makes me ROFL.

Yesterday, as I was going through a website that features advertisements from all around the world, a senior colleague and a typical Mr. Know-It-All, came to my corner. He pulled a chair and sat there and started a conversation. As I scrolled down we talked about some of them. There were a couple of interesting posters done for a gay film festival in Germany. Our man, then casually (I wonder how carefully some people make themselves sound/appear casual) mentioned, ‘you know, a gay is participating in next month’s World Athletic Meet’. Inside my head flashed a bulb. Yup, I too read it, may be quite absent mindedly. And the name, I might’ve thanked my grandfather for not naming his son GAY. I gave him a bewildered look and asked ‘What?’ He repeated it. ‘It’s his name’ I said. ‘No’, he retorted. ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Yeah’, he replied. ‘Just check it once more’ I said, fed up. He went to his place and there was silence for a while. I looked at his direction and there he stood with the newspaper. ‘You are right’ he admitted and came back with the newspaper. But the worst, quite characteristic of him though, was yet to come. ‘See nowadays it’s all in the newspapers so naturally I thought…’ and then he had a look at the athlete’s photo and blurted out, ‘it’s quite a probability that these people turn out to be gays…’

Rather than saying anything in reply I just buried my head in the newspaper and started reading further; “Triple World Champion Tyson Gay will continue his preparations for next month’s World Championships by running the 200 meters at the London Grand Prix…”

“So the last man also goes down”

2009-07-08T04:05:00.001-07:00

There were doomsday predictions. Some of them attributed torrential rains to it. The prevailing mood was surprise. Everyone hailed the decision though. A friend who once called me Neanderthal texted that she couldn’t believe it yet, hours after I had given her a ring. And the best one came from another buddy; “So the last man also goes down”, quipped the moron with a chuckle.

Yes, at last the resistance is over. I’ve surrendered and jumped on the bandwagon officially on 07-07-09 at 3.35 p.m. If you’re still clueless what am I arriving at, and if you’ve the patience, please go back and you’ll find a post titled ‘A Tag of 25’. The 23rd point has no relevance at all, anymore. I don’t think that any one will dig deeper for if you do you’ll end up reading a post detailing why I refused to…titled “Sorry I don’t have…”

The making of a cynic

2009-06-17T05:03:00.000-07:00

CYNIC: Lies behind those five letters a tragedy of untold magnitude. The shattering of beliefs, trust, dreams, hopes, aspirations …and there stands the all encompassing word with its yellow fangs out, only to be frowned upon.

Kudos to the one who urges: “Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be,” But how many of us could resist replacing ‘best’ with ‘worst’ as we ‘grow old along’.

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”

In school, when the poem was taught, the pitch was always upwards, to a higher point. Sometimes, when the whole class was made to recite the poem, it even acquired the form of sloganeering. It oozed with confidence, optimism and a positive outlook towards the world. How a bunch of unsuspected school children knew what was in store for them?

But things took a U-turn over the years. In college the poem was recited with a slow, sinking tone making the last couplet barely audible. Yet another instance when life made us understood literature rather than the other way around, properly.

PS: Though it’s a bone of contention there are scholars who attribute the origin of the word ‘cynic’ to the Greek philosopher, Antisthenes, a student of Socrates. He started the school of Cynics and believed that virtue was the only good and the only way to remain virtuous was through self-discipline and independence. Just like cynics, the word as well began on a positive note but turned out to be negative gradually.

2009-06-12T04:43:00.000-07:00

She had told him. He had known it. But then he withdrew, for the other man. Now it’s too late and it has become too intense. Then there was only one man for whom he stepped back. Now there are too many. His wife, parents, relatives, her husband, mother, relatives…

To A Friend

“We learn things the hard way”;
I philosophise.
I listen, day in day out.
But I don’t know how to help you out.
It’s a quagmire you’re in.
I hope you won’t bog down.
What you’re through I know,
But knowing is not experiencing.
I hope you’ll get through
And resurface as the one you had been.

2009-05-30T04:04:00.000-07:00

Mixedblessings89 (www.greenlemons07.blogspot.com)
thinks I deserve the honest scrap award.
It has been more than one and a half month since she conferred
it on me. Owing to poor tech quotient (what’s so technical about
it? Sshhhh…) I got it delayed. I mean showing off
the award. Thanks MB89.

2009-05-19T22:56:00.000-07:00

When one goes around loud, what one misses are the subtleties where life is at its intense best.

Ranting as purification!

2009-05-16T05:34:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, as I sat at the restaurant waiting for dinner with my mind caught in a web of terrible emotions, I had this feeling that there’s a lid on top of my head and it had popped open. I almost experienced madness, that’s lurking just around, may be within a hairbreadth of distance. I don’t know who to thank for, being here, keying this, sane.

Talking doesn’t really solve anything. It just complicates matters. “Talking much about oneself can also be a means to conceal oneself…” says Nietzsche. How true. But people don’t understand. How degenerating it is to spend a lifetime justifying one’s words and deeds without even bothers to spend a second to understand the other. “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view... Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.” With that, Atticus Finch pronounced one of the most compassionate lines I’ve ever read. I’m tired of phoney people. I’m also tired of people who says that; “you are a better human being than I am.” I heard it in the past too, and I know what they mean by saying that I’m “good”. I don’t want to be in anybody’s fucking good list. I just don’t want to.

In case if you think; ‘what the heck’? It’s just an act of purification my dear reader. I’ll be fine soon by tonight or tomorrow morning. But I’ve to go through this, and as I key in I feel a lot better.

Chappals chappals everywhere…

2009-04-28T23:34:00.000-07:00

I had wished if someone had hurled a shoe at me, or at least a hawai chappal. I was terrified of perishing without getting a chance to display my magnanimity. It seemed like eternity to wait to pardon someone and soak myself in a pool of narcissistic pleasure, letting out orgasmic moans thinking of the noble deed.

But here in our state we don’t pardon any such fellas. Hurling chappals is not our culture you know. We believe in upholding the mantle of culture and morality higher and higher. If you have any doubt, just ask the girls we bashed up for trying to import the firangi culture and spoil ours.

A tag of 25

2009-03-23T02:07:00.000-07:00

Okay, after much procrastination-the kind that might’ve made the prince of Denmark turning in his grave- I’ve decided to do the tag. Thanks Mixed Blessings 89 a.k.a Aditi for tagging me.

Here goes the list of 25 things few people know about me

1 My name, Arun, I was told, was suggested by a then friend of my father who later attained iconic status by leading a one man crusade against a wily politician.

2 I still regret about the first cigarette I offered to a friend who smokes 40 to 50 cigarettes a day now.

3 I had a romantic notion that self destruction was cool.

4 I don’t have anything against nurses, in fact I believe that it’s a noble profession, but still, when they try to get rid of the bubbles out of the syringe by pushing forth the plunger right in front of my eyes I can’t help thinking them as sadists.

5 More than once I shamelessly asked nurses weather I can take some pills rather than an injection.

6 My mother once told me that as an infant I didn’t trouble her as she could make me sit wherever, even upon a table and I didn’t move a bit, I guess I was too afraid thinking of the fall, and not much has changed till date.

7 The poem I remember from my school days is ‘The School Boy’ by William Blake

“I love to rise in a summer morn
When the birds sing on every tree
The distant huntsman winds his horn
The skylark sings with me
Oh! What sweet company

But to go to school in a summer morn
Oh it drives all joy away…”

8 I hardly fit in and I never try to fit myself in anywhere.

9 I have a copy of ‘Crime and Punishment’ and I read it thrice so far, but only upto a particular point. Even though I’d found myself deeply engrossed in it, all the three times I had to discontinue. I also love Marmeladov, immensely.

10 Sometimes I feel that I read to escape from the bloody mundane ways of the world which I can never figure out. Often, I get a chill down the spine as the wonderful world I was just a part of in the book disappears, in a jiffy.

11 I believe the following as an immensely powerful combination, an inspiring trinity which can rally charge me up; in fact it did charge me up more than once. They are ‘Thus Spake Zarathustra’, ‘Metallica’ and ‘Old Monk Rum.’

12 I prefer getting hurt rather than hurt the people I love.

13 My cousin who had been with me for a whole evening ended his life that very night. We were pretty close but I couldn’t figure out what he was upto. We share our birthdays and he’s younger to me by one year.

14 I smoked my first cigarette on the last day of the last annual exam. I was in eighth standard then.

15 I tasted liquor for the first time during SSLC vacation. It still lingers in me, memories of the aftermath.

16 Sometimes a fear seeps in me that I will end up as an alcoholic.

17 The only drug I ever did was cannabis. I smoked it thrice and the last time after a few swigs of beer. That was so terrible an experience that I thought I wouldn’t survive the night.

18 I had never thought that I would ever fall in love. But once I did, at the age of 27.

19 I want to die when my dear and near ones are still around. I know it’s selfish but still…

20 I was such a staunch follower of the game of cricket that I used to watch it ball by ball, it was unimaginable to miss a single ball. Somewhere along I lost my interest and I no longer watch it.

21 I hate twenty twenty for I believe it’s everything but cricket.

22 I’m such a traditionalist when it comes to cricket that it pains me to see horizontal bat swats of ‘dashing batsmen’ with poor technique.

23 I never used a mobile phone in my life and I don’t know how to operate it. I don’t think that I’ll ever use one.

24 Though I claim that I’m a non-violent person, the violent thoughts erupt in my mind often makes me quite disturbed.

25 I’m a man of extremes.

A Recipe

2009-01-23T23:04:00.000-08:00

Gastronomical experiments of many a blogger leave me drooling these days, thanks to the high resolution pictures of dishes they post. Here I offer one, but of an entirely different kind and without any pictures. This is not an original recipe; I had heard and read about it. But only recently I got a ‘hands-on’ experience of it. Those with a ‘spiritual’ streak in them may find it useful, those who keep the opinion that “alcohol is evil”, please don’t bother to go any further.

Allegiance to rum, especially Old Monk Rum is a prerequisite to taste the ‘Green chilly-lemon-salt-OMR’.

Ingredients: Old Monk Rum, Green Chilly (preferably the smaller ones known as ‘Kanthari’, as per the legend) Lemon and Salt. Considering the non-availability of ‘kanthari’, I used normal green chilly.

How to make the drink: Squeeze a bit of lemon in the glass and make it reach the whole of the inside. Rub salt on it and put a pinch of salt in the bottom of the glass too. Cut green chilly horizontally into two and put it in the glass. Pour rum and chilled soda on it. The drink is ready.

It’s better to wait for a while. If you raise the drink immediately the piquant spray generated by the fizzy carbonated water may make you sneeze. And before you sip, enjoy the heavenly aroma. When I took the first sip, what surprised me was the pleasant taste but without ruining the original flavour of rum. As I gulped down the last drop of the mouthful, the real taste of rum came back. I guess even the purists wouldn’t have much to complain about ‘Green chilly-lemon-salt-OMR’. It’s simply superb. After all, rum will sure taste better this way than it with coke or any such damned drinks. Have a great time.

Tiger, tiger, burning bright…

2009-01-14T02:14:00.000-08:00

It’s great to see what one desires most to be seen. And the joy is double if it’s something that defies the norm. Ever since ‘The White Tiger’ started to make headlines, there was a horde of ‘critics’ preaching against the dark portrait. And with each bitter assault and the extracts they provided I knew that I would love ‘The White Tiger’. I’m a self-confessed lover of dark, bleak and brutally honest portrayals. Vijay Nair’s ‘And the winner is…’ in the Literary Review of The Hindu dated 04-01-09, was a respite, rather one piece of a helluva, I’ve been waiting to savour.

It was interesting to read the reviews after the coveted ‘Booker’ was bestowed upon Aravind Adiga for ‘presenting the dark side of India’. Emerged as the dark horse from a list of celebrity authors including Amitav Ghosh and Philip Hensher, Adiga became only the third debutant after Arundhati Roy and DBC Pierre to bag the Man Booker Prize. From seasonal critics to amateur bloggers, there was a hurry to join hands against ‘The White Tiger.’ The only few good words - barring a couple of desi reviewers - came from the western media and that might’ve added fuel in the fire of the much abused ‘catering to the western sensibility’ allegation.

Years ago, there was a rage against ‘The God of Small Things’ when Arundhati Roy was awarded with ‘Booker’. That time it was not just the academic critics but also the comrades who were up in arms against her for her alleged anti-Marxist remarks in the novel. “Obscene” pronounced the ideologues and the rank and file repeated the refrain without bothering to turn a single page. I personally knew a handful of people who spent much of their energy denying the novel any literary value. And when asked “Have you read it?” the answer was a belligerent “No” that implies “What does it got to do with my bashing Roy”? Where ignorance is a bliss, it’s folly to be wise. But ironically, it was the Marxist critic Aijaz Ahmad who showered praises on ‘The God of Small Things’ for its rich imagery, brilliant narrative and the bold experiments with language, even before it was accorded ‘Booker’.

Vijay Nair began his piece by raising the question, the root cause of the hostility the recent booker winners, Arundhati Roy, Kiran Desai and Aravind Adiga has received and is still receiving. “Is it because they hold a mirror to realities we refuse to acknowledge?” he asks. Partly the answer lies there, and another part in this paragraph of his article:

“The White Tiger is the most recent of the three and it may be worthwhile to explore the book as well as the anger it has generated among Indians. Not just among stuffed-shirt critics who for years have been struggling to write their first book and despairing, frustrated writers who have had to deal with the “no advance, no royalty; feel blessed you have been published,” vagaries of Indian publishing houses and who cannot but resent the outsider who gets catapulted to a different league of big advances and international celebrity-hood riding on that one “lucky” book, but also the average Indian reader who patronises English fiction. This is the class that grew up reading Sydney Sheldon and Danielle Steel, but would like to own the work of “that Indian Bloke, what’s his name, who won that jackpot of a prize”.

Hobnobbing with the press after receiving the award, Aravind Adiga said: “I grew up in the south, which was very different culturally and economically to the places along the Ganges where I was traveling. For the first time, I met people like rickshaw-pullers, and it got me thinking about India in a different way. This book was an attempt to capture the voice of the men I met”. And the central character of the book was partly inspired by a rickshaw-puller he met, who angrily said, “You’ve listened to me, but when you go back, you’ll forget about me.” “I did not forget”, concluded Mr.Adiga. All one needs to find out that he didn’t is a journey through the brilliantly original ‘The White Tiger.’

As an indication that nothing is left behind untouched by the prevailing characteristic of a particular period, Adiga too didn’t be spared of intolerance. It ranges from calling him an ‘outsider’ to question his patriotic credentials. But ironically he has proved more insider than anyone of those detractors. If patriotism is jumping the bandwagon of the false “India Raising” and turning one’s back towards the ever-growing poverty and injustice meted out to the millions who live like worms, of course Aravind Adiga is not a patriot, nor am I.

What makes Vijay Nair’s article sweeter is the one that preceded it. Appeared in the November issue of the Literary Review, Amitava Kumar in the essay ‘On The White Tiger’ wonders; “Is it a novel from one more outsider, presenting cynical anthropologies to an audience that is not Indian?” Begins with that query, the essay details on how Mr. Kumar got to know about the novel for the first time and how excited he was to start reading it after he met Adiga in New York and came to know that the novel “had been a fruit of his labours as a reporter in India.”

There are two things I want to address in Amitava Kumar’s essay. The first one is his outright denial of Adiga’s description of the way the women at home treat their men when they came back from the city. (He also hails from Bihar, which was mentioned as ‘darkness’ through out the novel). “I had witnessed such men, and sometimes women, coming back to their village homes countless times. The novelist seemed to know next to nothing about either the love or the despair of the people he was writing about”, says Mr. Kumar. I believe that it was necessary for Adiga to describe the scene in that manner. Balram Halwai, the protagonist, as far as characterization is concerned, is near perfect. The character was moulded and developed with utmost precision. As a student he was bright, his own parents were “too busy” to give him a name so he was called Balram by the teacher when he went to school for the first time. From being called as a ‘White Tiger’ for his intelligence he was thrown to the tea shop in the next scene with his classmates ridiculing him calling “The Coal Breaker”. When he and his brother took his father to hospital, the poor man wasn’t given any treatment at all and eventually he met with a pathetic end there vomiting blood, the ward boys made them clean up the premises. The funeral of his mother, which he witnessed when he was a kid, was ‘grand’. The woman who had nothing decent to wear throughout her life was carried to the pyre “wrapped in saffron silk cloth which was covered in rose petals and jasmine garlands.” All these, the utter helplessness and the cruel contradictions life throws at him, contribute greatly in the characterization of Balram. The root of his realization, that Kusum is exploiting him and will continue the same, lies in his memory of his father “being fed after the buffaloes were fed” by the women at home. There’s no doubt that Balram Halwai knew it inside out where he came from, and it is this knowledge that makes him go. One can easily spot a ‘raging desire’ in his tone and manners to ‘come up in life’, to ‘arrive’. The scene in which he begs for the job at the Stork’s home and eventually gets in is just a typical example.

Another issue Mr. Kumar raises is that Balram’s reaction when he returned to his village is not that of someone who “has only recently left”. “Does it appear to be the account of a man who is returning home?” he asks. Sorry sir, it was a great mistake by Adiga here. Balram Halwai, in true filmy style, should’ve stepped out of the car as soon as he entered the village sporting an excited expression (cho chweet!) before he appreciates the intricate patterns of cow dung strewn all over. The next scene should’ve been a song sequence featuring Balram running through the field, probably with a camera in his hand and a horde of bare-torsoed, malnourished children running behind him, only to be vanished after the song. (Haven’t you seen those countless bollywood flicks in which the US returned or city educated girl comes to her grandpa’s village with a precarious tendency to fall in love with the village fool Mr.Adiga? Shame on you dude, shame on you.

This sentence in parenthesis, “No boy remembers his schooling like one who was taken out of school, let me assure you” defies the arguments that Adiga lacks compassion and ‘The White Tiger’ is an outsider’s narrative. It’s not just knowledge but deep compassion that ultimately makes the sentence shine like a jewel.

There’s no doubt that Adiga’s ‘tiger’ is burning bright. But what we see in the brightness, in the light, are not at all pleasant things to see. Dehumanisation, the dark side of ‘the shining India’, the utter helplessness of the poor…Aravind Adiga has captured it all making ‘The White Tiger’ a mirror held against contemporary India.

2009-01-08T01:14:00.000-08:00

Will you call it an ad?

2008-12-10T23:34:00.000-08:00

It’s a crazy thought and I just couldn’t ignore the temptation. Call it an ad, spoof or even bashing. We, as usual me and Ratheesh, had no problem giving it a ‘go’. Expecting more brickbats than bouquets, yours truly.

The crooked clowns and their antics

2008-12-02T02:26:00.000-08:00

No Minister in the BJP-ruled States had resigned after bomb attacks. “So why should the Congress alone own moral responsibility,” he asked. He said he was not under any pressure to resign and he had full faith in the high command. “I only offered to quit because the party has put its faith in me and if it thinks I did not do my job then I should go.”
The Hindu, 02-12-08

It’s not just Mumabi, it’s the whole nation, if not the whole world, trying to grapple with what happened in the city last week. Grief and anger is in the air refusing to be doused, it’s not even a week yet as heinous perpetrators held the nation’s collective conscience on gun point. We lost scores of men, our citizens as well as our guests. But still, the death toll stands to a comparatively low 200, thanks to the brave men who dealt with terrorists head on and those who gave their life in the attempt to save those trapped in Taj, Trident and the Nariman House. It could’ve reached such mammoth figures as huge as 5000 but for the unparalleled bravery of the men in uniform.

Now, please read the first two sentences I sourced from today’s ‘The Hindu. The ‘he’ here is none other than the Maharashtra Chief Minister Mr. Vilas Rao Deshmukh. I know that barring a few, politicians don’t care. They won’t move a single finger even if the country goes to the dogs. But I haven’t come face to face with anything of this kind for quite some time. It’s not just gruesome. It’s ridiculous, it’s silly. It’s a Chief Minister and a senior politician utters something that will put even a kindergarten kid to shame.
“So why should the Congress alone own moral responsibility.” The message is clear. People may die, terrorists may repeat such dastardly acts, but I am all for power and I am going to cling on my chair. Now, I’ve a doubt. I’ve been thinking of it for a long long time but I stopped myself from asking it for the fear of being ridiculed. Everyone loves to use such metaphors as ‘hot seat’, ‘crown of thorns’, ‘hot bed’ etc when it comes to describing power and the various positions it offers, then why these people try to get into power by hook or crook? Yeah, I know I’ve been ridiculed, I‘ve been called naïve.

Mr.Deshmukh’s deputy, Mr.R.R. Patil, of the “such small incidents happen…” ‘fame’ has been stepped down. And the reason cited in ‘The Hindu reads as:
“Nationalist Congress Party (NCP) State president Arun Gujarathi said the party did not ask Mr. Patil to resign. “He took the decision on his own in a bid to own responsibility for the attacks.” “ Why should the Congress alone own moral responsibility” and “in a bid to own responsibility for the attacks”. Hilarious, isn’t it?
Once again I’ve been reminded of the infamous “when big tree falls…” remark by the late Prime Minister Mr.Rajiv Gandhi in response to the anti sikh riots that broke out in Delhi after the then Prime Minister Ms. Indira Gandhi assassinated by her own security personnel.

And the credit for addressing the media for the first time from ‘ground zero’ goes to the Chief Scientist of the ‘Gujarat Lab of Hindutwa’ Mr. Narendra Modi. With no qualms he offered monetary help to the family of the slain ATS Chief Hemant Krakare, whom he was badmouthing till the other day for exposing the Malegon blasts. Properly it was turned down by the widow and family members of Karkare. Properly, for that gesture contains a message. A message everyone will understand except the politicians.
The Patils, the Deshmukhs, the Modis…and hordes of those who belong to this species will never change. They will indulge in blame games, they will do anything to ensure their positions, and they will even sell our country. These clowns and their antics remind me of a story which I was taught when I was in 2nd or 3rd standard. The story of a wolf which made the goats fight and started to drink blood when it oozes out. Eventually the wolf was killed by the goats as they came to know about its intentions.
If not to these people to whom else I’ll use such expletives as “Fuck off”. Fuck off you morons, just fuck off.

Let it be

2008-11-25T22:41:00.000-08:00

After 42 years, John Lennon, the ‘working-class lad who was struggling to cope with unexpected success’ has been pardoned by Vatican for his 1966 “which will go first, rock ‘n’ roll or Christianity” remark.

“When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

And in my hour of darkness
She is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

Let it be, let it be,
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be…”

Water water everywhere…

2008-11-11T23:41:00.000-08:00

These ads were among the first few me and Ratheesh did exclusively for our portfolio. And we did it with a lot of fervour, but then I never could find an ‘auspicious time’ to post it and hence it got postponed.

The first one was my first thought. Though one is supposed to let it pass, some times one just can’t. I couldn’t convince myself-neither could I convince my art partner- still, I had wanted to proceed. And after arguing a bit, we decided to give it a nod of approval. But the nagging dissatisfaction deep within was just too adamant to be tamed. Ever since I came to know about Sophie Neveu and the various word games her uncle, the curator of Luvre, Jacques Sauniere taught her, I too indulge in some. It was how the idea came into existence. ‘Whater?’from water. And then it took a turn, a convincing one when I downplayed a couple of letters, unlike what I did in the first (adding ‘h’). And that’s how ‘WATER’ happened.

And if you think the second one is visually appealing (that’s what I think), then full credit must go to the ‘art moron’. He made it blazing by using ‘mushroom cloud’, the eternal nightmare of humanity.

What happens when…

2008-11-07T23:01:00.000-08:00

For a while I thought my chest would burst and my lungs would fall out on the asphalted road. The excruciating pain just beneath the ribs on the right side was increasing. My throat was parched and I longed intensely for a drop of water. My knees became so weak that I let my feet lead me rather than me taking control. Even the cold breeze engulfing me couldn’t suppress the countless rivulets on my face. Panting like a dog, I stuck out my tongue in vainly to moisten my lips. My breathing became so noisy; I thought people would come out of their homes to see what’s happening.

I’m not describing the latest in my nightmare series. After spending months, pondering over ‘jogging’, finally I’ve started it. And Oh! My friends, my dear friends…

Please don’t mistake me. I’m a humble person (*ahem*) and I always keep myself down to earth. So please don’t view it as an effort to get six pack abs in order to flaunt it. See, I don’t have anything against six pack abs or the guys who flaunt it. Even I too desire it sometimes, but the only condition is that God has to come down from his ivory tower. Yes, he should visit me and then make me into shape first, before fixing those ready made stuff on my tummy. Don’t you think that it would be bizarre to have six pack abs on an otherwise plump body?

It has been quite some time I started to think about fitness. I’d certain previous experiences too in this regard. Yeah, once I, along with a couple of friends joined a gym. There was no such thing as proper instructions, and I, in my vigorous attempt to look like Van Damme (Inspired by his flicks Universal Soldier, Double Impact and the likes) lifted almost anything available. The result was pretty quick. Just within 2 days I had needed my mother’s help to wear a shirt. It was not possible to keep my hands properly and I kept it as if I had blisters in my armpit. My friends thought I had developed ‘wings’ within such a short period and almost recommended my name to the ‘Limca Book of Records’.

Now, it’s common knowledge that a cat once fell in hot water would be scared even at the sight of water which is not dangerous in ‘character’. So it’s not just uncharted waters that makes one scared. I can hear some one grumbling out there: “Can’t you make it short, moron?” Indeed, let me try.

So off we went, me and a colleague to the nearest mall and purchased a couple of tracksuits, Ts, shoes… just all the paraphernalia to start the ‘fitness journey’. And I started it as stipulated, without fail. The actual plan was to hit the main road and run to the next town, that’s a couple of kilometres away, and come back. I had inspected the road on Sunday and found some potholes, ignorable I decided. But then, on Sunday evening I found a new route that zigzagged around the township I stay. I opted for it since it seemed better and safer than the other. Plan was that: ‘I run to the destination and come back without stopping anywhere and thus burn enough calories to look fit’. So, the stretch, that lay approximately 4 kilometres up and down, was finalised for my ‘fitness yatra’.

I got up at 5.30 and thud the alarm to silence which was buzzing so damn viciously. After trying to get adjusted with the fact that I woke up so early, I started my morning chores. Then with the enthusiasm of a kid who goes for an excursion I wore it all and moved out. ‘Slowly but steadily’ I murmured myself, and by the time I completed some 300 metres I thought I would die, short of breath. I finished the first day running, walking, and sometimes almost crawling. And the worst part of it was yet to come.

By afternoon the first results of jogging started to appear in forms of pains in different areas; shoulder, arms, calf muscles, ribs, abdomen and even neck. But the severest of them all was what I felt in the thighs. Ouch! It hurts with my every move and it hurts like hell especially when I had to use steps. (This is exactly what happens when couch potatoes become fitness freaks). And I had a tough time convincing myself that ‘no pain, no gain’.

It’s been 6 days since I started it, and uninterrupted it has been, so far. The pain has mostly been disappeared and the whole process makes me feel good. But it doesn’t mean that it’s easy or smooth. The temptation to remain in bed is just as strong as on the first day, but every morning I make myself get out of the cosy warmth of my bed, warding off sleep and laziness.

PS. Tomorrow I will take a break as it’s Sunday. "AND GOD RESTED ON THE SEVENTH DAY FROM ALL HIS WORKS”. Me too, the lesser mortal.

2008-11-04T01:49:00.000-08:00

Relationship is like china, once broken it can never be the same again.