The Absolved

'Machete' in 'Green Zone'

2010-11-01T13:36:00.000-07:00

There are good movies and then there are great ones. After a long time I had the time to watch two movies over the weekend. My friend must be pretty pissed on me for wasting the time (we have a moral contract, will get back to that later). But all said and done instincts cannot be messed with.

So, getting back to two back-to-back movies – ‘Green Zone’ and ‘Machete’, I found something profoundly lacking and that was greatness. In fact, I plan to watch ‘Nouvo Cinema Paradiso’ tonight to get over the hangover I got from these two movies. I take them one by one and try to explain why some great movies, like them both, do not match up the greatness of like the one I am about to watch.

The Tarantino effect, post ‘Grind House’ and ‘Planet Terror’ association, the Frank Miller influenced composition after ‘Sin City’, is as stark as a death knell. Over the top action sequence, masterfully choreographed and generously doused in graphic violence adds up to one final outcome – rambunctious action flick and Rodriguez back with pugnacious vengeance!

‘Green Zone’ is again a cleverly crafted conspiracy theory revolving round WMD (Weapons of Mass Destruction) rumors that were blown out of proportions way back in Sr. Bush regime in US. Cutting the chase to present day brouhaha in the Middle-East, post-Saddam fiasco, Matt Damon portrays a protagonist atypical of his erstwhile hugely popular Jason Bourne character. The best things about the movie are the locals and the cinematography – it is believable and at the same time catches your imagination. The effort towards continuity of the character is also poignant as he lives to see another day – much alike the Jason Bourne, we so like!

So, what exactly I found missing in them? As I said, it is greatness. When ‘Reservoir Dogs’ and ‘The Bourne Identity’ came around the concepts were fresh, original and much experiment in treatment was explored. However, what we see in both these movies are off-shoots. Frankly speaking, I dig stylized action flicks, as any other normal individual. But unlike, I hate just putting on the icing rather than just baking a whole new cake!

Then again, the contexts are so done to death. We definitely do not need another post-war, American ‘I-was-so-dumb-after-9/11’ realization story, questioning the very nature of US military exploits in the Gulf. And hell knows we do not need another punch of desperado – that too when it gets uglier. So, let us just leave those two topics and think beyond.

Look at ‘The Hurt Locker’ (you need to catch it on Sony Pix over this month if you have missed it). It is fresh, alive and projects an all together different perspective concerning the Middle-East – the uncertainties and fragility surrounding the human spirit when in the land of snipers. Every day there is something new. I hate it when well rounded directors along with backing of commercial success in recent past, has to shoot such relative pieces-of-crap. Then just need to read Google news everyday and everyday they can have one fresh relevant topic to research, orchestrate and project.

But until then, you might as well stick to these two junks, for hell, except for likes of Anrag Kashyap, Dev Benegal and Amol Gupte, you should not be trying Bollywood now-a-days!

Sharon

2010-04-12T13:54:00.000-07:00

Thousands of years I trod – as I tread this walk of life –
From the depths kissing the Lankan crest –
Far, further ahead into the darkning Malayan depths.
I have made the distance.
My feet has smelt the greying sands of Asoka's land, Bimbisaar.
I have walked through the darkness of Vidarbha.
A tired soul am I –
All around me the froth, so lively, brims over.
But, for a moment’s breath you bequeathed unto me –
Suddenly, Sharon.

Her hair – lost, like lost day’s darkest nights,
Her face sculptured timeless – flawless, granite.
For puzzled Ulysses and his rudderless ship,
The tempt of the sirens, in his eyes –
Unto the green shores – deep inside the cinnamon island…

My eyes have touched her, thus – through the darkness.
And she has asked, “Where have you been so long?”
All, as she looked up through the naked forest of her dark eyelashes,
It was you, Sharon.

In the sound of dews – the night ascends.
The birds of prey shed feathers drenched of sunshine.
As The Light of world dims away –
The storybook comes alive.
Then unto the fireflies, nights glitter anxious.

The birds return home –
The rivers too –
Encore Life!

Darkness remains –
The face –
Sharon.

*****

(A relatively literal translation: My tribute unto the greatest work of Jibanananda Das – ‘Banalata Sen'. Some parts of it are twisted – based on my limited understanding. But with eons of languages apart, I guess it is important that the metaphors stand out starkly. However, this is nowhere close to the oceans of symbolism in his original. Add to that a few other gratifying suggestions as well! The bengali version follows.).

Cytoplasm

2009-06-03T13:36:00.000-07:00

It is not often I sit down to write – to write something substantial. Neither do I sit down to write something substantial all the time. However, there are things that every person cannot help. It might be active or passive reaction but the constant factor here is that reaction, which for me is writing.
When I first noticed the man on the footbridge, in close proximity to my place, he hardly occurred to me. Then I saw him again and never turned back – I was on my way to my workplace in the morning. The third time is the day I sit down to write this.
The usual after-dinner walk was a wholesome affair for me for all the wrong reasons and a perceived healthy routine. I never realized till now that it was a purposive attempt to see the unimaginable or rather the unavoidable aspects that creep through the shadows and stand out starkly under the dim neon haze.
He could be a man just like you and me. He could be a father, a husband, a grandfather or even a ‘nobody’. He could be a deranged, a homeless, a loner or an egoist. Yet, to me he looked a sixty something aged person with silver hair and unkempt beard. Disheveled full-sleeve brown shirt and a soiled crème pant over brown socks and brown leather, affordable quality shoe unworn under his dangling feet, he sat there on the damp staircase after a well showered evening in Kolkata.
There was nothing unusual about him as compared to millions of homeless in this city. Yet, there was a certain control about his stature as he sat on the sideway. That is when a bystander’s presence strikes a passerby’s imagination. It is more so, if the passerby is a voracious reader, affirmer and applier of deductive reasoning as proposed by Arthur Conan Doyle, through his gigantic literary character.
He could be a man kicked out of his home by his children or grandchildren for all the several causes that may be easily construed. He might be a madman whom his family members got tired dealing with. He might be an egoist who just could not take any form of mediocrity by his own standards from the people with whom he dwelled. However, definitely, with mosquito netting, shawl and a well-covered pillow you cannot be just another loner or just another vagabond. You have to be put in that position to be there.
An abject violence of humane society norms it was found revolting to the psyche of a social individual as me.

*****

Amazing

2009-02-28T13:25:00.000-08:00

This is to keep a tab on what happened today post quarter to one a.m.

After a nightlong party at 'Not just Jazz by the bay' three of us end up at Bade Miyan for food. I go to the the nearby HDFC ATM for money for that's where my salary A/C is. I find a card of 'Sukena S_ne Chant' Card No. 4386 2425 0150 0080. I ask my friends to come over to the ATM as witness. They come. I ask ATM guard for Customer Care No. and he gives me 2856 1818 which is useless. I call up 100 and nobody answers.
I go to the the nearest police officer near Taj Mr. Saukener (Mob. No. +919773094304) and deposit the ATM Card. My friends leave for home before me. I go to Churchgate station and take a taxi for home but think of taking the card no. and name of the person.
I go back to Taj. Contact Mr. Saukener and wait to get the no. Get the details and call back to confirm that I will be available for any help.
This is to let know whosoever it may concern that I did what I thought was right and will be available for any assistance.

On Love

2009-01-25T14:46:00.001-08:00

What is love?

How easily we utter this monosyllable. How easy it is to profess the same. How difficult is it to realize that. How seemingly impossible it is to get it for the same. Sad but true - as the sandman might say. But then none of us are sandman, none of us are superman - none of us know the answer to the question.

Sometimes love seems like a leap of faith. Sometimes it feels like life itself. Truely, what is life worth unless you have known what it is like to love somebody. What is it worth if you haven't been loved back?

Unfortunatley or fortunately these are unwritten rules which nobody has ever read. So, it is near impossible to figure out. Here, those who tend to differ, mind you, fortune is only perceptual. The ones lucky enough will know the sweet pain of longing. Those who are unfortunate enough will never know the way the first pure love can exist over a lifetime - maybe beyond.

We are only human. And there is only so much a human can realize. I cannot force it.

"Chahe kitna bhi pyaar ki bheekh maang lo, sajde karo ya cheen-ne ki koshish karo - pyaar nahi milta. Par kya tum kisiko itna pyaar kar sakte ho ki woh bhi pyaar karne pe majboor ho jaaye?"

(No matter how much you beg, plead or force for love - you will never get it. But can you love somebody so much that the person can do nothing but love as much?)

Maybe it is true... who knows?

*****

Salaam Bombay

2008-12-16T08:19:00.000-08:00

Salaam Bombay

I try so much to think of loving you,

And I fail miserably –

Like the lone child on the street side.

For I cannot see through

Descending acrid smoke of burning flesh

I can’t turn my eyes away from the child –

Its flesh ripped and shred of impact

As he sits there, over the charred remains

Of its inconsequential social connect.

I cannot see how we all are not thus orphaned,

For where I stand – what I see

Everybody has been stripped bare –

Down to the inherited, bestial flesh and blood

I try hard to look through the chaos

Of uncertain lives fleeing in anticipation

I try hard to recollect our dreams, in my mind.

But the smoke stings, it pains so bad – so deep.

This earth, a sky seems unimaginably shattered

And through all this – my dear

I silently cry out loud to you

I kneel before you my beloved.

I pray to you – pull back the reins of time

And put me two moments before

The unforgiven, unwilling child of human wrath burst.

For a moment I will see the child lisp in its mother’s lap.

For a moment I will look up and bid goodbye to you.

Come to me now – my beloved,

For I try so hard to think of loving you.

________________________________

Under the Shadow of Terror

2008-12-05T03:53:00.000-08:00

Noise Unlimited

Whatever now remains is like Noise - in its true definition. There are two sides to it.

1. People responsible for their carelessness and unprepared ness - they are generating the noise while curbing the real 'voice' viz. the dictate from the Govt. that media should no more broadcast videos of the attack - is that to keep people from disturbing images or do they know it too well that Indian mind is like black board - a stroke of duster and the chalk of calamity wiped off? Are the resignations, comments, opinions, vague statements sounding like boardroom 'global gyan' ('We will not tolerate terrorist tactics...' and like) worth the hoopla surrounding them? Really, have there been any actionable reactions? Something like, 'we have appointed XYZ to set up a committee which will plan and blue-print for a Federal Intelligence Agency of India', would have meant at least something. I fail to understand how feminine FMCGs could become talk of the hour - lord save the sanctity and sanity of our Media houses. Did they really find, even the person who indulged in such pithy remarks, worthy enough to be splashed over prime time news?

2. People who are subject to these propagandas - they end up taking sides. What have they got anyway? They only have choices and nothing like the best candidate or the rightful leader. They just choose the next best thing and end up where they were by the end of another 5 years. Just like stray dogs - they stray, they are shown the biscuit, they go to the vote machine wagging their tails, they sit waiting like a loyal dog, no matter they get kicked all along, then the 'eater' finishes off and the dog begins to look for another 'eater'. At times they will be stupid enough to follow that same 'eater' around.

The first kind confuses and the latter one is politically, socially and emotionally illiterate enough to be easily confused. In the end we have exactly what my title states and reflect the present state of affairs - Noise Unlimited...

Leopold Back-calculation

Nothing has changed much. People just want to get high before they are on a higher plane. They fail to flatter themselves. It is not that easy. The terror is unimaginable.

I look at these people congregated or rather accumulated at Leopold tonight, and I am unexcited. It is only natural to be egoistic. It is only natural to be nationalistic. But what really matters is – what do you really believe in.

I did my inquisition. The inherent fear of life sustenance is unquestionable (I just hate that I cannot write this in layman’s terms; I wish somebody did). Everybody hid in fear when the firecrackers became gun-shots in reality. I doubt if anyone else would have done otherwise – even with a bullet-proof armor on them.

I wonder what might have happened that day. I can but only wonder. But still, if I have that, I’ll stay with it because that is the only thing I have got to justify myself – about the way I feel. And that is just the way everybody of you reading this feels. So, stop lying to yourself!

Mumbai Burns

I am not Marathi, I am not Mumbaiyya. I am a simple citizen, another unknown Indian, who just happens to be professionally based out of Mumbai. And I feel violated.

I feel I have got everything to do with this calculated inhumanity on display for the last 60+ hours. I have never faced this upfront but now I do and I am going to do something about it. I have to speak out. I am not of that mettle to keep myself closed in the boundaries of a job, a family, few friends and four walls which keep changing.

There a few things that I hate but I hate them unfailingly and it seems it is not going to change for quite sometime now.

I do not accept to live under the shadow of the gun.

I do not want those people walking on this earth who have murder on their minds.

I do not want my near and dear ones to be terrorized.

I do not accept that a country like ours do not have an intelligence net.

But most of all – I hate the lousiness of some people who say, ‘What can I do?’

Money, stature, family commitments, professional pressure, relationships they don’t matter. In fact, when these very things are under fire – I do not believe we have got any justification of sitting back, thanking fate for saving us and waiting for the carnage to get over so that we can get back to work next morning like worms crawling across the dingiest filth on the face of this earth.

I defy those who call this ‘the undying Mumbai spirit’. I call this apathy, indifference and overall irresponsibility as an Indian and as a human being.

More than 190 people dead – that too only officially, three times that injured and an overall atmosphere of unwelcome fear looming ominously over Mumbai. We cannot keep saying that ‘Mumbai has won’; because it hasn’t. The terrorists have won – not once but again and again, and it is about time we put an end to our little day-night therapy sessions over the idiot-box with some politicians and diplomats who have been as irresponsible as us. It is about time we vent our retribution on these maggots.

Terrorists are not cowards. Cowards are only human. Terrorists, however, are inhuman to say the least. They are agents of the virus called terror. Love just won't do.

This is the time when we think, talk and act vitriolic. This is when our attitude should ooze acid against those buggers. I cannot imagine that I have to share the same air with these proponents of the unjust death.

We pride ourselves in unity. I disagree vehemently. We just fake ‘unity in diversity’. There is no such thing, unless we acknowledge ourselves as common human beings, each one of whom has got right to live. And those who don’t have no right to live!

I want to live without oppression – be it terror or in any other form.

I want to live without fear – be it the bullet or the ballot.

I want to live without bias – be it religious or socio-economic.

I want to live free – and my head held high because I know I have done something.

2008-11-06T01:34:00.000-08:00

Before The Other Side

On a higher plane,

I’ll like to be here.

With a pang of guilt,

With a hint of hurt,

With a spring of feet,

Even in a brief spurt –

I will still like to be here.

In the first crush,

In the gardens lush,

In a glimmer of hope,

Believing neither Devil nor Pope –

I will like to be here.

Even in Satan’s lap,

Even at Heaven’s gate –

I’ll still like to be here.

*****

Pink Rubber Shoes

2008-10-31T06:25:00.000-07:00

Pink Rubber Shoes

Ah, Yes! Squeaky clean rubber shoes,

Wonder what mischief they've been up to?

Squeaky clean rubber soles in puddles,

Wonder what the besotted devil might do!

*****

Hell Risen

2008-08-23T13:24:00.000-07:00

Hell Risen

Once there was a wish
Of many lives torn apart –
Let them heal now.

Here trod the fire feet
Blazed earth stood bye –
Make way for them now.

Things fell together
Like a dramatic illusion –
They make sense now.

Heat and dust flew
In the maddening wind –
All seems clear now.

Whatever seems like a dream
Will fireball into reality –
Do not wake me up now.

*****

Why will Man dream
Where hope is but blind –
To the unbound Phoenix.

*****

It Rained That Day

2008-06-10T15:00:00.000-07:00

It rained that day

It rained that day – incessant, unyielding,
Overcome with such grief, that it rained –
And it kept raining that day.
That stranger came looking, he looked for you.
He looked outside, he looked inside –
He looked me inside out.
In my eyes, under my skin – across my mind,
And yet you were not there.

Let him rest in peace.
For he could not see – You,
Coming again and again,
Splashing on the window pane.
Pacifying his soul with a whiff of life.

Life rained that day
You touched and I lived –
A hundred lifetimes and beyond.
Such, that it rained inside –
And it kept raining that day.

*****

The Man Who Became God

2008-05-13T08:21:00.000-07:00

The Man Who Became God

Sky full of suns and stars,
World full of life –
Amidst all of these,
I have found,
I – have found my space.
In wonderment –
Thus doth arise,
Arises, my song

On the unbound rhythm,
On destiny’s cradle,
On the ebb & flow of tides,
The Universe swings.
In my veins,
The flow of blood –
Hath flooded in outburst
In wonderment –
Thus doth arise,
Arises, my song

On grasses I have trod
On way to the forest
On fragrance of flowers
Struck with joy –
My heart has rejoiced.
Here lies scattered
Happiness’ gifts
In wonderment –
Thus doth arise,
Arises, my song
I have lent my ears,
I have opened my eyes,
On Earth’s breast
I have offered my soul.
Amidst the known,
I have sought the unknown.
In wonderment –
Thus doth arise,
Arises, my song
Sky full of suns and stars

– Rabindranath Tagore.

______________________________

It is a day of solitary reclusion. Self imposed state of assertion and collapsing inside oneself to have a clearer view of the outside.

Extreme Ways - Moby

2008-05-09T14:50:00.000-07:00

Extreme Ways - Moby

Extreme ways are back again
Extreme places I didn't know
I broke everything new again
Everything that I'd owned
I threw it out the windows, came along
Extreme ways I know, will part
The colors of my sea
It's a perfect color me

Extreme ways that help me
They help me out late at night
Extreme places I had gone
But never seen any light
Dirty basements, dirty noise
Dirty places coming through
Extreme worlds alone
Did you ever like it then?

I would stand in line for this
There's always room in life for this

Oh baby, oh baby
Then it fell apart, it fell apart
Oh baby, oh baby
Then it fell apart, it fell apart
Oh baby, oh baby
Then it fell apart, it fell apart
Oh baby, oh baby
Like it always does, always does

Extreme sounds have told me
They held me down every night
I didn't have much to say
I didn't give up the light
I closed my eyes and closed myself
And closed my world and never opened
Up to anything
That could get me at all

I had to close down everything
I had to close down my mind
Too many things could cut me
Too much can make me blind
I've seen so much in so many places
So many heartaches, so many faces
So many dirty things
You couldn't even believe

I would stand in line for this
It's always good in life for this

Oh baby, oh baby
Then it fell apart, it fell apart
Oh baby, oh baby
Then it fell apart, it fell apart
Oh baby, (oh baby), Oh baby (oh baby)
Then it fell apart, (fell apart) it fell apart (fell apart)
Oh baby, (oh baby,) oh baby, (oh baby)
Then it fell apart, (fell apart), it fell apart, (fell apart)
Oh baby, (oh baby), Oh baby (oh baby)
Like it always does, (always does), always does (always does)

******
- Moby.

Music

2008-05-07T13:43:00.000-07:00

Music

Here's a thought.

Music ain't supposed to mean a thing. Infact it isn't supposed to mean at all.

Imagine.

An early morning breeze over Juhu beach; grains of sands sprinkling – following your steps and the breeze does hum…

Even the thought of sweltering Mumbai summer fails, emerging din and bustles of the 'maximum' city fades, eyes dilate onto an invisible speck on the southern horizon of the extended bay - where the palm trees arise like brushes kissing across the sky lilting from darkness of night to twilight of dawn and all possible words fail to explain. What?

That. A catchy little humming on your lips… ho, hum, hmm…

Music is nothing, dear. Maybe it's more the moment - maybe it's not.

It's good that I never got to know the technicalities.

*****

(Dedicated to the 'one who sits aglow, amidst yellow' ... for music's sake.)

O Bulla! I know not who I am...

2008-04-24T07:50:00.000-07:00

O Bulla! I know not who I am

Bulla, I know not who I am
Bulla, I know not who I am
Neither am I believer in mosque
Nor am I in idol worship.
Neither in the pure or the impure
Nor am I in the Vedas.
Neither am I into intoxicants,
Nor am I the carefree deviant.
Neither am I union nor grief.
Neither am I the pure nor impure.
Neither am I of the water nor of the land.
Neither am I fire nor air.
Bulla, I know not who I am.
Neither am I Arabic nor from Lahore.
Neither am I from the Indian city of Nagaur.
Neither am I Hindu nor a Peshawari Turk.
Neither did I create the difference of faith,
Nor did I create Adam and Eve.
Neither did I name myself,
Beginning or end –
I know just the self.
I do not recognize ‘the other one’.
There’s none wiser than ‘me’.
Who is this Bulla Shah?
O Bulla! I know not who I am.
*****
Bulleh Shah

Journey Begins

2008-04-07T11:17:00.000-07:00

I have waited long. It can wait no longer. The journey begins - a journey called 'on my own'.

Final Stand

2008-03-22T19:10:00.000-07:00

Final Stand

Gospels of disbelief tend fear in a bountiful alcove,
Gathering mercy to bestow faith –
How cowardly and dastardly acts the self –
On an uneventful platter of life
On easier days when the moons shall burn bright red
And all suns and stars will be set alight to cinder and ash
In the disturbed horizons of a long billowing hurricane
I shall find my place under a warm blanket.

___________

A Breeze

2008-03-22T19:07:00.000-07:00

A Breeze

See this shore on the island of my heart,
Come break on its parched sands.
And you will know how long monsoon
Has turned away and left me dry.
Can’t even find tears now – this moment,
And the dream of your dreams rises
Falls like an unsure yearning of ages gone.

Give me sight now, one miracle touch –
Balm my tired eyelids softly,
Hold my hands and let me walk beside.
The sun never craved for more.
Never the earth craved less for your feet.
I am hardly breathing now –
For one last time I breathe so easy.

You can save me now or let me die –
Here, where flowers bloom.
And I forget once again that I ever existed,
For it has never been quenched.
But please, my lady, when we stand –
Say not what you can say best.
For all these I shall feel no more, then –
The universe might crash inside.

The winds remain to speak unspoken.

*****

Candyman Dreams

2008-03-22T19:03:00.001-07:00

Candyman Dreams

It is a straight stretch of glazed, ivory black granite brick road. Tram tracks have sank deep into it over the years of intense pressure. Millions of wheels roll bumping on the cracks across the graveled stretch. This is not a story of the street. Yet, streets have stories to tell.
Streets are brilliant storytellers. They never tire of telling them. More often than not they live up to their reputation. Streets have so many stories to tell. Some are hazardous and a rollercoaster ride with the shocked riders clenching their teeth under a deepening comic grimace – destinations are always far away. Some are murderous in the darkest hour where only few scurrying footsteps can be heard under the shady lampposts gleaming drearily in the creepy drizzle drenched city – a moment of silence, a muffled groan and silence reigns again. Some are deceptively fast paced and bouncy for the sentry religiously defending his castle from the onslaught of cannon balls, hurdled across with more aggression than conviction or accuracy – expectedly on a day when a strike or boycott, of any nature, has been declared. Some are monotonous like the everyday traffic snarls extending all along its stretch. Yet, it makes up for all that when the story is interspersed in between by the chapter where an unintentional blink made two pairs of eyes meet for the first time in their life and become unforgettable to each other. Such are the, occasional but obviously the brilliant sparks of a genius.
Some stories are mishaps. Precisely, an unpredictable outcome that is unfortunate. Yet, it must be a decisive outcome with no choices to the end. Why? I mean we all got choices for a solution to the situation but only decisive ends to them, which is in fact the most important time to make a choice. Well, but stories are just that – stories, and this story is just such a story.
The street was swarming with mid-day traffic. The pressure was far less compared to the morning office hours. Yet, dust, burnt petrol fumes, charred rubber on hot asphalt and bare, glazed granite bricks were aplenty to make it feel alive. For the street, however, it was getting a wee monotonous. All of these it beheld, day in and day out. Maybe, the street brooded under its skin; it was loosing its human touch.
They say thought is the fastest thing known. They even say there is something called telepathy. Then the plastic pack full of green, yellow and orange candies should have known the street well enough. For the response was just that – a mishap.

If you go up to him any day you will find two deep set blazing eyeballs peering out at your approach. The square lower jaw seems to hang down in most disagreeable fashion under the lax muscles and wrinkled skin over his cheeks. The nose sticks out like a wasted chewing gum stuck up and left in a thin stretch, poking at everything that beheld it. The lines on the forehead were deep enough to be portrayed in black, four of them uniformly spread across the ample width of the forehead. The hairline was a premature disaster, of black and white, cumulatively gray.
He was not the funny man. He was the candyman. Looks are deceptive and even more in black and white, on paper. One look at his face could tell the everyday story of a wife selling vegetables, two children well malnourished who helped their mother beg when times were worse and a life torn apart in pride and disability. Some are born free, some are born cursed.

Now let The Street tell its story...

He ran across the dangerously busy crossing. The only thing in his eyes was the bus on the other side of the road. The bus had stopped at the signal...

...Bus of route number 215A...bus full of passengers...passengers packed inside the bus, sweating...children nagging on mother’s lap...people bored of the wait...
...Green, yellow and orange candies...mango, pineapple and orange...quenches thirst...time pass...50 paisa apiece, two for a rupee...profit of 10 paisa on a candy...10 sold; a rupee rich...run, run, run...

Meanwhile, the plastic pack of candies was concentrating on the street’s thoughts.
The stopped traffic was let off. Like a simultaneous reaction to the revving up of the first gears of the waiting vehicles, candies, like marbles, rent through the bag and sprinkled all over the street crossing like colored, shimmering pearls of many little, precious dreams. They fell out off his arms like a brook of jewels, a brook of shiny little dreams.
But he was still running. He was thinking. He was not ‘thinking’...

...Many passengers...good omen for the day...a day of good income...will save five rupees for the children...Durga Puja is also round the corner...maybe fish curry tomorrow...

Somebody shouted out at the falling candies. He slowed, turned and looked down towards the near empty plastic bag on his relieved left arm, even as the bus of route number 215A ceremoniously picked up speed and roared past. His jaws hung low. The right arm, he had had raised to stop the bus, slowly crept down and fell limp by the other side. His eyes were slowly opening, dilated –

That was the very last picture of the candyman seen by the person, sitting in an auto-rickshaw, which the street beheld. But the street is not telling their story today.
It is a very happy day for the street. The street had so many colored marbles all for itself. It has got marbles to play with, today...

________________

To Take Daffodils away

2008-03-22T18:58:00.000-07:00

To take Daffodils away

Literally speaking...
An exciting and mysterious quality is
What I want, will come...
Just like that.

Daffodils whisper...
Lies are never more beautiful
Never ever anything else...
Hop along Sunshine.

Blade’s caress...
Mornings strew and I picked hurried
Stringing a new world...
Last in procession.

Suddenly snow...
Recollect bouts of cold, always hides
Licking icicles to water...
Daffodils shall prance.

Practically simple...
As irrationality of the transparent globe’s
Irresistible belief to shed...
Crafty – unknowingly brook.

-----

Soul Pot

2008-03-22T18:56:00.000-07:00

Soul Pot

The silent drop of mellow orange
Slides down the sides of my soul pot.
Slowly seeps into the darkening, –
Molten measure of my sensibilities.
I get as close as I can get to me,
Without fear, neither relief nor angst.

I can’t see myself on that bank –
Not as clearly as I want to. And yet,
I seem to know the figure out there
As if it was nothing – other than me.
I see stretched across about to tear
Apart, from my being and all of me.

A thin green line marks boundary
And I ignore rule to be on other side,
Midget scratches on the drop’s face
Acrylic peace dissolves in the flight –
Of tethered wings and et al...

Eyes transfixed and clouding –
A restless search in the lees of soul pot.

*******

Good Morning Sunshine

2008-03-22T18:53:00.000-07:00

Good morning Sunshine

Hovering over a silvery platter,
Watching elements pass by –
Wishing hellos and greetings,
Or just a passing glance enough.
Good morning Sunshine.

Gulps of life and dollops of soul
Drained of laze a hapless bird
Far – far away from its nest,
Shrugs its wings off all purpose.
Happy biddings Sunshine.

Happy now or ethereal solitude.
Dust of last night’s storm –
Subsides under its dry skin,
In peace of atoned dissatisfaction.
A very good day, Sunshine.

Still not overcome by the snow
That fell so incessantly last night.
Never thought of a day with you,
Night was cold and blew me away.
Welcome back Sunshine.

A cup of coffee?
... With me, Sunshine?

_____________

Dark Horse

2008-03-22T18:50:00.000-07:00

Dark Horse

Cooper
Super
Bowl.

Flower
Bower
Stole.

Cracker
Tracker
Goal.

Finish
Famish
Roll.

Lamer
Tamer
Hole.

Withered
Tethered
Soul.

*****

Shores of Paradise

2008-03-22T18:44:00.000-07:00

Shores of Paradise

As I think, you hold my hands,
You look up to me
A smile dawns on your rose petal lips.
I look down on the golden sands
As they stretch far –
Ambling across, the Shores of Paradise.

You unfurl your radiant frock –
Over the dry waves
And settle on single petal of first daffodil,
In my precious private garden.
And then you speak
Pearls grace words as they tumble inside.

Your hair floats with the breeze
In your carelessness
A caress it deserved, only from your palms.
My last few wish tries to touch
And I hold back –
And let you stay, on my Shores of Paradise.

My eyes dilates for a split second
On a singular thought
For the Darkness approaches soon and I pray.
For a Moon for my starry eyed sky
I open my dry eyes –
I find you still there, staring at me quizzically.

I am left sorry again and grounded
For you are still there,
Basking in golden sunset as you kissed the air.
You prance away for a moment,
And turn and kneel –
Sprinkling waves of sand in unusual trajectories.

(Snap)

...The Moon shines,
Full Moon on my night sky
As I amble along my silver Shores of Paradise.

Tides ebb at a distance
The lost sea-gull takes a dip,
In the frozen confines of my fathomless, dark, blue sea.
It is painful...
It is close enough.
____________
*******

Tiring Eyes

2008-03-22T18:42:00.000-07:00

Tiring Eyes

Then the sky falls asleep.
In the heart of darkness
Timid, glow bug’s fire –
Glow on dinghy’s sides.
Distant strains or a hoot!
Some engine huffs home.
Flowers of roadside bush
Gather, with stories new.
Dusty, virgin flowers –
What stories do they say?

Then the Atlantis sinks
In space of apocalypse
And the empire melts –
On a generous dream,
Of a sparkling goblet,
Brimming pearl red –
Life or honey? Beheld
To my lips, my breath,
In hands of moonlight.
If need be, let it flow –
Along with my religion.
And I shall lay in peace,
And sink into the breast
Where river of blue wine flow.

And like these dreams,
The nights have gone by.

Now all those flowers
Swing silent – lifeless,
Their tired, withered bows
Reach to snatch the moon.

*****

Guilty of an Embrace

2008-03-22T18:33:00.000-07:00

Guilty of an Embrace

And then I lost it once again.
Loss never came so precious.
Feelings haven’t touched yet.
Lips they speak heart’s words
And so it doesn’t matter why.

Love came in silence of dewdrops
Never knew when it left weeping.
It came again – it never knocked,
And again it left blind, unknown.

Many years have past since then,
Many days have melted in spring.
What difference does it make now
Now, that I can feel all over again.

Thirst to feel is satiated now.
Deserts turn back from oasis.
Heart of sand breathes again.
The lonely door stands – still.

All around, walls that stood,
Came crashing down in dust.
Anguish lay in a ruined heap.
A single streak of brightness,
Tore apart – descending mist.

*******

Once in a Lifetime

2008-03-21T11:15:00.000-07:00

Once in a Lifetime
(English translation of lyrics of a Bengali Folk song by Bhaba Pagla)
You’ll not be back here again.
You’ll not live a human all over again.
You’ll not be back here again.

Be so very careful my dear mind – keep your guard.
Your time ticks further away and beckons the dark.
Across your heart stretches the endless sky.
Bhaba says, “Open your eyes to look onwards.”

You’ll not be back here again.
You’ll not live a human all over again.
You’ll not be back here again.

Having been here, whatever you might have done,
Chitragupt – the accountant has put on record.
Equations will be drawn by the Great One.
Before Him, to whom, none can fake.

You’ll not be back here again.
You’ll not live a human all over again.
You’ll not be back here again...
*****

And...

2008-03-20T13:53:00.000-07:00

...no matter what, whatever repetation - it never really stops.

It Will Rain

But in the end
It all adds up to nothing.
Take time to explain
I can't take it rushing.
Look into my eyes
You don't have to go hiding.
Down in the shadows
Where my heart's been grieving.

And it will rain, when you come back again.
And it will pain, when you suffer the same.
And the sky will cry, when you walk pass by.
And you know it before I die.
It's all the same.
It's raining again.
Into the sun – inside my brain.
And it will rain... it will rain.

There was no time
To know how we're changing.
And to bear the cost
Is way more than avenging.
See through me now
And you can't see the promise.
Try a little hard
You'll see me no more grieving.

And it will rain, when I'll walk away.
And it will pain, on your shiny day.
And will take a while, to find my way.
And I know I will make it someday.
It's all the same.
It'll rain again.
Deep inside your pain – it will rain again.
And it will rain... it will rain.

*****

Catapulted

2008-01-26T13:54:00.000-08:00

Catapulted into an Unending Storm
Mirages are deceptive. So are distant blur of late night smog on the neon lit streets of Mumbai. Mirages are dreams. Dreams swim on the waves of constant undulating plains – of emotions, of sensibilities. Down into the dark blue depths one moment and cresting through the glistening froth afloat on the moonlit ocean in the next.

I let go of my heavy, laden body. I let go of my burdened shoulders. I let go of my loneliness, my fears, my pleasures, my symphonies, noises crowding around in mind. I see myself over and above, floating – a charmed existence amidst such plentiful, unbound world full of life.

My picture becomes clearer; the edges grow sharper as it dissolves in the dream. The dream of a dark blue ocean that envelops, embalms me under the shroud of a full moon night. I feel warm in the cold confines of the unfathomable ocean. I feel cared for, I feel safe.

Taare Zameen Par

2008-01-26T13:16:00.000-08:00

Starry Eyes & Boundless Spirit

Congratulations! What a work of love - you left me spellbound. It felt like being inside a time machine - back into the first 10 years of my life that I spent in my native village before I joined school in the bustling city of Calcutta. And I felt having lost and left yearning.

Open fields, boundless marshlands by the rail tracks far ahead, etched in between by cool shades of lone standing trees, my kite and my unending run, Color pencils and my scrap book. And I felt privileged, I felt lucky.

I have doubts if my next generation would have such a childhood that they would like to carry inside them for their lifetime. Will I ever advise such? I doubt myself - myself in this big, bustling city of business - Mumbai. For I have learnt - just like when I learnt what fire is, that the 'city' can take away as much as you can take from it.

Sorry, but this as much about the movie as about myself for, still, I have qualms about believing that any business is devoid of emotions.

Semiotics - I have known the term and tried understanding it but then I quit. I remember it was the 4th session during my post-grad. We were discussing 'signs and symbols of Hunger'. There were many skulls, bones, etc. My turn came and I could only come up with the fields, the ponds, marshlands and trees - the sight I thirst for. I found I could not singularly symbolize it, like being bound within the limitations of a language - just like any other education - mathematics, physics, geography, etc.

I retreated into my hostel room and sat down - quite. I liked looking at the flowers outside my window every morning. I found no reason in trying to put it apart into parts of petals, sepals, node, etc. I found no reason in Semiotics anymore. I stopped in analyzing parts and pieces. I grew to admire the whole, big picture.

I cannot analyze your movie Mr. Aamir Khan - apologies. The only thing I can say is that every time I will think about it, I am sure it will bring a faint curve of contentment and recollection on my lips. Beautiful! Beautiful! Above all - Inspiring!

Congratulations and thanks all over again.

Flubber, The Absent Minded Professor & Mayurkanthi Jelly

2007-12-22T15:39:00.000-08:00

Flubber, The Absent Minded Professor & Mayurkanthi Jelly

This is very interesting.

Well, subtly so, because I am still searching for the right answers over the ‘net’. This occurred to me while reading ‘Mayurkanthi Jelly’ (Peacock-neck Blue Colored Jelly), 1965, written by Satyajit Ray. Mark the year here.

Spielberg has been credited with ‘E.T’ (1997) when the storyline and idea was already there in Ray’s ‘Bankubabur Bandhu’ (1962) whose script was titled ‘The Alien’.

Here comes the catch! Spielberg’s ‘Flubber’ was inspired by the movie ‘The Absent Minded Professor’ by Samuel W. Taylor, which was made into a movie in 1961! However, the wonder does not stop here. It seems one of Ray’s short stories for children titled ‘Mayurkanthi Jelly’ (Peacock-neck Blue Colored Jelly) was released in 1965 and bears striking resemblances to both the stories!

There you go!

Demon Posts

2007-08-23T04:47:00.000-07:00

Demon Posts

Everyday like another day unveils,

A rotten hulled ship, stuck at the keel.

Dangerous converts thus bewared & kneel –

Till thunderous Heavens did peal.

Hello – hi there – excuse me Rudiments.

Come beg salvation with your armaments.

You shall have a bloodied ground of tents,

Every rule that dearest Death might vent.

Did you see that small motel en-way?

Where the little girl with her headless toy, did play?

When hours rolled in the couch Nemesis did sway?

How the earth creaked – ripped hearts astray?

First steps to your damnation are fine.

Half of the scorched ocean – your; half is mine.

And when on a supernova the eyes did shine,

Then stand apart – fall back in a line.

The mailbox has been emptied.

As empty as my bottle of wine.

__________________

Oh! Woman.

2007-08-11T16:46:00.000-07:00

Through the City of Women’s Gates

What are you – woman?
A vision
A dream
A passion
A sin.

A flower
A tower
A color that –
Changes every hour.

A beacon
A temptation
A baton –
Of redemption

A hog
A dog
A fog
A log

A mention
A tension
Apprehension?
Revelation?

A tide
A ride
A pride –
Astride.

An epitome
A filthy gnome
A place called home.
A picture worn

A storm
A norm
A scorn
Adorn

A relic
Psychedelic
Acrylic
Oriental vase.

Oh! Woman – who are you?
An idea
An emotion
A spirit called –
Devotion.

_____

Heavens Long, Short

2007-06-12T22:16:00.000-07:00

Heavens Long, Short

There are times you run on mad, perspiring, glistening unruly hair, thinning horizon, emerging roads and more beyond, pushing, pumping blood full of fresh air, rushing forward – your mind utterly blank. And then you stop. You look around – over the rugged extend of sandstones looming large over you like your cenotaph. You look back in the direction you thought you came from and you cannot make out. You turn back again to try understanding where your intent lies and you know your present has passed into eternity in that blink – your intent has simply vanished into thin, hot air on which the dissolving mirage on the horizon seethes.

You look around, tired for a rock to sit upon. Few yard away a boulder. Slowly the legs drag onwards to the rock which bears an uncanny appearance of an out-of-proportion throne with armrests. You stop awhile and smile upon the satire of time and even then proceed onwards to be a part of it. A relenting sigh and you drop on the throne in the middle of nothing, which no one gave to you, which was never meant for you or anyone, which needed not succession, no reign, no eras, no countries nor empires. Whatever was is the throne. Whatever you are now is the ‘master of what you survey’ – barren fields of eroded sandstone.

When you sit what do you see? A vast desert stretched out or a vast ocean, have you traveled through water or sea or your emotions. What are you - an ocean of thought or a desert of ideas? Winds blow around whirling thoughts and churning the ocean and forming dunes. The rock doesn’t move and do you? Do you take refuge in the rock from your ideas or do you let your tired self trudge again towards that unknown? Is it your victory or is it your defeat?
You part the parched, dry lips of yours in thirst of life – or answers?

_____*****_____

Emancipation

2007-06-09T15:01:00.000-07:00

Emancipation

Something happened today. Today? Rather, yesterday late morning – just like anything else that might happen and as memorable as none other. I don't know why but my experiences has never left me blankly staring into a de ja vue alley. Never. And so, I happily write on.

A cat littered in the kitchen - in the cozy damp corner just below the kitchen sink of our rented apartment, I guess on the night before yesterday. It was more of a shock than find. Pangs of hunger had at last broken my vow of laziness at noon. Food had just been delivered at my doorstep and it needed only one plate and one spoon to be served – rice, pulses and potatoes – simple and sumptuous. But not a single plate or spoon had been left clean, heaped in the sink for over two days I guess. Abhorrence of the stench or arrogance of being - both combined, had connived and so I proceeded to the sink.

Suddenly, a brush of fur – alive! The cat stealthily brushed past me and dived over the window still. Almost instinctively, the first thing I did was to stoop to check beneath the sink and straighten my back with a snigger of disgust crossing my face. Three – one spotted gray and two black bundles of sparse fur and throbbing, rolling over each other, kittens. Instinct again produced the 'F' word – deeply, smoothly through my clamped lips.

For a few moments, I was somewhere there, between the zone of ignorance and annoyance. Great! So much, for lunch! I looked outside the window and as expected 'momma' cat was right there, beneath the window still, looking up straight into my eyes, as perplexed and upset as I was. I hope I got her right. I looked left, I looked right and I located a small cardboard box and proceeded to do the most obvious thing - take that 'bloody' litter off my block, no place for aliens here.

I extended my right hand and touched the first throbbing, ugly fur ball - at first gently and then efficiently, to quickly transfer it into the box. In ten seconds flat the three were in the box and I lifted it over the window still. 'Momma' was still there. Now that I am saying this I might as well admit - it was pretty stupid of me to think 'momma' cat would understand. I just picked one up and showed it to her. I had thought she would understand that I wanted her to know I was beholding her creations and wanted to get rid of them urgently, as the responsibilities were absolutely out of question for me to handle. Stupid me. The snarl that emanated from her snapping jaws, with razor sharp, inch long canines on two sides showing, startled me. It looked vicious and so it felt.

There was no other way out. I locked the backdoor to the kitchen, the only way into my living room and proceeded, with the box, to the door. I latched it and went down stairs, stooping out of the quite low lying hallway and emerging just underneath the window still where scary 'momma' was perched, still looking up through my kitchen window, waiting for this to end as much as I did.

I whistled and there was an immediate turn of the feline form. First, it looked into my face. I didn't utter a sound and yet instinctively 'momma' looked into the box below her. I slowly walked up to the nearest garbage bin - a few steps away, and laid down the box and she followed each and every movement of mine - unpredictable and anxious movements, eyes transfixed on the box.

But as soon as I stepped away after laying them down and waiting at a distance to let her take her bundle of joy away, in a totally unexpected show of indifference, she turned on her back, tail slowly undulating and walked away in the opposite direction. That was the second and the last time the 'F' word hissed through my pursed lips.

I quickly picked up the box and proceeded to follow to 'momma' who was now perfectly sitting under the shade of a parked motorbike. At first it glanced away indifferently, but I was desperate to get rid of the three lives in my box. I gently upturned the box right in front of her and the litter rolled down on the ground, right in front of her alarmed and again transfixed eyes. stood aside.

I think gray is a good color - compared to black around. Otherwise why would she grab her 'gray' kitten over the other two and proceed to find a more private place, now that the old one stood busted by its original, yet, presently totally flummoxed tenant? I stood there waiting for it to come back for the other two. It was a long wait.

Some inquisitive kids from the block had gathered around. They had questions and an unwilling, famished me was the only one there. Perhaps it was horribly stupid of me but then I was not exactly thinking of my state. This is very typical of an empty stomach when the 'Gabrielisque' spirit takes over. Mind you, I was completely starved by then. I guess all of this lead to that point of great impatience when it just boiled over and the milk was spilt...

It was somewhere between all these kids and two litters that I forgot recollection of my position. Of the numerous cats in our block there was this certain black furred cat. It had been quite intriguing to me before and now it was approaching the very place we were standing over the two squeaking, blinking kittens. I recollected my general knowledge. They say these feline animals cannot bear the sight of offspring of others – not even one amongst its own species. I stared at the approaching, un-suspecting ‘stranger’.

It got the vibes – little, nearly inaudible squeaks of its own nature. It turned and headed straight for the kittens. I stood there transfixed. Whether it was my inquisitiveness or whether it was my foolhardiness, I don’t know, but I allowed it happen. I allowed the ‘stranger’ to approach the two defenseless cubs. Perhaps it was plain enchantment of witnessing a killing – the full rawness of nature that prompted to freeze my body as I concentrated on each and every excited quiver on the fur of the black furred cat.

It licked only once and in a flash it had got one of the litters by its neck. The kids took a step back and yet stared in amazement like me. They felt so weak like me – unable to comprehend and hence totally unresponsive to this display of violence. The jaws sank deeper into the neck and for sure now, I knew, this was getting murderously devious of me. At that very split second it happened.

Greed got the ‘stranger’ to drop the first and dash for the second and simultaneously, I don’t know what possessed me, I picked up the box that had been lying aside for sometime now and confronted the murderous ‘intruder’. Maybe it is the fear of regret. Maybe it was the sense of penance. I never knew then. I know not now either. I threw the damned box on the gaining black furred cat and it let go of the last living litter and bounced away.

I picked up the harrowed body of the visibly shaking figure of the fur ball and brought it over to the original place, place where its mother had left it to come back. I somehow believed it would come back and it did. I don’t know why, but like a man possessed I stood guard over the last live one that lay beside the badly mauled body of its sibling. The last few moments were the same for the broken neck. Quivering of body, stretching legs, jaws hanging and tongue lolling out with clenched phalanges and choking breadth squeezing shut the eyes such that it might pound the socket inside. For a moment the eyelids relaxed. Then there was peace.

I stood there waiting. After about twenty minutes, between which all these had happened, I saw the ‘momma’ approaching the place where she had left her possessions. This time she looked up to me with a look I have still not been able to decipher. A look quite similar to the first time my ex-beloved asked for a particular soft-toy for her and still inexplicable.

I pushed the live one in her sight. She grabbed it softly by its neck and with the gentle little body mass safely hanging between the protective jaws of ‘momma’ cat I snapped. With a last passing, inaudible sigh I strained my neck over my shoulders to catch a glimpse of the lifeless little body. Turning around I walked upstairs, back into the cool comforting confines of my apartment. Content, exhausted – blank. I kept the box aside and readied myself for my late lunch.
_ _ _ _ _

Riddle Riddle

2007-04-13T23:58:00.000-07:00

Paheli Ki Paheli

Sometimes it has to be this way. Sometimes you have to think. There are so many times one gets lost in disbelief of himself. I mean, we all are meant to reason out things, the way they are. After all that is what reasoning is all about. But, there are times things flash in - into, your mind and you begin looking at them in an altogether different light.

Paheli - an Amol Palekar movie starring Shahrukh Khan, Rani Mukherji, Anupam Kher, Sunil Shetty and a guest appearance of the formidable 'numero-uno-man-show' - Amitabh Bacchan himself, was to most of us, quiet a forgettable movie, at first look. It did miserably at the box-office, did not find admirers in the media and many could not accept the fact that it was the Indian entry to that year's Oscars ceremony, under the foreign film category. All of this, however, was something that came back to me a year later albeit during a 'chilled' stupor last night.

'At first look' because I watched the last half an hour of the movie (the first time since I had watched it in the Ahmedabad theatre during my college days). There was nothing unusual about the theatrics. Sharukh trying to earnestly control the inimitable, trademark stutter in dialogue delivery - trying to camouflage in a husky, deeper voice to incorporate the ethnic settings of the character. Rani Mukherji as the quintessential Indian village belle - wife of a traditional household and romancing a ghost, with a deep sense and portrayal of the stretched character (off the records - 'how I love this woman!'). Anupam Kher will be the conservative, comic relief. And Mr. Amitabh Bacchan - dress him a pauper and put him in the background and it would make the most compelling background that would pale any foreground to shame. Yes, it is the very same movie and yet not what I saw in it when I looked the second time around.

First look - rural, second look - urban; First look - Utopian, second look - sarcastic; First look - folk tale, second look - camouflage. Let me explain.

I think it was a movie of distinct urban symbolism. Starting from the ending sequence - 'the puppet song', as I take the liberty of calling it, is a stark portrayal of urban lifestyle. Very far fetched? I don't think so. We feed on media. We are controlled by higher authority. Our 'happy life' is a controlled system of effectiveness and productivity. I mean, we have got these strict rules to follow. Romance - by serenading or dancing but only in the evening. Dance - with your partner but it should be surreal in your mind. Partner - has to be beautiful, even if not media promoted 36-24-36 but close to it.

Now let me write the storyline in a sentence. A married woman falls in love and mothers a child off a ghost after her husband, bound by his business commitment, leaves her back at home - alone. Forget the words 'a ghost' and add two words 'another man', replace 'business' by 'professional' and 'leaves her back at home - alone' by 'cannot afford to spend much time with her'. You get this, 'A married woman falls in love and mothers a child off another man after her husband, bound by his professional commitment, cannot afford to spend much time with her'. How many times have you heard of this? Is this urban or is this rural? Is this folklore or is this bare truth? Is it the ghost or is it the yearned and lost romance of a housewife under such circumstances? Is it desperately emotional or is it justified - considering even women have been given equal rights to file divorces and exercise choice on their life-partners, but not remotely prominent in rural areas. What else would you call the clever interplay of the 'good' shepherd? Is it not the Law constrained by opposing forces of development and conservative moral policing, which finally takes recourse to clever manipulations?

However, the part which really takes the icing on the cake (according to me, mind you - you may differ all together to this entire article. I have no qualms - I will not watch the movie thrice!) the reunion of the 'ghost' with his lady love. Think now. Thought up? It is not 'happy Bollywood endings for audience pleasure'. It is still not 'folklore'. It is not the triumph of 'love'. Think agin. It is a strong statement of 'metro-sexuality' where rather than a rigid viewpoint of a angry cuckold exuding typical Indian machismo, it is the husband himself who transforms and begins to understand his wife's needs, changes his lifestyle and resets his priorities right. To me the character of the woman was betrayed twice. First, the 'ghost' who would never have the guts to stand out against a huge India social structure. Second, she lost the macho husband to a milder version comprising both machismo and softness. All she settles for in the end is a compromise and that is so real. We men refuse vehemently to be something lese than what we are before we settle down. The women, if I am not mistaken, refuse to accept that there is never the best till they relent. And then both let go of everything almost desperately and what remains are but compromises, laws of averages and mediocricy.

On a lighter vein, the film might be suggesting the spurned urban husbands a solution to their errant housewives!

So that's a Paheli (meaning 'riddle') solved according to me. However, remember what I said. If you disagree I have never said I will disagree with you. For, here, I just chose to reason things not the way they are. I saw 'Paheli' as such a film which should not be reasoned the way it is. In the end a gentle thought if you thought this has been worth a read. What are those two ethnic Rajasthani wood 'puppets' doing there in the film with 'voice-overs'?

Cheer on...

*****

Etcetra's: Well, now that I am into movies I know which movie I am to write about next. (Hint: I am a proud Bengali at heart!)

Under the Pillow

2007-02-24T00:17:00.000-08:00

Under the Pillow

Everything is just like getting through.

Pens turn into buttons –

Just let go of me writings, I am too tired now.

Too tired to think, to act, to observe –

To react; for I am not of the generous kind.

I am struggling now – my breadth heavy,

My throat sore and my senses even more numb.

And yet like the last straw

I; wrenched to my skin – dry, raw, inert thing.

Specimens of choice around me

We all got choices to make – what if I don’t?

I will mount the steps of Djongrila

Where all of them have gone praying for me

To ask them to let me be –

For all that matters to me are these;

Stars falling in flakes on the snowed fields

Of solitude and peace.

Where moments stare at me like my nemesis.

Pray not for me o the knowledgeable ones –

For I have wronged none

But for one within. So pray no one comes along

This path I have walked too far.

Pray for them o generous ones

Whom I unknowingly led in my way

For the souls who know not where they come.

Neither in a cauldron nor the bed of petals,

But an unforgiven spirit which lingers

Along the banks of the dry river bed

Lamenting such, the river may come rushing back.

To be sure if somebody had knocked

On her abode’s shackled door.

*****

On a Full Moon

2007-02-23T23:44:00.000-08:00

Bitter Moon

Pretty dreams, swift drizzles, generous whispers

Garnished in a tumble tin –

Spiced with green and red,

Served hot, or chilled in no time.

Ripples golden and black,

Useless – doubtful, how did it come to know?

Waves don’t come,

For, waves have dried on sunspots.

Speak over lines for clearer answers,

Sensible senselessness –

The buzzword, of importance

Garnering it is gnawing, though pitiful.

The point is gainful earnest.

Ideas are not always ideally dealt with –

So take a chance.

Blahs include ‘et al’s.

Working is a religion –

Practiced in great earnest.

Ability is a language –

Often twice misread to be understood.

And somewhere down

You begin enjoying the show...

Be entertained.

After all, what have you got to believe,

But, in the very same ‘it’?

*****

Dementia

2007-02-19T06:46:00.000-08:00

Dementia (This is Last Grass)

As the margins blur

On a silent camaraderie

Of bohemian grace

Static electricity flows

In Pharaoh’s ante-chamber

Mystic lady beheld

The gilded, golden goblet

To the thirsty eyes

And let it flow down

Below the melting skies

Elephantine shoals

Swarmed over cities awash

Of silent memories

Stories long dead speak

On a past pleasant dream

Drink to the lees

Sirens whisper lullabies

To Ulysses here

As he slept content

Sinking into golden sand

Devils old and new

Now gather in earnest

They dance merrily

Around soul’s bonfire

Mist descends to warmth

On these hillsides

Of rocks and old moss

Disturbed on them

A spirit lingers singing

Till daisies lull and sleep

Ethereal foam rides

On waves of unseen beasts

From the depths

Of silent unimaginable

As the oceans lie in peace

Heavens crumble

To ashes of loneliness

Lemon grasses

Waft in the restless winds

Gently hang down sleepless

The barmaid flatters

To deceive intimate millions

Craved on flesh

Carved on scarred faces

Demented souls of the gods

The lone sentry stands

Holds the glister tipped spear

The century old stand

Of earth smeared red of blood

With souls rung tearless

Cauldron of destiny

Seethe on the horizon of dawn

Albatross of hope flies

Destiny woes the wings aged

Over the waves he sinks to rise

Like a bird endless

An idea boundless of time

Unspeakable silence

Of universe collapsing inside

The rhythm began churning round...and round...and round...and...

__________________________

I Justify

2007-02-19T06:27:00.000-08:00

Mercurial Mentations

Something never changes – like realization. It is always an on going process that observes, deciphers, hypothesizes, reasons, deduces, believes, rechecks, recalculates and then again begins the whole cycle all over again. It is a mysticism borne in restless spirits which refuses to die out on a single whiff of time. It is a struggle – a struggle to relieve the passion of deconstructions and rebuilding towers of faith on basis of proof.

Whoever uttered the line, “a bird in hand is worth more than two in a bush”, then stands corrected. For, of what use is the bird in hand, if the other two are birds he will never get to know? What is the use of living then? You might as well live a whole life in diapers. However, this is not an inspiring argument. It is rather a truthful documentation of obvious reality. So, the writing stands justified on its, own stead.

Now that I have my point, there remains apparently nothing to be discussed. Discussed? How can I say I am discussing? In this darkened room, my friend lying in peaceful midnight slumber, two eyes of mine trying hard to argue my senses to sleep, effect of late night nicotine, incessant, unyielding rain pit pattering on the glass panes, Colonial Cousins softly crooning ‘Krishna’ through the precariously hung headphones and a glaring screen, what devil does beseech me to seek whatever I know not?

Maybe it is my prime need. Need? Need for what – a constructive deduction to a certain culmination of this writing? Or do I seek acclaim? Ah! Dear me, you should have known by now. Since, the very first cry you strained through your throat, smeared in remains of origins, naked, lay bare before the whole wide world – you clenched your fists, to prove your existence. There you are then. It is the pure need of being accepted as an existent being that you do the entire thing you do. I guess my very existence depends on these black scratches on the whites of time.

These days, in fact these sleepless nights, which I spend regurgitating on the facts and fiction of my existence I find a peculiar resemblance of me to a rhododendron for whatever existed has passed eons by and whatever remains, are decomposed fossils of a self I have left behind in time. In a sense we all are serpents – crawling on our chests, sniffing traces of life to consume on the vast desolate parched extent of a desert. Here, the oasis' have their waters muddied. Yet, no regret at all, for the willingness is ours.

The need basically is of freedom which unfailingly eludes the Ulysses within. It is only for the ones who have already known that from the blithe moment of our conception we have been put into this framework of existentialism, which as frameworks should be, are limited in themselves. We refuse even then. But facts require justification and so I justify. So, you think senses are the routes to emancipation – to freedom? Well you are already there my dear friend – in a web of deceit, which your senses have so cleverly knit around you. You think it is ground you are walking upon? I see you crawling my dear and that too comparable to that of a slug.

All the world’s libraries are not enough for you and you travel places – ‘places’, and yet you know not how far. Knowing knowledge can be dangerous propositions my dear. It is not knowledge you are after, you are after the rat race of knowledge – it is the race that matters, unfortunately always far, far ahead of you as your sixth sense perennially picks up the scent of probability. You think you create? Hardly there son, you are putting things, already there, into place for your comfort. And then you say you create matter, anti-matter, super-matter and what not. Feel not ashamed for that is what, the framework of your existence, has been put to use; and yet, by whom or what?

Questions fly here, questions fly there, not a single answer to be found. Why answers? Why not only questions? Questioning questions is a way of life for us after all. All that matters is a way of life and not life itself. If you haven’t had a way about your life you are never the ‘good’ man, no matter how well you have lived your life. We all are butterflies here. All wearing different colors – or is it camouflage? Either way it smacks of sweet deceit. So, enjoy.

Whosoever discovered or accidentally thought of a whisky on rocks is the omnipresent god in my eyes. Here the working thought is somewhat convoluted, somewhat like this – “All fluids look good when splashed on rocks.” The interpretation can be varied in distinctness and emotional quotient accordingly as the phase of psychological limitation the reader is into at the time of reading the sentence.

Metaphors are no accidental discoveries but natural consequences of a typical human’s inherent preference for privacy. This exists not only in concrete forms of lifestyle but also in intangibles of emoting. Secondary self is one’s tryst with existent entities beyond the outer boundaries of his primary limited self. For, if not that, why must I and you be here? The inner boundary draws the area of reprise for ‘everybody is his own, best consolation, confidante’ and et al’. Questions arise from the bases of answers to them. We lesser mortals, travel far and wide, tracing a round about route, back to the point where our quest originated from. Everything we do we judge more than we believe and there lies the satire of fate.

Enmity is frivolous and as well fictional for whatever happens has got a lot to do with backward aggregating expectations. Expectations in themselves are flawed and hence incorrigible. Misdirected thought stimulation leads to the final leap of faith which finally often ends dumped and caught obsolete in the fleet of time. Doing away with expectations, however, does not help the cause – mind you. What it does is to imbibe cynicism.

I do not allow, for I have known since my conscience has spoken to me, that we all are picking random hearts in our way of life. It does not matter if it is a pitiable bunch of a-day-old violets in a roadside bin or a – “What was that, a fairy in red?” It always that split second which determines the deliciousness of the next experience we relish. Whatever we eat is experience. Prove me salt tastes salty and I will say you are asking only from a human who is taught the language which is a code for communicating amongst them. Metaphorically speaking, there are in fact many – in fact everybody, who knows salt can taste sweet and sweet, bitter. Did you hear me chuckle?

Nomads were ramblers. Rambling is nomadic. We all were nomads. We are all rambling nomadic. No wonder I have much to write and yet, more than a universe to express. Maybe universe is a throbbing heart of some larger form. How would that living be like? Well I guess much like us. With good and bad ‘cells’ sharing the body in a precarious equilibrium, it can only be only as much human as we are. Thoughts are horses and wild ones too. Nomads ride wild horses. Nomadic thoughts saddle my dream horse. I will ride the horse.