Leftovers of Solitude

chasm

2011-08-23T20:23:00.004+05:30

And the comedy assumes magnified proportion, so much so that the noises outside get a physical presence - suffocating and soiled.

While some long lost music plays in the background, you only try not to fall into the well of crust nostalgia, faded to inglorious paleness.

The birds chirp in the early morning sky, sitting on the stairs leading to the terrace, talking of faraway lands you realise you can never visit while the concrete present and everyday life suck you inside a whirlpool - inescapable, deep and ceaseless.

Where are you stuck?

The pied-piper left way back.

Song No 47

2011-02-03T22:39:00.004+05:30

On randomly opening the newly gifted Gitanjali, verse no XLVII flashes across, thus becoming my first song out of the hundred and three.

The night is nearly spent waiting for him in vain. I fear lest in the morning he suddenly come to my door when I have fallen asleep wearied out. Oh friends, leave the way open to him - forbid him not.

If the sound of his steps does not wake me, do not try to rouse me, I pray. I wish not to be called from my sleep by the clamorous choir of birds, by the riot of wind at the festival of morning light. Let me sleep undisturbed even if my lord comes of a sudden to my door.

Ah, my sleep, my precious sleep, which only waits for his touch to vanish. Ah, my closed eyes that would open their lids only to the light of his smile when he stands before me like a dream emerging from the darkness of sleep.

Let him appear before my sight as the first of all lights and all forms. The first thrill of joy to my awakened soul let it come from his glance. And let my return to myself be immediate return to him.

The things, situation, people that inspire a poet to write is manifold.

De Este Modo

2011-01-27T21:42:00.006+05:30

It was a cold Winter night, Ibrahim was engrossed in his after dark hours introspection inside the tranquility of his one room apartment. Life is one amazing 'jack-in-the-box', he finally inferred. Sigh.

The kettle was whistling meanwhile. He walks towards it, turns the knob, prepares a cup of black tea. There are grand pleasures in small deeds. Ibrahim then walks towards his balcony for his everyday surveillance of the night sky. The tethering bonds suffocate him. It's only during this hour that he feels completely untangled, being alone in the overpowering lightness of the night. He awaits tomorrow once again.

...to be contd.

Glimpses

2010-11-16T19:29:00.001+05:30

the lull

2010-10-23T20:49:00.006+05:30

One evening. Same old roads and drifting winds. Blurry captures and vehicle in motion. The comforts of familiarity. The break in the lull.

The Alleys Without Djinns

2010-09-18T21:09:00.004+05:30

The earth has been wet, drenched. The sky - forlorn, grey, heavy with clouds. The raindrops are still fresh on the wires from last night’s rain. But these are all invisible from the box of the room I live in. But when you come out and stare at the remnants of the destruction left by the previous night’s rain I’m transported for a few moments, if not longer, to that window facing the lotus spread pond of mine on a rainy afternoon.

It is hard to think that more than a year have passed since I landed on the heartland, the capital, The City. This is definitely not the first rain I have witnessed here of course. I have braved its infamous winter, the unbearable summer and the mad monsoons. Time is an amalgamation of all the seasons as we see. The essence of the city (as one of my friends had remarked) - the spirit takes time to unfold. Likewise, for me the core of what Delhi is, is merely not the swanky malls, the concrete roads, the troublesome traffic, the famous somany sites (sounds), its high quotient life. Delhi for me, at this stage, is a collage of images, everyday images - an early morning glimpse of the India Gate in fog; the pigeons, the omnipresent pigeons, behaving like your guides throughout the city; the labourers with their shiny black backs labouring on the sweltering streets in midday, the view from the terrace of unending blocks of tall buildings, the laughter shared by a bunch of friends in an obscure small Chinese restaurant (whose waitresses have also traversed a long way from home), the momo corners around the market place, the gypsies habiting in the middle of the city. The subtlety has been minimal, almost unseen. The prejudices I had against the city (not that I was loaded with them) kind of got lost by the time I was actually seeped in by a part of it, as a curious observer. The music of the place have not formed a symphony nor do I expect it to be build up into one so fast but the amaltas of the last season, the unexpected quite moments shared in the heartland makes for some unforgettable starts to probing of the city with alleys without Djinns, real, throbbing with life, with variety and variants. Simple activities become enlarged. Introspection gets time even in this otherwise fast life.

That is the most amazing thing about the city, its full of strangers, full of outsiders, most of the people you see do not actually belong to the city - The students, the labourers, the gypsies, the job seekers, the transferred ones, the drifters, everyone. But how we become a part, an unmissable part, to create the whole the city is. I have been lonely but at times only when I chosen to be. Finding myself in the newest surrounding, which will slowly cease to be new, I wonder, I don’t reminisce. The time spent has been fast, keeping up to the fast paced life. Delhi is not a mirage and it’s a relief or perhaps. The discovery reaches the next phase and I can’t be more prepared to take on the role of the explorer.

P.S: Was written a month back, during the Mad monsoons

Drift Wind, Drift, Through the Hypothetical Windows

2010-07-02T09:39:00.005+05:30

... and the window opened suddenly, letting a strong gust of violent winds. Winds, they have a magical something attributed to them, just like the rains and the dews, the sun and the moon.

But this was not what the post was intended for. The post was intended for nothing. Nothing, like something, happens all the time. No overt musings this time, nor any more of vague after trails, foreground, background. Just words, plain and simple. Exuding whatever they have been meant to exude, but can things be so transparent and harsh? So direct and straight?

Certain Things:

Wheel: The mouse had been revolving inside.

Revolving

Evolving?

Who knows?

Learning to balance, perhaps.

Perhaps, to fight that old giddiness. Growing old for sure.

Samples

Treating treats to truths,

Lugubrious laments,

Ecstatic melodies, like musical notes flying in ephemeral space unable to be trapped. They transpire, they escape- escapist ecstasy. The words seem entwined.

Photo Frames: They forever haunt the corners of homes, to imbibe nostalghia or simply as reminders or as mementos, perhaps. Frames.

Digression

The sky at night is always a delight to watch, expanded, all space, empty (sometimes), sad (depending).

Is happiness a butterfly - elusive, flighty, too independent? Or am I being simply too drugged?

Everyone is effusively enchanted by this thing called life. The too much of it, the too less of it. The too chaotic part of it, the unsteady part of it, the uncertain part of it - A river flowing but one which has a changeable route. I have an aversion for strange pink, as if any one cares to know.

Do you want to know what the wind and the suddenly opened window brought in?

Leaves of grass, yellow dried flowers, a certain uncertain coolness, a whiff of a forgotten calamity that the wind had encountered on its way. Frisky odour of misadventure. Tattered pages of someone's old journal written in a beautiful hand. And it was not immediately followed by rains. The things the wind brought, remain the same.

And through a different window, you can see an -

... 'iron man'. With practically no roof over his head. He irons crumpled clothes, day in and day out. (Don't we all wish we could just crease off the very avoidable plications) And he just occupies a very insignificant space in the already insignificant world. Day in and day out, come wind or shine or absolute blasphemous heat and torrential rains. Ironing with the coals and the ancient equipment that requires no electricity. He is a forgotten being or almost. He can be a Saviour at the most needful hour. Like providing few matchsticks at dire times to forgetful beings. This is for him. The wind brings him nothing, definitely nothing too sentimental and of value. He simply leaves the corner to be under the tree when stuck with one of those dust currents.

The clothes have been hung on the rooftop ever since, fighting all the wind, storms, lightning.

Photo Source Keith Levit

Images At Odds

2010-04-20T15:46:00.008+05:30

Episodes Climb
One over the other,
Like Lego,
Building stories.

Myths screaming,
Incidental drifts,
Roving repertoire,
And tasteful raconteuring.

Lacquered dreams,
Vessels without sails,
Sleeping in humid terrain.
Beams: psychedelic beams.

Linearity, stillness,
Not much displacement.
Fading glory
Perched in misty mess.

There is an Outburst of Colours, and I'm Giving In

2010-03-30T21:30:00.009+05:30

Method Madness

2010-03-23T09:43:00.018+05:30

(Or Why I Return?)
Another Day Arrives,
I know I'm late,
No, I'm not that late

A night
With all its ramifications
Wide never-ending
Opening all its doors.
Remembering Alice, down the hole;
The doors and the constant confusion surrounding it.

The ultra moments stumbled at unexpected quarters,
Though temporal
Temporal, only,
And
incomplete.

I believe a lot real life is imitator of the best fiction or may be the best fiction is based on someone’s real episodes.
Life is unreal.
The eternal question of existence, to be left altogether to a different shore.
So, for the few who wonder what happened to the stories here (fact, fiction, every genre), no, no one gets a review of the past three months.
What you’ll have is: An obituary. A letter. A reunion. A discovery (ies). A de ja vu of-sorts.
Numerous scattered uncategorised episodes.

An Obit
I went home. Four months later, to find things not too different from the way I left them. The table was untouched, so was the book shelf. After a really tiring journey, I finally reach home, I find my ailing Grandpapa (Pupu), being spoon-fed by my mother. Frail, so unlike the way I left him. As if an entire century had slipped in between. But I knew he was glad to see me. A nod.
Pupu loved cigarettes, women, music, his wife and gardening. Simple man he was. Blessed with more than a whiff of craziness. So full of exciting tales. A Mahabharata reader who could quote the Gita like a poem.
I never remembered him like the regular nonagenarian. He was so utterly independent that we were scared, at times. A strong tall man of 93 who, this time, was completely bed-ridden, awaiting me. I had only a quiet hello to convey.
One morning, during my stay, we discover that he was no longer breathing, silent forever. He died a simple death, a quiet one, without a hush. I still do not have much to say.
I remember his concern, his overly repeated tales and of numerous summer nights spent under the mango tree in my front yard, listening to them; I also remember the days he made me feel embarrassed with his random eccentricities in public. I remember the jokes he used to crack. The samosas he used to bring every afternoon, the songs he used to sing, and make me singalong The talks, he so much wanted to talk. His desire for constant company. It was because of him that I did not miss my Grandma (Bobok), it’s from him that I learned about her. She had left us 14 years back. I still miss her.
It is so easy just to be quiet. The cinematic moments in life.

Just when Papa was about to burn the pyre, birds (of a kind I don’t know), thronged all across the skies as if to pay their last respect. The Grand old man finally left for the other shore, or some place else.

A LETTER (to no one)
Life is going on.
Not that bad at all. So, goes the day, the everyday imperfect ways. There is a new job, new people and working environment. The only thing common is the terrace. How I miss the terrace triad. A pet also accompanies this time. Her name is very unimaginatively called Billi. I am kept very busy and tied-up.
I’m not yet homesick. Everything is fine.
Films are keeping me busy. I’m reading books on war these days. Like Asne Seierstad's With Their Backs to the World.
I really enjoyed Nolan’s Memento. Rene Touzet was quite a discovery. I’ve learnt no new Spanish phrases, but.
Take care till I’m back,.
There is always a next time.

A Discovery
One always updates a playlist.
Though, sometimes, it is just too hard to delete some of the old songs.
Some moments, some moments get completely imprinted in the memory. You remember everything; you let it play so much in your head that you are scared that the memory reel might just devolve. Well, there was no such reel in the first place, anyways. Thus the fear of the memory never being able to be repeated follows. It might simply never repeat. Never occur, becoming one of the many minions of such moments that keeps on growing in and out. I find Chopin haunting.

Memories & Melodies
Am all over in love again with Travis
Paperclips brings forth a new connection of melodies and memories.
They have the same functions: persistent memories are benignly hurtful.
It happens, at certain moments, rare ones, when you know you are the happiest being on the planet, no matter how short-lived the period is, it seems like we can spend the rest of our life living on the borrowed happiness of these memories, repeated over and over and over again.
An uncharted understanding, an unavoidable intimacy, a sense of unreachability, a feel of the emptiness, a sudden revelation that you exactly know why you are here, a displaced moment.
A temporary feeling of having all that you want in one point of time.
The brutal blow arrives when you realise this is not happening for real, even the reality is dubious of its own existence. It’s just there because it is also whiling away the time. Only a second look at it with the perspective it was not supposed to see. You see because you want to see it that way, you don’t want to understand it the other way, a mirage of the fatal sort. Then the things take slowly their real shape. You fail to understand why you keep on imagining things. Demented?As if the imaginary notions take on an active stance.

every day dreams
My eternal wish has been to travel all the obscure corners. May be because that's the least I’ve done. So, it’s not sudden and surprising when suddenly, walking as in a day dream, I am amazed stranded in some foreign quarter of the ordinary places, the meandering lanes.
I enjoy long strolls.
Just looking at the same buildings more closely which otherwise ones swiftly pass by. Observation makes anything interesting.
I discovered many a things about me. Like I hate when all those coffee shops fills you with indiscernible sounds, a bedlam born out of multilogues.
I like to observe people waiting on someone in a restaurant and particularly, the way they while away their time.

Scattered Episodes
Meeting with an old friend after 8 years,
Attending a wedding
A hyperlink cinema co-incidence
Discovering newer music and newer films
Dancing to Zulma Yugar's haunting voice at 1 am (It is absolute fun, I'm telling you)
and more fun when you discover that your room mates have finally decided to no longer be civil to you or your taste for ‘brutal’ music (that's what they think).
I don’t know why I intended to keep the name of the post adhered to madness. I only know that the mind plays trick, and intuition does not exist. Alchemy eavesdrops. One sees things not as they are meant to be seen or felt but rather in a way they want to see it.
I can never seem to get enough of missed moments.

Everyone is settled
All my friends have graduated to the next level,
settled
. the. next. Phase.
I don’t like the things we talk about these days.
Work
The tediousness
Missing life
Routine (and how it needs a major dressing-up)

De ja vu

I’ve to let you all know about a particular day...

Late evening, lying on the bed, with some obscure (read: I don’t know which random music) playing in the background, helping my friend with some petty word doc work. All attention, to the screen in front. Suddenly a strong whiff, stronger even, of wet earth made it way to the hallow nostrils hitting the memories immediately drawing pictures in head, stolen ones, of course, my backyard, reminding me of a rain drenched day, the images immediately took a concrete form. The relentless rain hitting the mehendi leaves, the noise like music blaring. The green, low light day. Just a wisp of wet earth and pouring rain dribbled such powerful images. We ran through our box of a room to see if the smell was for real or just another part of our fragrant imagination, to see only a drizzle blessing the incoming summer in Delhi.
We look up, the yellow street-light shines.

We return.

I love life, because it’s ultimately ordinary.

By the way, has anyone of you read the "Monologue of Isabel Watching It Rain in Macondo"?
I love the title.

P.S: This shelved post, thankfully, finally saw the light of the day.

A Post on Posts

2009-12-01T10:09:00.010+05:30

Writing, typing, rewriting and then finally deleting, such has been the fate of my numerous bland posts in this sleepy blog of mine over the course of the last one month (and beyond). At times, I am left completely aghast at the torturous pain I take in being indolent. This tirade will anyways, go on knowing myself well. A lot of ~~activities~~ ‘pseudo activities’ have been whirling on its own. Work (the more of the less of it), sheer sameness, anticipatory existence have been stirred, taking its own sweet time in the formation of some strange brew. No change. Renewing the reading habit was a welcome comeback and getting into the cinema viewing frenzy is always a preferred break. Besides, add to that the usual bout of sulkiness that adds to the aura of the already melancholic winter.

Phase I

When Thoughts go for a Marathon

When things do come your way, it fells like it’s too much too handle, reminds me of the quote adorning the wall of a forgotten corner in my office

“When everything is coming your way, you are on the wrong lane”

I wonder if being introspective is healthy. Reflecting on all the good, the bad and the ugly entities that loiter around the headroom, grabbing your constant attention. It is a tedious job for the fragile senses. When things happen, the best ones, you’re kind of taken aback but then to your dismay, you discover that you are just looking through a few interrupted chinks of happiness, the wheel again sets in motion, the monotony, ordinariness prevails.

Everything is routine.

Phase II

Coming to THE point

Well, I decided to have this post not only to revive this blog in deep slumber, but also to give an insight to all the post that could have been here or about to be here but ultimately could not. My unpublished, ignored posts, gets their due (or almost):

The first one was on Diwali. The title was this:

“Looking at the smoky skies on a glittering Diwali night from the terrace”

It was beautiful. It was crazy. But looking at the smoky (polluted), glittering Diwali night sky while listening to Alanis (Hand in my Pocket) on the radio and then looking at the people celebrating the festival of lights while you are getting an 'overhead' perspective on things, it is wonderful. I mean it can feel wonderful. It rarely matters if one is a part of the humdrum or not.

The second one was “About obscure and absurd dreams”

This one was about an absurd, surreal meaningless collage of images that at some aspect made complete sense and from the other made me shiver. (Salvador Dali!!). The dream just made me realize that things can feel surreally unsure and bleak and futile but the futility itself does not mean anything, it’s rather the anticipation of the obscure ending that does the trick. Trying to get oneself away from all the rush takes its toll, to be away from so much of mental movements is sure to exercise something inside indeed but then again who cares really. The beats will remain rapid and the strings will continue humming a tune too distant and deep. So I guess it’s better if I don’t describe it further, the point is that it did help to wake me up early than usual. I don’t remember most of the dreams that I dream. I remember only fragments from this one.

The former so should have made it here. But the personal appeal was too superfluous. It was a chotti Diwali after all.

Life experience as such is gaining leverage. The new environment is definitely doing some good.

Phase III

A Bunch of Madhatters

I marvel how easy it is to be affected by ideas, thoughts that are the products of immaculate, avid, pure passion..... and it is equally easy to be repelled by utterly unbelievably obnoxious creeps. And one has to face both the extremes.

Human nature do not change, it is funny to think that we repeat the same old mistake, no matter what. No matter how much we would have suffered at the cost of the former. We keep on turning back to the same oft-beaten road, to the same place.

Earth is spherical.

Phase IV

Epilogue

A review of the past three (and more than a half months) on a strange land

The people- place -habits are all so similar in the way they propagate that it is unaffective after a point of time. Stumbling upon things that read more unreal than fiction, and for the better, leaves one deciphering the codes that construct the maze called life.

The company of my thoughts is vital for my existence.

The copy pasted regularity of life. Sometimes, it is out of complete cluelessness as to where I’m that lets the stagnant waters remain still. And the ever frequent question What will the outcome be? rears its uncannily disturbing head.

And I never rest, reflecting on that so much so that the written words never even get a chance to see the light of the day, never, they live an invisible life. But yes, I’ve been rearing, at least the ones that are on the list if not the rest. The new ones are left ashore. Finally, it is the best thing, and it is the worst all at the same time, the ideas that incite the dormant wandering thoughts to life, how the other’s letters and thoughts seem so enticing and wonderful that compels us to believe in a lot of ulterior dreams that, you never even knew existed.

Ambiguous will only become hazier, if not less.

Kasol Keepsakes

2009-10-07T12:57:00.006+05:30

More will follow soon

Pitter-patter

2009-09-05T13:30:00.003+05:30

Pitter-patter.

The raindrops splatter.

Salty drops find some means

to stream.

Window is gaping

at the lost stand-still view.

While I'm here

just like I was before-

empty,

without a beat.

Let the Words Flow...

2009-09-01T11:29:00.017+05:30

CURIOUS. FEAR. PAIN. DEAR.

Random rain of words it is

The murky world inside my head is teeming with million of unattended butterflies trying to disrupt the order that I so eagerly and desperately have been trying to reign in. The furious typing at this moment have nothing to do with the drizzle outside. I know I'm not making any sense. But writing is all I want to do and that is why the hardcore typing sound seems to be so easing to the senses. I've started working, actually I've been employed now for almost two weeks. That is why may be the strange paradise (of sorts) seems to be comfortable enough. So much for being enough-independent. The lighting speed of the thoughts that are really crowding in, trigger some other long lost appraisals of the past that were so mundane yet effervescent. There was motion even in the tranquil subduedness. Away from home for the first time ever, away from friends and family have its aftereffects. No, I'm not at all homesick (the definition of home always eluded me, I mean what exactly is a home, its not an entity, its more of an idyllic idea). Leave it. Don't pay attention to everything that I have to say.

At the start of my stay here, I was a bit apprehensive, because when I came (or rather when I decided to change place), it was done erratically, I had idea of what I wanted to be but not how exactly. But sometimes, I guess fate (or then, the lack of it) takes a different route altogether. Ten days later, I find a foothold, almost. A JOB. If, you know what I mean. A meager salary and bountiful existence don't go hand in hand but the utter possibility of unhinged freedom gets you high. Freedom - that elusive sentiment that have got the world enthralled, the revolutions that one witnessed, all to the spirit of freedom. Meanwhile, the world has been behest with all the uproar and furor of what one had to say about another blah blah blah, the revival of the western world from the clutches of the R-WORD. The world lives on, and I personally think mostly of the premises that I had to be in . Selfish gene.

I so miss watching films, the habit of the otherwise recluse. I miss my pets and I miss the eternal whiff of extra-ordinariness that always seem to haunt the world I was stuck in.

I borrowed 'A Blue Hand' from a friend to read. The book chronicles the stay of the BEATS in India. But unlike before, the reading bug has temporarily gone to rest. AWAKE.

And, finally, the bug that has bitten me. The pain that it has infused. Miraculous. Dangerous. Completely incurable.

P.S: The thing that really made me get up from the somewhat sojourn I was thinking of taking was the discovery of this CINE DURBAAR. For all lovers of cinema, it is more than worthy of just a dekko. Hail to cinephiles!!

P.S.S: Excuse my babbles.

Winds

2009-08-27T10:26:00.007+05:30

The winds,

The troubled winds billow,

Once again.

Now another aroma of a stranger's breath

Fills the void.

I know-

Temporal peace it is;

ever restrictive.

Have to swallow the desire with the rest.

The graveyard is getting smaller with each winter and spring,

The mound of the delectable fallacies are tolling,

High

Too high.

Photo Courtesy

TRANSIT

2009-08-05T09:01:00.009+05:30

Meet the newest members of my family-- Introducing Jules and Jim.

And they were not the only ones to keep me busy, though. These brats (yes, absolute brats) are getting naughtier by the day. Just to kill your curiosity, no I'm not a cat person at all. I am more of a dog lover and I'm blessed with my Lucky (I named him after that Golden Retriever in the movie My Ghost Dog). He celebrated his tenth birthday this year.

How days just run so real fast. My results were declared, the formalities followed and before I knew, I'd my tickets booked for my journey to the capital, New Delhi. Between movies and music and frequent trips to the nearest city, to filling up countless forms in myriad offices and formats, the days just kept on getting thawed. Many snippets were written and forgotten, paragraphs torn and forlorn.

I'm leaving tomorrow and there are only mixed emotions and feelings. Jules and Jim had been keeping me busy, it is so amazing to see them growing up, playing with each other and their awareness and curiosity which simply gets better and better, may be because of the varied life-cycles, but they grow up and learn faster and better(or so I feel).

A new phase begins and I don't know what is stored for me next. This unpredictability I think, is the one thing that makes life what it is. Till the next part in the sequence of my life kick starts I guess, I'll be more absent here, at least in writing, the reading (of your blogs) will continue though with gaps in between. Leaving home means leaving a lot of things behind but I believe, the biggest discoveries await our next travel back home. Between the somewhat tranquil parts to the city buzz, a milion sweltering changes breed and sometimes, a little un-introspection(or precisely, a post poned introspection) can do one no harm.

I'm ready, ready for it all.

Till then, a hearty time to everyone.

The Ravages of Yesteryears

2009-07-26T10:22:00.010+05:30

Photo Courtesy
So, a year has already elapsed, I am older now
And things (of course) don't remain stationary,
The ultimate truth slowly creeps in,
The illusion is fading.
The already evanescent dreams are getting blurred
(or may be I'm going afar).
The weavers just spin the same old streams of clothes
It's been over year I'm here
And I don't feel like making sense anymore
The lines of discomfort arouses no fear
The rhythm is less obsolete
The tunes are so more haunting
Let me say anything, please. Like:
The sun is brutal,
The ravages of yesteryears have been dug deep
And I walk on
With everything that I always carried with me
Dollops of hope
Bright dreams
Soulful tunes
Pleasantries
And a soul in no hurry

After listening to Coyita from the album Ronroco by Gustavo Santaolalla.

The Song I'm in Love with

2009-07-11T08:43:00.007+05:30

Some songs simply leave you asking for more.

I've listened to Agnee before, in fact, at present they are among very few of the Indian rock (or any category) bands in India whom I love to listen to but I don't know how I missed this one particular song. Got to hear it for the first time yesterday and, well, I've not been able to give my ears a rest. I hope anyone who happens to listen to this enjoys it as much as I have.

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Remembrance of Things Past

2009-07-05T09:03:00.010+05:30

That translucent alabaster of our memories
Marcel Proust "The Captive," Remembrance of Things Past(1929).

Memory

Chapter 1

Grandma's Garden

After a very long time I stumbled upon the long (but not definitely lost) memory of my grandma's garden (my papa's aunt) sprinkled with tiny yellow flowers (they were my favourite), the haystacks that were left by the side of the pond. The fields when they were green(and yellow), my best summer days spent, till date. The memories are not lost but the very things which formed my memories, have travelled far beyond the time and space they were meant to traverse. There are no yellow flowers now. When I look back, I think they were not even flowers, I mean not planted or anything, just wild growth that somehow found its way to be a part of the garden that was never meant for it. I can find no haystack (there needs to be hay first) and no green field (because there's no more farming).

Chapter 2

Cousins' Quarter

Courtesy
I remember the early morning stroll my cousins and I used to take only so that we can witness the rising sun and to blow the drops off the dewy grasses. The continuation of the day dreams with a nap on that very dewy fields. The unending conversations about everything mundane with a toothbrush in our hands. I remember running around the vast playground of the quarters where my cousins used to stay. The old, uninhabited ghostly quarters whose only constant visitors were the three of us (F, D and I) trying to find out hidden treasures/leftover troves of some kind. We practically broke in. Locks and latches were of no hindrance at all.

They left this place long, long way back. Those days have vanished, gone, evaporated to dimness even in my memories so much so that I usually never recall them. Sometimes it is hard to believe that all of these (and many more fantabulous incidents) did happen. These memories are neither fictitious nor coloured. They were so much better than fiction.

I want to read Proust. I have to read Proust.
(These passages are episodes from MY life and not excerpts of the book with the same name as the title of my post )

Summer reading list:

1. When Dreams Travel - Githa Hariharan

2. The Motorcycle Diaries - Ernesto Guevara

3. Tales from 1001 Arabian Nights - Richard Burton

P.S:

All my friends here, I would be happy if you can suggest me some films to watch- your favourites or films which you think is something one should not miss.

Have a fabulous week ahead.

CINEMA PARADE

2009-06-21T08:09:00.012+05:30

This is an unplanned post.

Blame my laziness or may be something more sublimely intricate, but its getting difficult to get the words hovering around my head to bring within a mental frame of reference. Like the tiny winged arthropods looming all over, it's getting harder to tame. (No reference to the Obama-Fly Swat whatsoever)

Have watched a parade of cinema, Have resumed the reading spree with Orhan Pamuk's Snow. (Oh! I HAVE to read him more).

I'm an ardent Michel Gondry admirer. At last got to watch his "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind". This title has been taken from Alexander Pope's "Eloisa to Abelard". After a long time a film made me happy, I mean a certain uncertain kind of happiness. There is a Joel and Clementine everywhere we look at. Things never change, being forgetful or trying to become one only expedites the entire emotional exercise. The anti narrative format of storytelling leaves one feeling so unsymmetrically wonderful indeed. The things we do feel happening (to) inside us but that never gets visually exemplified, gets a life here. At first I was a bit queasy about watching someone as hilarious as Jim Carrey in a supposedly serious avatar(not accounting The Truman Show) but I was thankfully wrong this time.

My next watch was Almodovar's Volver. I always presumed I would like Pedro Almodovar, I don't know why, but I simply knew. I had a difficult time deciding which one to start with - All About my Mother or Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, or Bad Education. I finally zeroed in on Volver and I was rewarded with a satisfying experience like no other. A bright colourful film portraying women of three generation battling life and it various other encumbrances in the most effervescent way ever.

The third memorable watch being the Oscar winner "The Lives of Others" . I won't attempt to write anything about it, its worthy a watch (or may be more). Brilliant.

And, yes I'm currently taken with this song by Beck (also a part of the soundtrack of Danny Boyle's utterly forgettable "A Life Less Ordinary").

I'm in love with images but not getting enough of them (if only I was able to capture every beautiful moment occuring at all the accidental intervals).

I'm discovering jazz music from the past.

Jazz is beautiful, for melancholic evenings and otherwise.

P.S:

The last film watched was 21. Reminiscent of Ocean's 13.

About Dying Lakes and Bored Being (and her unsensible mutterings)

2009-06-13T19:30:00.018+05:30

Deepor beel(a Ramsar site), one of the largest freshwater lakes in Northeast India and the home for many threatened species of birds and rich flora and fauna has been on the topic of discussion among many environmental enthusiasts. For the generations of fisherman community, who have been dwelling in the villages in and around the beel and who are largely depended on the this wetland as their the major source of livelihood, the threat is felt most acutely.

No, I'm not going to write a report accounting how terrible things are gradually turning out to be (particularly concerning everything related with the environment). I'm just giving away my experience when one fine summer morning recently, I walked to the beel in the company of my dear friend K to see the wild expanse at an early hour. The decision was worth taking. The collage is composed of the very many pictures of the land and the lake captured by me.

The ride on the the boat swirling around the deep marshes and the wild grasses proliferating, along with the company of all the sounds that have become so unfamiliar here otherwise ( e.g the breezes, the splashing of the oars hitting the water surface, the birds and the insects still humming) and the scene:

The pelicans flying over head,

The farmers ploughing,

The goats and pigs busy with their business.

For some time everything was at a standstill. Frozen moments.

The oarsman had been very kind, he was just returning from his daily early morning (read:2 am) fish-hunts. On being asked about the birds and the lake over the years, all he said, "Things have changed, now there are so less birds here and the fishes, well.... The lake is shrinking."

The ride ended soon

As far as my life is concerned, things are pretty staid.

My days sum up with the variables thus mentioned below:
Varied music (have been getting my eardrums muffled with Simon & Garfunkel, Incubus, Travis, The Shins and Coldplay)
Empty everydays, (surfing is all I've been doing)
and occasional cinema (watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, 8 1/2, a repeat of Bandidas and 27 Dresses)
The ultimate equation formed is not that satisfying .
The sudden and unpredictable rainy nights and the rearing long warm summer mornings are so not apt for feeling all spirited.

Varieties: VIGNETTES

2009-06-02T08:27:00.012+05:30

Recently (or more properly), immediately after the exams, I went to Guwahati basically to achieve some subliminal form of unwinding (whatever I mean by that!). Well, what followed was a series of misadventures (Read: The bus, a night super, broke down in the middle of nowhere at 1.45 am. We somehow managed to get in the cabin of a bus that dropped us till Shillong where we got down at a friend's place to put up for the night.. er early morning).

The pictures posted here are mementos of one of the most beautiful places in India. I did not get to spend a considerable amount of time there but these images only makes you want more and these are nothing, really.

These flowers can be found trailing the entire quarter campus (and most other unguarded places all throughout Meghalaya). Oh! the magic you spin, the invisible perfumes emanating from your wild blossoms!

At 5.40 am, this is how the streets of Shillong bade us good bye.

Well, this picture was taken in the return journey while somewhere in Meghalaya, the bus was going through one of its rigorous 'Police Checking.'

A Tribute to "Failed Feelings"

2009-06-01T09:10:00.007+05:30

This is exactly the fate of emotions when they run too high- they spill over. How to gather up and unwrap these feelings (treasured and kept in custody for so long) which are too accustomed to the darker corners ?

The fire that fed these feelings was thriving on the leftover heat but it was bound to get cold, like most other living things. The irony is that every time when she thought that the evening was about to give way to the dark night(at last), there arrived a singular note that would be enough to keep the fire of hope burning and let her continue with her dreams. But the one who should have felt the underpinnings of these hidden admiration failed to see through even after she had tried every possible way to make the emotions legible but this seemed to be one feat utterly impossible to be accomplished. She never knew she was so hard to read.

She has been always left ashore.

Life is simple if seen from one undisturbed angle, we make it complex and unruly, it seems. Her fault lies in the fact that she lives in a hyped world of her own where everything is so happy: happy thoughts, happy faces, happy dreams, fulfilled feelings. But the reality is severely simple. This note written as a tribute to her failed feelings (failed because it never saw the light of the day, failed because it means nothing to anybody, failed because she had no right to feel them, anyways) will be drifted away in the saline river of tears, may be. The words will get blurred but she is happy to see that other people are getting more reasons to smile and be happy. A part of her world thus survives with the collective collusion of other's happy sides. Not everyone is required to end up like her.

A banished angel treading on the path smeared with the blood of her own failed feelings that were never understood.

Another Farewell

2009-05-16T19:15:00.005+05:30

It has not even been a year since we bade farewell to our seniors and the time for our farewell already came and went. Yesterday marked the official last day at the university.

Two years was a small span of time, but how much we learn, take in, consume, remember within these 2*365 days, how many memories collaborated to form some distinct tales. The not-so-haloed stairs leading to the older department till the sprawling new building, the (developmental) journey was amazing. The two years made all of us grow up, introducing me to varied kind of people and politics, emotions and antics and ultimately helped me in realising the importance of being nostalgic. Yearning for the sepia past, making me see that the bygone days are always so better (something which was, as yet, unknown, unexplored).

Unlike our senior's farewell, there was no breeze and rain. (I got some terrible blisters though, thanks to my two inches high heels and the walk without umbrellas under the cruel sun). So much for being reasonably reasonless.

It was an emotional occasion and in spite of myself, the tears did sneak through. I had all kinds of experience: the good, the bad and the ugly. But you end up remembering the better times: the journey, the endless chat on the balcony, the seat under the mango tree shade, the leaves trailing the entrance, the silent reading room, the jokes (terrible and proper) shared and blasted... these images did manage to create a montage in the crevices of the roving mind of mine.

These two years have helped me in gaining two very different but amazing people whom I can call friends (J&K) and also introduced me to some great 'teacher-friends'. Love you all.

The juniors were such an amazing discovery while some just made me die with laughter virtually, some were too nice to be true. Will miss most of you.

No, I'm not writing it after being overwhelmed with emotions but rather because I'm thankful for the two-year sojourn.

To quote Shakespeare:"All's well that ends well"

This marks a new beginning. The road is long and the journey, no doubt tiresome but who doesn't love newer beginnings...

I do.

Summer Rain

2009-05-01T14:34:00.010+05:30

The feel of the first droplets of summer rain.. Ah!!

The smell of wet earth and green grasses...

This is one of my all-time favourite songs that I also love to sing outloud. (Yes, did that last night on the rooftop with the accompaniment of the cool breezes)

(To quote Marquez: "Those who do not sing can never understand the magic of singing.")

Love the flute and adore Mohit's enchanting voice.

It also bring backs a host of fond memories.

Rainy days are making me recall a host of other related writings, like this haiku by Matsuo Basho

"Rainydays-

Silkworm droop

On mulberries"

P.S:

There are not too many people who read my (at times) sad, random writings. But to let them know( if they care to), I'm having my exams which actually kicks off on 5 of this month and hence the 'no-post', 'no-read' state have been continuing for sometime and will perhaps continue until and unless I'm bound to share the inevitable.

P.P.S:

Films waiting to be watched: Inarritu's "Amores Perros" and Michel Gondry's "The Science of Sleep". Can't wait for the exams to get over.

I have not been able to follow the few blogs that I do go through regularly. I hate this.

A Song Recollected in the Early Morning

2009-04-18T19:33:00.008+05:30

No, I was definitely not going to write it down here. But then ..

Few years back, I watched Bernando Bertolucci's 'Stealing Beauty' and I fell in love with Tuscany forever, making it part of my 'List-of-places-I've-to-go-before-I-die'. After 15 years of self imposed exile, Bernardo Bertolucci set his foot in Italy with this movie and he succeeded in making Italy so visually captivating and full of brilliance. The film is extremely well shot. But I don't plan to write a review. It is definitely among one of the most goodlooking films ever watched by me.

Today morning I woke up to find this song playing inside my head. It was included in the film soundtrack. Another song that was part of the OST was 'Glory Box" by Portishead. Loved it. It went very well with the entire feel of the film.

This sudden song revived the spendour of Tuscany that the film brought forth so excellently, Ah!! The dreamy mirage haunting you, inviting you.

P.S: Watched a number of films after a break.

1) Spirit of the Beehive (after a friend's recommendation)

2)It's a Boy/Girl Thing (part of the regulars)

3)Pulp Fiction (Ah! Tarantino and his wicked, exaggerated but stylised portrayal of everything violent)

4)The Four Hundred Blows. (Truffaut's Masterpiece)

Fragments of Lost Letters

2009-04-14T11:43:00.005+05:30

Today a sparrow sat on my window sill,

Telling me tales of some place else, of some other day,

In its undecipherable tongue, but I somehow understood.

In the evening, I discover all the letters I'd written for you (but that never were sent)

lying scattered on the floor.

The yellow papers were weeping, it seemed, hence got loose.

The music of the evening was so soothing.

I was so tired, I'm so tired still.

I'm dreaming of rain and waiting,

Waiting for something that has simply forgotten its way to my being.

The Magic of Fragrances

2009-04-02T18:49:00.007+05:30

Your fragrance lasts
Like the memories of the bygone era.
Your voice still travels
Through the periphery of my dreamlands,
The night fireflies haunt the air:
Fill it with a dingy glitter.
Ah! The terrible essence you’ve left in me
Needs time to evaporate.

The caterpillar inside
Needs air to breathe.

Photo

Courtesy:

http://flickr.com/photos/66656925@N00/1302609436/

Ramblings

2009-03-28T22:03:00.003+05:30

Why does some pictures, words, music affect us so much and some don't?
Similar with people:
Some people whom we can never leave even when they are not with us and some who are never really there even being near?

The Rage of the Storm

2009-03-26T19:13:00.000+05:30

Out of the blue, the day transformed its colour, literally. The yellow of the Sun gave way to the clouds which arrived from the Nowhere Land with all fury. The transition is witnessed through these pictures. So, within minutes we were facing the strong breezes creating a small twister in itself and the overcast sky was ready for the heavy rains.

More pictures:

Carousels and Lost Bubbles

2009-03-22T17:19:00.000+05:30

Glimpses of Gandhi Mela

Carousel... do they make you dizzy??

The scariest ghost ever.. awe! :D

I go around the Merry-go round

"My Father, the Hero"

Uh..mmm.. Finger Licking Good!!!

Lost Bubbles

Multi-coloured Snacks

Those Glass delights

Cotton candies
The Man to whom it is Dedicated

P.S:

Watched "Nacho Libre" for a second time and like the first time, loved and enjoyed it. Jack Black is one irresistible funny man. Also watched Julie Taymor's "Across the Universe". Liked it in bits and pieces. Had the feeling that it had one song too many. But it was good to listen to some of the favourites from The Beatles after a long time.

BLABBERING

2009-03-16T19:54:00.000+05:30

So, here I'm, once again with the snippets, paragraphs torn from my book of everyday life, the last post was in a hurry. My fingers were working on their own accord. Had been away from home last weekend. I went to the eco forest once again during that break (huh! Can't seem to get enough of it). The tranquility is just overwhelming, particularly when you once are so accustomed with the deafening noises all around you. the trip into the woods have only being a week that almost seems along ago, the freshness that these two days had brought along with it has already vanished.

This week we had our shoot, that too of the promotional video. Our choosen institution was a medical hospital. The walking that all seven of us had to do was an epic task in itself, I wonder how far we would have reached had we calculated the distance covered in meters , in the process witnessed the sunset after a long time.

It does not take too much time to be sad from being overtly ecstatic, I had learned it long way back but once again, I just had to re-realise it as I do every other moment.

A great weeekend to all.

"NOTHING IS LOST, EVERYTHING IS TRANSFORMED"

2009-03-13T09:10:00.000+05:30

Just HAD to post this. I have been enamoured my this music and the song. Yes, the link I'll be providing is to the Uruguayan musician Jorge Drexler's "Todo se Transforma". This song has been stuck inside my head for the last few days. Simply love it. To give a peek into Drexler, he's the same guy who sang the very beautifully haunting "Al Otro la do del rio" from the film "The Motorcycle Diaries"( Another favorite).

Anyways, here's the link:

Jorge Drexler's "Todo se Transforma"

'Things happen that are like questions'

2009-03-11T08:03:00.000+05:30

No matter how hard I try to get regular, I always fall short, I mean my regularity in posting.

Many drafts are still stagnant waiting to be edited and ultimately posted.

Had a good last weeek. Some glimpses:

Wednesday:

In the backyard of our university (another forgotten corner), lies the eco-forest. Today my friend, J and I set out to 'explore'. She'd been to this forest many a time before, for me though it was a first. Our classes ended, so for some lone-time what better way than to go butterfly chasing? The forest is a heaven for butterflies, name them and you get to find them fluttering here. As J let me know , one of the the largest butterflies in Asia, the Southern Bird Wing, can also be found here. Since the decision to go there was sudden , of course, I was not prepared. Had a tough time threading the woods with my leather shoes and jhola bag. We were unable to go too deep but even that view was magnificient, the cool and tranquil essence that haunts woods, the delight that speaks even in its creepy silence, the sky looks so grand if you look at it sleeping on the stone bed, the lush green.... I can go on.

So, it was good to have the sands in my shoes and the dry wild flowers stuck in my unruly hair. We're tired but felt terrific and of course all the hours of walking without shoes (Yes, I took them of once I found out that they were a hindrance) did help- Had a sound sleep :I

Thursday:

Today, I was accompanied by some unusual company:

8 goats, 5 men- all of us cramped inside the backseat of a TATA Sumo.It was neither easy nor uneasy. But the bleating following a harmonic rhythm did not sound easy on the ears, that too at such close counter. This is nothing new for regular passengers of these vehicles. Like every where else, we need to adjust.

I came out without a scratch (mind you, it was almost an hour long journey) but the goats did have a tough time.

Friday/Saturday:

Two films were screened in the department: Slumdog Millionnaire and Fernando Mareilles' "City of God". Sir wanted us to compare the similarities in the narrative techniques , use of shots etc.

I personally liked both of them but "City of God' may be a few notch more. Have to say, Resul Pukutty deserved every bit of the Academy( for Slumdog Millionnaire), what with his amazing sound mixing which simply made watching this movie so memorable.

This Week's Screening:

I'm a film fanatic, so when it comes to films I won't be able to make a fast exit. Love our paper 402 (Film Appreciation). We are currently studing the La Nouvelle Vague( French New Wave) and to give a feel of the wave our Sir is going to make us watch Jean Luc Godard's phenomenal "A bout de Souffle" (Breathless).

Hopefully will be writing an 'almost review' soon. Till then a colourful Holi to everyone.

Shot in an Idle day

2009-03-01T13:31:00.000+05:30

These pictures have been taken from in and around my University campus. The department has shifted. No doubt we all simply love the new building with all the necessary add-ons but hate the distance we have to cover from the front gate to our new Dept. located in some far away forgotten corner. Anyways, it gave a chance for me and some of my friends to discover some unexplored quiet places.

awaiting dusk

The road to the library

Bougainvillaea Dreams

And then there are the Kashbons...

Irregular Distractions....

2009-02-21T09:28:00.000+05:30

Ah!! The delights of easy, relaxed, empty days. We are not having classes at the university these last few days and its is making me so happy as now I'm entitled to more "me-time". I wonder what to write( Because I'm spoilt with options). The world has so much to tell, so many news and gossips run around everywhere but still I’m left with nothing to describe but then the realization sets in that I write for myself and some people have accidentally become a part of these lone conversations. I have so much to tell but then I don't chose to give away everything.

Strange fascinations are an integral part of all of us. We just don't know where they reside, inside. They have a silent existence but suddenly they do raise their head, particularly at inopportune moments and then .. Well, thats how stories form, I guess.

How we love ‘certain obscure things’.. I wonder why some things and feelings never fade. I leave with these words. Don’t muse over its meaning because it is not meant to mean anything. These are just passing thoughts on an ordinary day, the tired eyes spin a tale out of the most mundane things and this is what one is left with --

I see you in a crowded place
I become tired of the noise and the everyday happenings.
Too much of non-fiction has worsened my habit
And then that sudden shift in your lips, flashing a smile at me,
Raises a little hope, again gives form to hidden meanings,
Little by little.
I know I should not be thinking anything-
So I only let the petty pleasure exist for some few more seconds.

NOTHING EXTRAORDINARY ABOUT THIS WEDNESDAY

2009-02-12T07:36:00.000+05:30

I started the blog wth the sole aim of giving vent to the writing spirit but with the passing of each day it just wilted, no, not the desire to write but the strenght to type, to sit in front of the computer, to wait for the page while its being downloaded and a slow server only maximises the effort, making it tiring. So, all these while I have been scribbling anecdotes and rhymless verses and losing them all. The problem is- when you have got so much to write that you know your fingers will get sore. Life, if written down, is an epic no one will ever one to re analyse but then its the opinion of an imbecile like me and I'm sure I am wrong. See, once again I'm writing something which has no meaning, not in parts and not even in totality.

The monotony of life has taken its toll. Happiness is ever so welcomed but it is so ephemeral. Letting things go is never easy, still you have to. I just want to sit with my favourite book of poems, enjoy the sinking sun in the orange sky, want to sing beautiful song in tuneless voices with my sister and have a laugh riot over the silliest of jokes... but at present it all seems like a far fetched dream....

USELESS BROODING

2009-02-11T07:49:00.000+05:30

The chill of this winter is transitory.
You are just a phase,
I believe you'll soon diminish.

ABOUT GOOD TIMES AND HAPPY SUNBEAMS

2008-12-23T10:01:00.000+05:30

The semester exams came and went. Yes, this is precisely why I’d disappeared anyways. The exams are over but some things end only to start afresh and there is no escape. I mean, even before the exams were over I’d been given my future works. There is the documentary shooting and editing to finish and finally the work on my final dissertation. Yes, I know I’m boring everyone terribly.
The good part is that after a long time I’m back with my reading. Oh! I feels great, believe me – doing things one love doing. The annual book fair has begun this is one more of the reason why I love winters unlike the ants. Got a few books. Will be reading Noam Chomsky for the first time ‘Class Warfare’. I am reading Ian McEwan’s “Atonement”. Yup! The one that was made into a movie recently starring James McAvoy and Kiera Knightly. This is the second McEwan book for me. And I’m enjoying it. Though the first one, “Amsterdam” was a bit too much.
But these are not the reasons why I’m writing (never mind, I never write for any damn reason). Our group’s documentary shoot is about to start. Our subject is the minuscule Portuguese descendents who had been having a camouflaged presence in the Bondashil area of Badarpur for the last twenty decades. It’s amazing how we all had been so unaware of their presence for so long.

Almost three weeks back we had gone there to have a feel of the place and to gather some traces of their history. It houses one of the oldest churches in entire northeast, St. Joseph Church. They have a school too, St. Josephs which has its own hostels. It was great talking to the headmistress, Sister Ursula for hours on end. She gave us brief on the history and about the school and the community. Roaming about the place, by the river Barak running by the hundred years old Cemetery smelling of dry leaves and the piercing sunrays, listening to the tales of old times, you are transported to a different time and place. She let us know that the river had changed its course about a hundred years back, washing away half of the cemetery. She said, a thousand bones of early Christians just got washed away. May be some even got ingrained into the fertile soil of the valley. There was an amazing peacefulness. The picture was so perfect (I mean not plastic perfect, real perfect). No camera would have been good enough to freeze these moments. The boats loaded and heavy, the little boys having their routine afternoon dip in the river, and the pleasing breeze which just kept on hovering all around the place like an unavoidable good ghost.
Saw many faces coloured with the patina of old age sparkle up when they were said that they had guests who wanted to talk to them. It’s is the only truth, we just desire simple things out of life, like may be conversations in an apt hour.
Got to see the oldest building in the entire village belonging to the Anthony’s. It smelled of a different time. The skull of the deer (I wonder how many years old) outside the battered door reminded of the unconventional old custom.

Our meeting with the people there was a good experience. Everyone was so warm and open. Even after so many days have passed since our last visit, I still get filled with a surge of happy feeling whenever I picture the sunrays trying to impenetrate through the tall trees and bushes, creating soft shadows, keeping you warm; the smile of the children of the hostel, the boys playing pranks and avoiding that light-emanating equipment, camera….

We will be going there this Christmas to shoot the festivity and may be some part of the documentary. The thought of meeting all of them and to walk by the side of the river makes me happy. We’re all so excited. This is a story that needs to be told and felt. I know I’ve not said anything about them. That I’ll do in another blog. It’s about the lost case of identity, its mess up, eroding in a sense. What do they call themselves- Portuguese or Indians? Once upon a time it was proud of them to speak highly of their European lineage.
For these Portuguese descendents, their surnames are the only remains of their European lineage. They speak the local language., they intermarry, they are Catholics unlike any other. You can see the Christian married women wearing vermilion on their forehead; they have integrated some of the Hindu marriage rituals as well.

At the end of the day, this identity crisis is not concentrated only among this fraction of the society; it’s a universal phenomenon. We want autonomy, we want our tribe to proliferate, we think we will extinct, we don’t want people crossing over the borders and taking over our land, our life. We want to protect out identity. But what exactly is identity??
I just know that we are all in search for ourselves and we don’t know how to go about it. We all employ our own means and processes.
Lets see how far we can proceed.

COLD - INSIDE out

2008-11-16T08:52:00.000+05:30

There is a chill...

Winter has set in. Now there is the onslaught of all the heavy clothes -jackets, sweaters (I wonder why they are called SWEATers, I mean it has got nothing to do with sweat!), socks, shawls, ... I wonder why I'm sounding so silly..well, to shift gears, I'm writing for a different purpose or better without any purpose.

The travel hangover is over. University life is not all that appealing but it's utter predictability is the only concrete thing to hold on to, at least for me, at this point of time. I'm overloaded with the pressure(and I guess, so are my classmates) and the workload but there is nothing else to look forward too.

There is a chill as I'd mentioned before but there is also the sun rays falling at the table right now, the dust dancing and the view of the blue sky through my window. Suddenly I remember that today is Sunday. Even days of the week has lost its relevance. This also makes me aware that tomorrow is the deadline for the submission of my assignment on Paper 301B.

Right now I'm listening to John Mayer's "Split Screen Sadness". Don't know, just felt like sharing the lyrics. Love John Mayer. His songs exudes a relaxed soulfulness. I wont mind if you fail to agree.

And yes, as John says, "There's no substitute for time" so I think it's better for me to log out and get myself involved in the conflict between "Georgia- South Ossetia and Russia's intervention and it's interpretation by the IHL." (Well, thats the topic of my assignment)

Conflict....has got such a variety. We've got so much to choose from.

internal conflict, international conflict, non-international conflict, we even have operational definitions for armed conflicts (and what not)

It seems we cannot survive without them. Tell me if anyone of you have a better subject to write on.

Seriously...

For now just enjoy the lyrics:

"Split Screen Sadness"

And I don't know where you went when you left me but

Says here in the water you must be gone by now

I can tell somehow

One hand on the trigger of a telephone

Wondering when the call comes

Where you say it's alright

You got your heart right

Maybe I'll sleep inside my coat and

Wait on the porch 'til you come back home

Oh, right

I can't find a flight

We share the sadness

Split screen sadness

Two wrongs make it all alright tonight

"All you need is love" is a lie cause

We had love but we still said goodbye

Now we're tired, battered fighters

And it stings when it's nobody's fault

Cause there's nothing to blame at the drop of your name

It's only the air you took and the breath you left

Maybe I'll sleep inside my coat and

Wait on the porch 'til you come back home

Oh, rightI can't find a flight

So I'll check the weather wherever you are

Cause I wanna know if you can see the stars tonight

It might be my only right

We share the sadness

Split screen sadnessI called

Because I just

Need to feel you on the line

Don't hang up this time

And I know it was me who called it over butI still wish you'd fought me 'til your dying day

Don't let me get away

Cause I can't wait to figure out what's wrong with me

So I can say this is the way that I used to be

There's no substitute for time

Or for the sadness

Split screen sadness

We share the sadness

For those who want to watch the video:
http://in.youtube.com/watch?v=cPQa5IjGOgQ

BACK

2008-11-11T19:41:00.000+05:30

Just got back home today morning. Really, there is no place like home. Delhi has been a good experience. A mix-mash of the good, the bad and the ugly (ok! not that ugly). Will dedicate an entire blog only to it.

Coming back to ordinary life:
Have no good news to welcome me. Back to the same old routine. This time it's even more severe. Almost all the projects and assignments are untouched. I am scared. Real life always is.

Talking about other stuffs:

Had watched the premiere of the latest Bond Flick "Quantum of Solace" before leaving the capital. The magic that multiplex can create. Action took on a completely different meaning- High on thrills literally. Liked it. Anyways, have to re-agree that Daniel Craig is not that bad as a blonde Bond afterall.

just here...

2008-10-10T19:32:00.000+05:30

After crossing miles and miles of the golden wheat fields I've finally reached my destination... that happens to be Delhi.... new place... new vibes... and now inside a completely new environment. The journey is not over though...just the beginning I guess...

FALLING

2008-10-03T15:23:00.000+05:30

Fool- falling
Slipping by(for the first time)
Have to be steady
Otherwise …
You know...

I don't want to be the owner
Of a rough terrain-
A blotched organ of RED.
Don't want it to decapitate
But still...

I make the same old mistake

A WET MAHALAYA

2008-09-29T08:27:00.000+05:30

Today is Mahalaya. The day when the mother goddess Durga descends on earth.

This time I was already left untouched by the aura of the pujas. But the soggy and wet beginning marred the spirit which I thought the early hours chanting of :

"Yaa Devi Sarva Bhooteshu

Nidraa Roopena Samsthita

Namastasai Namastasai Namastasyai Namo Namaha..."

would liven.

Its still raining. It's 8.33am (IST).

May be it was Her plan.

For most of the believers, a stroll in the Mahalaya morning ushers in the wellness of the succeeding pujas. This time the start has been such drippy as if the sunny side will never rise.

May be it signifies the rejuvenation of the inner numbness.

May the rains wash away all the lifeless remains in the air starting from the Mahalaya day itself...

The Storm is Over

2008-09-20T06:37:00.000+05:30

Yes.
No one was even able to guess but the storm had come and already gone.
Few days and nights of incessant disturbances have finally made me realize the utter futility of certain overpowering emotions. It has made me see the reality (and it bites).
The mirage always eludes us and we are befooled.

We dream of something else but get back the ashes of something else.
Our desires at the start make us see so much hallucinations as if we’re on a high.
And life makes you fall with a THUD.
You falter, you fall down, you come to terms with the truth of life.
But the biggest discovery is still – “Life doesn’t wait. It moves on (and these days, with the speed of light)."
You don’t even get time to muse over the burnt ashes. It flies off.
Some people stay confused at the crossroads, while some move on.
We have to, otherwise who will live this life- this is the only one we have.

Sometime I go over my own writings and wonder at the stupid philosophy that reigns over it. I wonder who will care to know about the bleak outlook of a certain nobody. Depressing writings will never move anyone to read them over again. But I repeat the mistake. Old habits die hard.

But I’m compelled to write because it helps in giving ventilation to all this rotten spirit. I feel alive releasing the dreary part of me.

You read about blasts in the newspaper. See all the ugliness in the T.V channels,
While there are volcanoes erupting inside your heart whose walls are again full of hieroglyphics that you fail to decipher.
Strange, sublime emotions make you take a serious turn in the emotional spectrum- you are bruised, you abuse, you make do.
And desperately find ways to let go of that imprisoned soul inside you.
That dark shadow that knots your heart and suffocate you and make your heart scream for more oxygen.

But in the world outside:
You see kids smiling at you without any reason,
You find butterfly roaming freely with all independence,
You find strangers being nice to you (they are not required to),
You discover a forgotten raindrop glistening in the morning sun.

Things fall back in place
And all the grey areas get lighted.

You are free again because the storm is over.

A Shoot, the Bower and the Fever

2008-09-15T19:25:00.000+05:30

A week back we started shooting our news story. The heat was at its overpowering best. We are a group of three. This being our first tryst with the camera, we were delighted like anything. (Amateurs!!) During our research we had already talked to most of the clay artisans – Satyaban Da, Rakesh Da, they were supposed to give our SOTs. Unfortunately that day both of them were in the town (Silcoorie is a village). So there was no way of getting the sound bites. In the stroke of afternoon, with the blaring sun overhead, it was exasperating. One who has never been exposed to this amount of heat in this part of the country will not be able to realize the brutal truth of the statement. It was hot as hell. To make matters worse, in the rush we forgot to take shelter of our umbrellas. Out of thirst, we took resort to chilled cold drinks. A 7up was like blessing in that scorching heat.
That day’s shooting being over, we were looking for a place to plan and chat. We moved in a clearing nearby- a perfect bower- sheltered by the trees, numerous magpies pecking at the twigs, the coo cooing of the birds and that cool breeze. For sometime we forgot everything and got ourselves immersed in the mood. The afternoon thus passed by. Ultimately reality checked in, we had to go home. The sumo had to be availed. So, we got on with all the good thoughts, thinking about the type of shots we will be taking, the PTC we will be using and what not. I just then realized that my skin was burning. I could feel that something was wrong with me.

Before night descended I was in a terrible state. My nose was dripping, I looked dreadful and my forehead was red hot.

It was so embarrassing to think that I took to my bed after my first shoot ever. I had miles to go. How could I even let myself be down with the first step??

I was confined to the bed the next day. Thus I lost one day of shoot. The camera was lying dormant, so unuseful.
I don’t know if this was a good sign. But I definitely hope that this was the last. But one can never be sure of anything in this unpredictability called life, can we??

A Home Without an Address

2008-09-11T06:37:00.000+05:30

I don’t know what to believe in and what not to. I’m very intuitive but at times I do have to let go of my instincts and listen to something/someone else inside me. It does not have a name. Lets name it the black heart, that part of our heart is the home for all the negative thoughts to, the part which blocks all the wonderful, vivid thoughts to get in, the part which thinks more than it is required to. The part that stops us from taking steps that could lead us somewhere bleak, someplace where we might be made to cry out of heart brokenness. I do not know if I’m doing the right thing but I know there is this indecisiveness which is not letting me to take the step I would have taken otherwise. I feel like a traveler without a pass. No one can even help me out. This is the sort of problem I’m into. I cannot even let this feeling get dispersed out in the open. It has a secret hiding place, a burrow where it is dug deep into the earth. No one can bring it up but it is there, it will always be. This divine feeling can never escape its prison. It is well fed by the heart. So it is drying up fast. It is twisting in profound pain. It is hurt. It is suffering but it cannot show. It has to be tough. God only knows when it will be freed. It seems it is waiting for the green signal but it is nowhere. I’m informed there will be one but it never arrives I stand waiting but it never comes. Just lost fragments of something concrete flies with the petrified air making me choke, at the same time I remain mum. Meanwhile, the grasses grow. The flowers and the bees and the birds continue their conversations. The sky remains blue, then turns yellow and ends being red. A new day arrives along with it brings new hopes and dreams. No, not for me anymore. My patience is wearing out. I’m getting tired. Just like the rains here. They keep on assaulting the green sheen and the muddy drains. They rule the days and nights for some time but then they too get tired. They ultimately lose the battle and then give way to the other seasons. With a promise to return next winter, summer with the same old ravages and storms. But I am not in a position to promise a comeback. The heart will ultimately become a grave what with all the hidden remains.
A home without an address – that is all there is.

THE DIVINE CREATION

2008-09-07T08:03:00.001+05:30

The clay artisans always occupied a place of pride in my eyes. To me they are the best examples of passion at work. I don’t know about other cultures but we being idol worshippers should never ignore or forget about those countless unknown artists who dedicate almost their entire life in carving and moulding and giving life to clay and hay. We take them for granted though. The pujas or more precisely the Durga pujas and its festivities are just a month away. This is the peak season for all those unrewarded artists, the best days of the year. It’s the time when they immerse themselves in the chase of the light that would help them in giving that magic touch to the lifeless earth. I am not that much of a believer (if ones care to know) but the moment I look at one of the many idols with their piercing eyes that almost your mind, you cannot let go of the feeling that there is a void, a certain mystery that we can never cross, no matter what. These idol makers have thus become the subject of my news story this term. Few days back I got the chance to talk to them about their work and ambition, what drives them, what makes them keep alive this tradition what makes them stick to this profession -their future, their dreams.
And it was sort of a revelation to discover that they were doing a work that almost did not pay them. A work bereft of any profit, a work done with so much of zeal and passion but one that left one penniless at the end of the day. This was the bleak truth; far away from the romanticism that I always associated with them. It opened my eyes to one more harsh reality of life. No one is completely happy. No one is. I am talking here about the clay artisans in the Silcoorie tea estate. Compared to other artisans in the district, the ones in these parts are poorer. So, particularly for them this is a risky business. When we asked them about their choice they said they never thought of an alternative job. Moulding clay and hay to life was all they knew and nothing else. Right in front of our eyes we saw individuals from two generation dirtying their hands and giving shape to the mute, and otherwise unresponsive clay.
Watching them work at such close counters made them even more esteemed. It seems they are transported to a world of their own when they are working – a world inhabited only by their imagination and the clay at hand; a world where we ordinary mortals can never be able to tread. We are not privileged enough.
At the end of the day though reality bites. They too are human after all. The clay artisans had their own pent up anger and frustration. Passion always cannot rule the rooster. They too realize their worthlessness and maltreatment when they see that their work (which might equal to that of a outside artist) but they know fully well that they would be paid less. Then there is the cloud that forever hovers over them; the rains mar everything or at least poses as a grave danger to the drying of the idols. They are enraged of the fact that the government does not recognize their worth. If only they could arrange for some subsidies/loans like they do for the cottage artists et al. They too dream on…
So, next time you bow down before an idol just remember the sweat,hard work, fervour that went into it….
Unfortunately, they cannot even boast of their work ..their works are ultimately swallowed up by the waters...

2008-09-07T08:03:00.000+05:30

The clay artisans of Silcoorie at work....
Moulding the Divine Grace...

DOA

2008-08-31T07:34:00.000+05:30

This is a very gory picture- explicit in its seething profanity, showing the worst form of death, the worthlessness and the darkness that exemplified the tiny life (if it had any) of this seven-month old. I was in a thousand minds deciding whether to upload this picture or not but ultimately I gave in. It has been a week since this body was discovered floating in the dark waters of the Malini Beel drain carried within a brown carton. But it was no Moses in the making; it was dead on arrival itself.

It was evening when the entire locality suddenly broke the silence of an otherwise calm Sunday. “There’s a dead baby in the drain”. Everybody wanted to witness this lowest form of human ingenuity. Till then I was cursing the boring turn the day had taken. Minutes before I was engaged in watching Wong Kar-Wai’s unusual but intensely interesting romantic comedy “Fallen Angels” and like I always do, I was reeling the movie inside my head more so because I was a bit inattentive watching it that day. The sudden break of the complex continuation made me rush there (and I’ve no idea why I carried the camera along with me). We’re the last people to visit that floating cemetery. I had no pre-conceived image of what it would look like because it was the second dead body that I had seen in my 23 year long life.

At first I was sure this was a mistake. It was not a stillborn baby; it was a doll- too lifelike like most of the manufactured, branded products these days. Momentarily, I was happy to think that everyone was being fooled- it was just lifeless plastic. But a closer look and the placental cable attached to the navel made it clear who was being really fooled. All of a sudden I felt like puking. Everything was getting blurred. The dark waters and the pale child were too much of a contrast for me. I turned away and started thinking of all the possibilities that might have compelled another of my race to take this drastic step. What I was not able to understand is – why abandon this child in a drain and that too during this treacherous weather? There were so many alternatives or further even, why to bring this child at all? But these questions will remain unanswered. Some questions are born dead while others are buried alive.

The police were informed. They came and carried on with their job. Some hours after the baby was discovered everyone left for his or her home. All of them having a different theory, contributing a different angle, having a different opinion—
But do any of these really matter???

Not even days, but hours after, the wheel of everyday life started rolling with the same old monotony as if nothing had really happened. We all have our own life, our own problems, and our own dark alleys to walk on. This child was born forgotten…so its progenitor thought of abandoning it without thinking what would happen if the ants and the insects chewed upon its delicate flesh, if it could stand the unbearable stench, if it could survive the water currents… Oh! Well! I forgot. It was created so that it could be destroyed…. So much for being HUMAN.

MUSINGS

2008-08-30T17:44:00.000+05:30

Suspended into thin air,
No parachute to drive away my fear.
At times I think I’m too paranoid,
Hanging midway does not seem to be a bad choice.
So the fall might destroy
This unusual stability
But it is equally important to have the ground beneath my feet.

OPEN DOORS

2008-08-24T08:55:00.000+05:30

The doors have been left open,
But the light still feels shy.
So darkness still veils
My cluttered world inside.
Thus the dreams get lost
And my hand fails to clasp yours.
You just slide by
And I run away from the good byes.

After thoughts on Wong Kar-wai's "IN THE MOOD FOR LOVE"

2008-08-20T06:21:00.000+05:30

Sheer poetry in motion – that’s how I would describe Wong Kar-wai’s cinematic appeal. I know I am no expert but as a general film buff I can only say that “ In the Mood for Love” evokes brilliance in all ways possible.

The story is seemingly slow. It is in no hurry. It moves at its own speed but the better part is that you do not want to move fast, the pace takes over you and every sequence, done in deliberate slow motion curbs you to control your pace. Even the mundane of scenes come alive like – the smoke coming out of Chow’s cigarettes, the flutter of the red curtains in the narrow hallway, droplets of rain, the noodle steam, the grill of a small metal fan …

As mused by a critic, “WKW not only chooses a theme with universal importance, the struggle between repression and indulgence, but he handles it with fairness and consistency. But In the Mood is great because it doesn't take sides, or if it does, at least it doesn't force you to choose. But it is that repression which is internalized that is more compelling.”

"It is a restless moment

She has kept her head lowered, to give him a chance to come closer.

But he could not, for lack of courage.

She turns and walks away.

That era has passed.
Nothing that belonged to it exists any more.

He remembers those vanished years.

As though looking through a dusty window pane,

the past is something he could see, but not touch.

And everything he sees is blurred and indistinct. "

With the first four lines the film begins and with the remaining lines the film closes and these lines give you the idea behind the story. The things you leave once can never return. In the Mood for Love dictates the arbitrary nature of romance and the notion of the ‘missed moment’.

Wong Kar-wai sets the mood of his story in such a way that it makes hard for you to escape. The façades, the closed corners, the narrow hallways, the Siemens time piece outside Su’s Office, the telephone lying dormant in the table, and the long lonely lanes in the midst of a rain expresses the repression, isolation and longing that the two protagonists have to face both internally and from the outside world. The time piece is always there to remind us of the time that is flying, lost forever. Similarly, the two unfortunate lovers fail to grasp both time, falls prey to the “missed moment” and moves on, but at what cost?? But who are we to decide. Wong Kar-wai has left the question opened. Anyone can choose it in the way they want to. The play rehearsals enacted by Chow and Su could make you laugh after you discover your mistake. It was glad to know that Su had His shoulder to cry upon, though temporarily. Those are a few of the moving shared moments of the jilted lovers.

I missed watching Chunking Express but am in no way going to miss “Fallen Angel”. It is supposedly the follow-up of the former. If we are to go by statistics, Wong Kar-wai is just eight films old. No wonder it’s his uniquely stylish filmmaking oeuvre and aesthetic film sense that has catapulted him among the most respected of directors of our time.

Forget everything—all these nonsense words that I have wasted. Simply watch the film (if you’ve not done that already). May be for some it wont be their type but for the rest of us, I can assure you that this Failed love story wont fail to make you realize the futility of coward love and the metaphor of cornered lights.

"THE IMPRESSION"

2008-08-08T06:24:00.002+05:30

Our departmental newspaper will be published in a few days time…gosh!! We all seem to be stuck in a whirlpool too difficult to get through. Everyone is busy with their write-ups, editing it over an over again, preparing the notes, thinking over the headline and what not. Our teacher-in-charge is being made deaf with our constant calls. Hopefully, everything turns out well. Not all the stories will be published (there were some emotional out-burst in the lab today itself) but then again this is how thing goes. I am worried about my own story which seems to be bordering on a controversial and politically incorrect issue, but I had tried my best and if it does not work out I’ll be sad but this is just the beginning. I know I’m being very boring but this is how my life’s going on… I’m thinking about it all day long (I mean the few hours that I get after attending my sessions in the department). I am keeping my fingers crossed. Do pray for me or should you???

THE FAREWELL

2008-08-08T06:24:00.001+05:30

On the July 31st we arranged the “Farewell Party” in honour of our seniors. The two complete days before 31st just whisked away in its preparation – the gifts, the confettis, the music, the fan-fare, the speech… we were planning a huge function (compared to our degree). We wanted it to be a memorable day for all of us, particularly for our seniors.
Its unbelievable how time changes everything - forms relations, introduces new people in our lives, makes us come together and then snatches everything away…everything comes tagged with an expiry date. I don’t mean that relationships end but they do get snagged. These days the social networking sites do help in lessening this bridge though. And moreover in this age we need to be prepared for the worst-case scenario, all the time…. enough of this.
But things were not to happen as planned (actually they never do). Unfortunately the wind of absence billow heavily and made most of our seniors unable to attend the function. So there were just 12 of them for us to bid adieu and the towards the end of the evening we were also accompanied by the grey storms, blowing all over the campus and it carried along with it the memories of our last day together, to keep it safe somewhere safe.I never expected it to happen, but it did make me feel emotional at the end of the day, I, at last was able to realize that I really did enjoy the company of a few of them…may be they felt the same way too, may be not…well, the great part is that the end of this evening also marked the beginning of a new day…everything is fresh again…. blame it on my inexhaustive optimistic streak…

AN EYE FOR AN EYE

2008-08-08T06:24:00.000+05:30

At first it was in Dhubri where the activists of the All Koch Ranjbonshi students burnt a bus to avenge the death of their fellow martyr and not too far away in the hills of Dwarbond, Silchar, a number of students burnt the winger that killed an 18 year old student from the department of …….. We really are living in tough times. We are living in an age where an eye for an eye seems to be the only mantra. I feel sorry and have condolences for both the students involved in these unfortunate affairs. But as a long-term plan, burning of vehicles are not the only solution, I believe. I’m not here to give a commentary on these. These things create a complex labyrinth in my mental framework, I am not a Gandhian in all sense of the terms and do strongly believe that at times we do need to act a little rash, depending on the circumstances. In the aforementioned incidents the rashness seemed to be redundant, on the other hand the driver of the winger should have been given the thrashing of a lifetime but these are just the imaginations of an imbecile like me ..Lets go to different shores - in Manipur the parents of the missing children are still clueless to the whereabouts of their children who have not yet learned to clean their toilet…. the kidnappers are to be the People’s Revolutionary Party of Kangleipak, (PREPAK)..so this was what was left to be ruined in Manipur…its future…we all can guess where this state is heading…..
Someone made an amazingly irrelevant prediction:
The doomsday is just three years away…. may be …maybe… its not even that far away…. may be…

everyday life

2008-07-22T07:21:00.000+05:30

After this brief sabbatical, regular life is back on track and once again the monotony is quietly seeping in. Once again I’ll have to go through the same recurring images of the tea gardens and cross the same old bridges while listening to the songs of the birds and the rains. It’s been a year exactly since I joined my courses in this university and the similar onslaught of the rains has once again begun. Currently I am busy reading Shashi Despande’s “Small Remedies”. There’s a lyrical quality moves to her writing. I have just started so I should not say more than I’m expected to. Lets see the beginning has been smooth till now. Hopefully the end will not disappoint.
By the way, today happens to be my birthday. No, there are no plans for a grand celebration as such, just a quiet evening with friends but I doubt how quiet it will stand to be, I mean the continual rains will keep on humming all day long.The rains are washing all the dust and the dirt and is helping in making this terribly humid place cooler but the mud splashed roads and the pathetic condition of the roads are making the commuters lose their mind. So much need to be changed from the grassroots that it is practically making all of us feel low and these rains are not helping at all. But the rains are inevitable and I love their company…I cannot let them go, after all I was born in the rains…

welcome note

2008-07-20T10:37:00.000+05:30

So finally after a lot of thought i've opened my own blog. i wonder why i was so keen on going for it. to answer my own query, i guess just to feed my writing obsession. no wisdom is going to be spread and well who cares i'll write thats why i'm here.

Just finished reading Chetan Bhagat's "The 3 Mistakes of My Life". Read him for the first time. i know there would be many who would find this weird as more than half of the country has read him(some over and over again). I waited for the perfect time. Now don't ask me which is the perfect time, and why. I have thus been able to understand why the youth goes ga-ga over him: he can reflect their voice so well. I know (as Chetan himself confesses) that he is no litterateur but what sets him apart, I think, is that he is so accessible and wise and his writing is bereft of any kind of preachiness though it does touch on some very serious points.