New Year, New Beginnings and the Same Old Story.

The year's almost come to an end, just seven hours left, to be precise.
Some are getting ready for parties, dinners, night-outs and all the things that people like you and I would like to do on a night so special. It's all perfectly normal.

So, is there a catch? Sadly, if you might say so, there is. There is always a catch.
Of course, this year has been great for so many of us, and for others, not that great. Well, good, bad, and shades of grey apart, the point is, we're so quick to dismiss out misfortunes in the hope of a better tomorrow. Then again, hope is something we all cherish, no matter how dark the times; it gives us a sense of reason, destroys the futility of life, makes us believe that there is a tomorrow, and that it is gonna be better than today, or perhaps yesterday. All that's perfectly normal. I mean, even I allow myself that little bit of delusion.

What I have a problem with is the fact that we can never fully come to understand and respect the 'tomorrow', or in today's very special case, 'the new year'.

'End of the World in 2012 Conspiracy' apart, there's a lot that we're just forgetting. Not on purpose; that would be understandable. But by sheer, shameless neglect.
Am I cynical? Of course, I am. You can appreciate the fineness of life only after criticizing and demeaning it.

For example, resolutions. There is no bigger lie on earth that we've invented than New Year Resolutions. It's just to make ourselves feel better (yes, that includes me, too. No matter how much I try, I am human). We feel better for all that we haven't done, and for all that we're not going to do.
Moralistic reasoning apart, some resolutions do work out. Not because it has the auspicious stamp of a 'new year', but for the simple fact that it's a change we accept. We might lose those extra kilos, we might ask the person we like out, we might become super successful, super rich, super intelligent and class toppers. But the truth remains, the world will still be a lousy place. Of course, we'll be liberated from that mess; now that's for someone else to resolve, isn't it?
Sadly, they never quite do get resolved.

Personally, I don't dwell on the past. Nostalgia is one thing; keeping the past half alive, quite another. Actually, the correct phrase is, 'burying the past alive'. Brutally, and in cold-blood.
So, call me cynical or whatever you may, I think you're all murderers. You got away with the murder of your past, and will get away after you murder the future.
People you never cared for, people who receive your mocked pity, they're all buried alive, like the past. Forgotten, uncared for and simply silenced.
That's the price of a 'better' tomorrow. That's the price of your mawkish fantasies.
You can make it stop. Yes, you can. But whether or not you will, now, that is an entirely different question, is it not? The one, perhaps, you may not want to answer.

Well, anyway, happy new year! And have a fantastic 2011!

A walk on Christmas night

Oh, it’s Christmas night,

But there ain’t, sadly,

a soul in sight.

Oh, it’s Christmas night,

But there ain’t, sadly,

a starry light.

                                                                                               

There is snow on the streets

as every mile passes under my feet,

I feel the cold wind on my face,

as I try to find a peaceful place.

Jesus was born on this day,

Beautiful gifts Three Kings had given away.

Oh, what a glorious past; what a story we hear,

and, yet there are many who weep in fear.

Oh, what a wretched Christmas this is!

The crying child yearns for his mother’s kiss.

Betrayed by my own humankind,

I walk on the road, leaving my past behind.

I walk

Towards the days of peace;

Where every man can walk with his head held high!

I walk

Towards the days of joy;

Where every child will play and not have to cry!

I walk

Towards the days of forgiveness;

Where every wrongdoer will never have to lie!

Oh, I’ll walk and I’ll keep walking on the streets;

though now so lonely, but will one day shine

in the Lord’s love and his eternal glory!

When it shall have colours bright!

And happy sounds, when all rejoice

On Christmas night…

And when that day comes,

I’ll find another lonely road to walk on,

On another cold, Christmas night…

An Idiot's Guide To Writing Poetry

Well, there are many who've defined poetry, ranging from romantics to cynics, to realists to imaginists (if there is any school of thought like that), and each person has defined poetry differently from the other (not necessarily for copyright protection). It's just that poetry is such as important part of literature, of every kind, age, event...it is something that inspires men to great actions, laments their failures, and enshrines their hopes. Besides, the ladies (many of them, that is) have a thing for poets! 

I started writing poetry out of some odd reason; I didn't exactly know what it was. Then I realized it was a form of expression, a medium. Whichever idea didn't fit in prose or sketches, found its way in poetry; and a simple sketch could inspire a poem. 

So, having given my take on poetry, here's a guide to writing simple (& complex) poetry to, well, um, give expression to your ideas...but, I can't promise if it'll make the ladies swoon...

Here goes:

1. Decide what kind of a poet you want to be: cynic, romantic etc. there are many. The classification is never written in stone, but while writing a particular piece, make sure you get your perspective right. Never be bound in ideologies, but do justice to your thoughts.

2. Decide what type of poem you want to write: free-verse, ballad, short, long. Never compromise on ideas; let your thoughts keep flowing, write whatever comes to your mind, if it rhymes, or doesn't rhyme...it's more important to keep the 'flow' alive. 

3. Figures of speech: Ignore them. Never write poetry after thinking about the figures of speech, that's for English literature students. In my experience (whatever little I have) poets never give much attention to figures of speech; they're always seen in retrospection. The only thing you need to work on is alliteration, especially the long verses (Eg: V's introduction in "V For Vendetta"). Always keep a dictionary handy, and never get bound by styles, keep your mind free.

4. Poetic License: a friend of mine introduced me to this term. It means, all frills apart, you can write something that makes sense, without it making sense grammatically. Like "the a life of conformance" (OK, that is a word, but it's more effective than 'conformity'. Um, get the point?)

5. Profoundness in the pointless: 'Cat sat on a mat.' Most people would consider that absurd, and some even downright hilarious (what, don't you see the humour!?). This is 'profoundness', something that only veterans can comprehend. So, point in case, leave it to the English lit guys to discover the 'profoundness'.

6. Get yourself a muse. Someone who inspires your work, someone you admire, and respect. This doesn't amount to staring at people you have a crush on under the pretext of 'being inspired'. Always respect your muse. It's extremely unprofessional not to do so (who am I to say so? Whose note are you reading, eh?)

7. Watch 'Dead Poet's Society' and be inspired. Absorb everything that Robin Williams says, it's like the revelation for poets (wannabe and veterans). It's not about poetry, it's about life; an attitude, an outlook. I'm mentioning this as the last point simply because if I hadn't then you wouldn't have read this note! 

I'd just like to say that I'm not poking fun at English Literature; I just find their ways a little, how can I say, orthodox.

Then again, that's what poetry is about, breaking the orthodoxy. Your poetry is a part of you, never do injustice to it! Never be bound by styles...create your own art, define yourself.... 

Those Who (think they) Know Better

I met a friend of mine this morning. Well, he’s not actually a ‘friend’, just some dude who was with me in school. You know, another one of those, ‘oh-I-can-get-anything-done’ types.

So, the conversation goes like this:

Him: what’re you doing these days?

Me: I’m doing my BA from St Xavier’s.

Him: what? why do you  have to go that far?! I could get your admission done here in Ulhasnagar!

Me: um, what makes you think I wanna go to Ulhasnagar?

Him: arrey! It’s not worth it going that far! that too for a BA! So, what’re you doing after that?

Me: planning to do an MA.

Him: what!? You wanna become a teacher or what?

Me: yeah. (He gives a stupefied look; actually, he looks that way, but this was more pronounced) So, what are you doing?

Him: law, I couldn’t get into computer science.

Me: great…so, now you’re gonna be attesting documents in front of Esplanade?

Well, I didn’t exactly saw those lines (what! it’s rude, right?) Nevertheless, I meant every word of it. 

I’m pretty sure you guys must’ve met characters like this friend of mine at some point in your life; be it a friend, a cousin, uncle, aunt or even some random acquaintance in the train (yes, even that has happened to me. This particular person tried convincing me to do an MBA then get into finance, because marketing is ‘too hectic’).

And I am also sure that they’ve managed to test your patience time and again. They never seem to understand, do they? I call this, the ‘i-know-better’ syndrome’ (for the lack of a better name…)

These people, as my observations go, are a given in societies. You see them in communities, trains (in plenty, mind you!), and among any social group. As irritating as they are, they manage to serve a purpose: to annoy you (ok, not scientific), and give you a lot to think about. Out of many notions, the one that first comes to your mind is: ‘God, I hope I don’t turn out like that.’

They boast about their contacts, relatives, and Heaven knows someone from somewhere, while they, themselves are stuck in the mediocrities of life. Yes, sometimes I do feel like pitying them, not exactly pity, sorry; but, just sympathize. For all their contacts, they never could make things ok for themselves. Or, perhaps, it’s because of these very contacts that they are where they are, and not on a level worse than that. Because, God help me (and them) if they were.

Do Say: “So, can I have the number of that contact-chap? Is he on Facebook?”

Don’t say: “Dude, I’m training to be a career counselor. Here’s my contact.”

My Experiments in Conformity

Conformity, to begin with, is a term used social-psychology. I first came across it while I was researching for my project in junior college, and since then, it has been a topic of interest.
The word is used in everyday jargon almost inconspicuously, people often substituting it for the erstwhile commonplace term 'copying'. However, conformity is much more than blatant copying; that is what you do in exams, especially when the supervisor's not paying attention, and when your knowledge is absolutely zero. The best part about conformity, I must say, is that even in situations of blatant copying (such as the one mentioned above), there is conformity at play.

To fully understand the finer nuances of conformity, I have participated in some covert social experiments, of which my peers weren't aware of. Well, actually, until before writing this essay, even I wasn't aware of it. But then, that is precisely the wonder of conformity...!

Experiment One: "The Chinese Food Syndrome"
Once a friend pointed out to me, that a large number of people were buying food from the Chinese counter in the canteen. Well, he made this observation after he saw a plate of fried rice in my hand. So what is it that influences, very subtly, the choices of hungry students?
The answer is two fold.
Firstly, Chinese food tastes awesome at any time of the day, particularly in the morning when it's hot and fresh and the you get a chance to choose the best lollypops. And;
Secondly, which is a more scientific explanation, is that it's worth the 30 bucks you pay. Wait, that's not scientific, it's more economics...anyway. There is a sense of conformity as people want to stick to the tried and tested formulas (in this case, recipes), and also, they wish to try out the new dishes that the Chinese counter has to offer. Momos (which were a total failure), spring-rolls, prawns etc, there's always something new apart form the tried and tested. This is a perfect example of the normative ie in case of tried and tested stuff, as well as the informational ie in case of the new stuff everyone seems to be trying out.

Experiment Two: "The Chicken & Cheese Frankie Syndrome"
Situated right next to the Chinese counter is the Frankie counter. Well, Tibbs Frankies are still among the best I've had, but these ones come really close, with special credit to the Xavier's Press' article on the Chicken & Cheese frankie.
An article in the newsletter was a survey about the most popular food in the canteen. And the verdict clearly favoured the awesomely delicious frankie. Well, we all know how surveys are conducted, but in this case, the credibility (of the frankie, not the survey) was beyond questioning. And so, naturally, people flocked to the counter to fill their stomachs with the 'supposedly' (but, I do agree to it 99.5%) most popular item in the college canteen. So much so that, I'm thinking of telling the Tibbs kiosk at VT to introduce the 'chicken & cheese frankie'. (What? I get hungry on my way back home!)

It has been very difficult for me to fully understand the finer aspects of this experiment. And as it is with all rules, even this one has exceptions. That I shall deal with in the next part.
Until then, do try out the chicken & cheese frankie; and if you're vegetarian, there's always the Chinese counter, and maybe, they'll introduce something vegetarian in the next couple of days...!

Blabber, jabber and all that (don't?) matter

Conversations can be fun.
Especially when you, and the person you're conversing with have no clue where it's going. Now, some people like serious, meaningful conversations (I do, at times...ok, most of the times!) but, at times you need your dose of nonsensical indulgences; idiotic, absurd, weird, and down right hilarious!

Life can be dull, boring, and um, duller and more boring, especially when you're in lectures. To top 'em all, we have something called as Foundation Course and Communication Skills.
Some mentally twisted & positively sadistic do-gooder (Xavierites know whom I speak of) came up with the idea that the "youth" (read you and I, and all the junkies in the foyer) need to be equipped with an education to deal with the future; of the world, planet and humanity (um, they didn't mention that in the Prospectus, but I'm sure it was on their agenda).

Sure thing, if you've screwed up the planet this bad, and know you're not gonna see the end of it, shove the responsibility on us...and, with the prospect of inheriting a broken planet, is there really anything we could do but try and fix it. I mean, it is our planet, right?

So, one day, in an FC lecture, we were asked to talk about 'values'. Me and my friend, Manas, went up to the board and started:
Me: well, um, to start with, most of the points we wanted to mention have already been mentioned. (Manas writes on the board- 'already been mentioned')
Me: so, values are important. (Manas writes, 'are important') um, I mean they are, or why else would we be studying about them and talking about it? Secondly, they are, um essential (Manas looks at me, then writes 'essential', class laughs) But, this is different from important!
Me: next, values are necessary
Manas: (whispering) what are you doing?! (writes 'are necessary')
Me: I mean, look at our world, it's in such a mess 'cause people don' think values are necessary...and lastly, examples of values are, um, honesty, punctuality, and equality(?)...
(Manas writes that, we do a knuckle-bump and walk back)

Next instance is a CSK class. we've been told to analyse a poem. of course, I slept through the recitation, and when the prof started asking questions, this is what happened:
Prof: what is the importance of 'seven', or why does the poet emphasize 'seven'?
Me: (murmuring) 'cause seven ate nine...!
Prof: (she didn't hear that!) so, Proshant, what do you think about it?
Me: um, ma'am, the imagery is touching...you know, it works, you can imagine a flower blooming, beautiful...
Prof: but, the flower is a metaphor of the sun, isn't it?
Me: yes..! I mean, of course, but the imagery is so good, that it's so real, and touching...!
The bell rang then, and well, what more can I say other than the cliche:
"saved by the bell"..!

Devotion

"It is an act of tender love and kindness, and not one of pain, that moves a cynic to tears."

Today, I was moved to tears.
It doesn't happen to me that often, and I confess, I do subscribe to the notion of 'boys don't cry'.
But today, I was moved to tears. You might ask why? what? how? I shall answer precisely those.

Nearly a hundred years ago, a woman was born in Albania, a land which after some years was torn apart by violence and ethnic conflict. The situation was grim world over; two great wars, poverty, people dying hungry, diseased, as social outcasts.
But through those very dark times, this person chose to embrace a path of love, devotion, and service to mankind. We know her today as Mother Teresa.
I'm not gonna go into details about her life, I leave that for you to discover. How? I shall tell you that soon.
What I am going to say is that how, in just a brief twenty minute walk through an exhibition, held currently at VT Station, I came to suddenly admire this person in ways I never have.
I remember my mother telling me, how her mother used to tell her about when she first came to hear of Mother Teresa. My grandmother chronicled her school days when the news of a nun serving the dying and diseased caught the world's attention. India at that time had just achieved independence, and the leaders of West Bengal, in particular, did not want their state to be portrayed as a hell hole filled with the rejects of the world. They tried creating problems, as politicians always do. But Mother Teresa was resolute. Through her selfless service, and I use the term 'selfless' in every sense of it, she gave a moment of dignity to the dying. Orphans, lepers, poor, everyone, is entitled to a right to peace and dignity in death. Mother Teresa ensured that. And she set out to make this world a better place. And she has.

My grandfather had an opportunity to meet her once when he was on his way to India. He knelt by her and asked for her blessings. Even today, as he recounts that incident, my hair stands on end, and my eyes get wet. 

Today, those twenty minutes in the 'Mother Teresa Express' were unlike any in my entire life. There was a force at work there, a spirit with the sheer power of its purity, touched the deepest, darkest corner of my heart.

We might not be fully aware of what her legacy is, but with the help of media, we just might be able to understand it. But to experience it, we must walk on the path she laid for humanity.
Love, peace, sacrifice and an unending devotion to humanity, this planet and all those who need our help.

This is the legacy of Mother Teresa, and this is what moved me to tears...

"We ourselves feel that what we are doing is just a drop in the ocean; I think the ocean would be less because of that missing drop."

-Mother Teresa.

The Mother Teresa Express is on display on Platform 13, at CST, on December 8th and 9th.  

'M'

The mindless monogamy

of the Master and his Wife,

shall cease to be

when he’s seduced by a temptress,

so wily and so dangerous;

melting his moralistic masquerade,

and filling it with malicious intent,

vicious and lethal.

The marrow of marriage

is stolen by the marauder, who,

with murderous intent,

sought to molest a woman’s modesty.

And the masque called society,

with it’s montages of mediocrity,  

consoles her with a mawkish glance,

while exalting Man-the predator. 

Will, then, this mendacious memento

of a meaningless matrimony,

mar, muzzle and massacre

the reason of life, the voice of love?

No!

Justice, from this moment,

will ne’er be again merciful.

It will be swift;

ceasing to meander, seeking to punish

the malevolent misconduct

of the misguided monsieur.

While the mangled remains

of the misconduct of manhood

lie merely as an example

to deter those seeking to make

a malicious mistake…

…be warned,

for the mask of unfaithfulness

will cause only mayhem,

and consequences, violent and macabre.

"Hey"

I’m looking for words in my mind

to tell you the truth,

but I just can’t find a way…

…to say that I’m really sorry,

for causing so much worry,

so, please stay.

It’s not a plea for redemption,

not a lie, nor a deception;

it’s not a game I play…

…though from the outside I may be bad,

I want you to know, I’m not like that;

so, I pray.

All the things that I did for you,

heart in hearts, I know they’re true.

And, they won’t fade away…

Before you walk away,

let me pour my heart out,

and I never did doubt

the faith you had in me.

With every step, leaving the past behind,

moving ahead, it’s your time to shine…

And, I’ll be there, if you ever need me,

all you have to do is just say, ‘hey…’

This post is dedicated to a friend I set out to help; 

and I dunno how much of a help I was,

 but I did learn a great deal about life in the process...

The Pilgrim

Through the wind-swept plains,

through the infested jungle rains,

he made his way.

Through the passes so treacherous,

through the vales, dark and dangerous,

he made his way.

A matter of faith,

of devotion and pride;

with every mile he walked,

relentless was his stride.

Nothing but a sack on his shoulder,

a cloak when the air got colder.

A weather beaten stick-

his only companion;

just on soft earth and grass he lay,

under the mighty banyan.

He starved for days untold,

everyday, a new path unfolds.

A thousands steps of stone he climbed,

in holy rivers he bathed.

On the shores of the sea, he stood

watching the days of his youth fade.

The Pilgrim now lives away from this world,

where, to the devoted,

he preaches the holy word.

Wisdom he gained through perseverance.

The virtue of life, he taught,

lies not in mere existence.

Journeying lands, rivers, valleys and seas,

for months at end;

I am humbled before this sage.

With the word of wisdom in my heart,

I am exalted,

for I have now ended my pilgrimage…

The City of Lights

From my tower of solitude

I look at the city of lights…

Bright, vibrant and colourful,

a pure amalgamation of hues;

Like thousand precious stones glistening

under the midnight sky.

Tempting my heart, teasing my soul

like a hundred elusive lies.

Inviting me to join them, or maybe jesting

at my self-enforced exile.

The lights tease me again,

asking me, about the one I love.

Like a distant memory she seems to me now,

and I know not, if it was ever real.

I see a stranger

walking on the street with her lover;

a happy couple they are

and have not a worry in the world.

What is this feeling,

that I sense building in me?

Is it love for her? The Stranger?

Or is it jealousy?

Is that Stranger a reminiscence of my past days?
Or does her beauty deceive my eyes?

The lights ask again,

What I could do to return to her?

I could cross the skies,

the seven seas, if only she calls for me...

Until then, I gaze at the night sky,

the moon and the stars.

And from my tower of solitude,

I look at the city of lights…

The Vaudevillian

“…They call me a cynical soul,

one who has no heart of his own!”

“Why do you look at the flowers 

with such disdain?” They ask.

“Nay, you naïve souls, ‘tis not disdain; 

nor is it contempt,” I reply.

Darkness is the only existence,

the light, the colour, are but illusions!”

“Oh, ye cynic, cold and heartless!” they exclaim.

“Such cold a creature can never be the Lord’s creation!”

"Ha! You fools!” I laugh out loud, 

"I am not a creation of God!

The one that you worship!

I am man! Nature’s creation; the finest!

“She has bestowed upon me

powers great and mighty!

But fear me not, for I’m a part of her,

destruction of this world is not in my nature!”

“Then,” they ask, perplexed, “such cold a person you are,

yet you claim to be a poet, an artist?”

“My art is merely a subtle way

to mask my emotions, in all the splendour there is…

Though what the grandeur conceals is all but fake,

I do this all with utmost passion.”

“You are mad!” They scream in fear,

“Such crazy passions you hold so dear!

All that is created will be, one day, destroyed;

you shall be left alone; you’ll rot in a void!”

“Life’s a concoction, of health and death;

happiness and sadness…

It will go on forever, you see.

All I do, is create art of a finer degree!

“I am indeed the hero when you are the villain;

the villain when you are the hero!

Theatricality is my bane, it is my lifeblood;

without it, I am as empty as ‘zero’!

“And so concludes tonight’s performance!

This humble actor shall not live in conformance!

I take my prestige, bowing to the crescendo,

of claps and cheers; and, jeers and fears…

“…for sadly, such is my life, I think!”

A creator? An actor?

A hero? Or a villain?

...I smile…!

“Though the curtains’ a’ downed,

I shall be ever at your service!

With all due respects, sir,

I am, after all, a humble vaudevillian…!”

Tonight's performance is dedicated to a fellow actor, thinker

 and poet par excellence!

Together we create worlds through words...

...and of course, life's as vivid as it can (im)possibly be, 
for us vaudevillians!

the village

When the sunlight breaks through the night,

the village comes to life.

The person who awakens is greeted…

…with the rhythmic clang of metal on wood,

resounding from the countless handlooms;

as the weavers weave on sarees,

patterns, grand and austere.

…the smell of charcoal, and firewood,

as thakuma prepares the morning meal;

as thakurda chants the morning prayers,

praying for auspicious beginnings.

…the sweet aroma of dhup-kathi, and

the fragrance of fresh flowers, too,

lingering in the air, gladdening the heart,

relaxing the mind.

…the sound of horns blowing, bells ringing,

as cycle-rickshaws ply the main street.

The rustic vehicle, of rusted metal and wood,

stops in front of me, the man asks, ‘kothai jabe?’

Passing through the alleys and gullies-

some made of tar; the others, kuchha roads-

he stops at the banks of Bhagirathi-

the river glistening, like a thousand gems in the evening sunlight.

On the horizon there, I see the silhouette of a nouko.

It’s slender hull cutting through the water,

returning to the banks with the day’s catch

of fresh fish- rui, katla and ilish.

Back home, the evening resonates with the sound of dhak,

the haze from the dhunuchi envelops the people-

dancing to the pulsating beats of the percussionists;

their spirits lifted, their hearts gladdened.

Night comes early to the village;

the chirping of birds, bustle of people, replaced

with the sound of nocturnal creatures.

The winter chill is in the air,

as I stand on the bank of Bhagirathi,

I sense that my eyes are wet…

Glossary of Bangla words:

"thakuma"- grandmother, on the father's side.

"thakurda"- grandfather, on the father's side.

"dhup-kathi"- incense stick.

"kothai jabe"- "where would you go?"
"Bhagirathi"- a distributary of the Ganges, flowing through eastern India.

"kuchha road"- rustic, not made of tar. 
"nouko"- fishing boat.

"rui, katla and ilish"- fresh water fish, favourite among Bengalis.

"dhak"- traditional Bengali drum.

"dhunichi"- burning of dried coconut skin, husk and resin to produce smoke. 

                 It's a part of most Bengali rituals.   

The Path Through Un-lightenment

Diwali’s four days away, the market’s buzzing with activity, parents are out shopping with their children, buying firecrackers, sweets and all; and I’m sitting here, writing on my laptop, that too on back up power.

Why?

Well, the answer’s absurdly simple! 
Power cuts.

Unlike many of the privileged people I know, I am a victim of M.S.E.B.’s very long legacy of power cuts, or load shedding, as we popularly call it here. My oldest memory of load shedding dates back to when I was six months old. Of course, I clearly do not remember facts as they were; but my mom and grand-mom never fail to remind me of those days. (Sigh). Sixteen hours plus of no electricity, I believe. The oldest memory I very clearly remember was when my grandmother used to use her authentic, vintage 1924 kerosene lamp (not exactly 1924, but, who knows?). We used to gather around the lamp on Friday evenings; since that was the day we had ‘mega load shedding’, and do absolutely nothing. My grandmother occasionally told me stories (ghost ones and otherwise), while my mom used to cut vegetables; I mean, light or no light, we had to eat, right?

After a few years, our problem eased a bit when my father bought a Honda generator. The procedure to switch it on was complicated: first, changeover from the mains; second, tweak half-a-dozen switches on the gen-set, and at a later stage (read: late at night), driving out in complete darkness, well after 10 PM, to get petrol from a station in Ambernath (about 8 kms away). In spite of all this, life was comfortable.

When the world outside is pitch black, two fans and tubes somehow manage to provide all the luxury in the world!

Oh, I forgot to mention the best part: the monsoons. In the beginning of June, when the skies darkened with the arrival of the South-West monsoon clouds, the generator would be primed up, readied for long hours of duty, the petrol can filled up; and as back up, candles and match-sticks were kept handy. Back in the days when we used the kerosene lamp (affectionately called the ‘hurricane lamp’, for its obvious utility in times of hurricanes), preparations weren’t so elaborate. Yes, we had to add the hand-fan to the inventory list. Otherwise, it was just the same!

For some reason I don’t know, the rain gods felt very generous at times. Along with rainfall (and power-cuts), we used to get a good dose of thunderstorms. The power lines were the first casualties, innocent citizens the next.

Our woes, sadly or otherwise, didn’t end with the monsoons. The transformer, once in a while, gave a little ‘boom’…the aftermath was usually crowds gathering around the transformer, everyone yelling out for some action, responsibility etcetera, amidst all that fiasco. Nothing like a blown transformer to promote solidarity in a housing society, I say!

But, if it was just your phase that blew, then you were on your own, and at the mercy of the technician. However, I do take the opportunity to say that some of them are fine people, the ones who’re in short supply.

Fast forward to the present, after years of living in darkness (more often, in the light powered by the inverter battery), I’m here writing about my woes. Not that I’m complaining or anything, in fact, I’m not! It’s just that, like all problems in out great nation, I have grown to live with it.

A couple of years ago, there was a lot of rejoicing among the people here when we heard that the Dhabol power-plant was reopening. Finally, we expected a concrete solution to our power problems. Sadly, by now, I think you know what happened…I mean, after knowing the tragedy of the Dhabol plant in the first place, I was not surprised to be disappointed.

Today, when I look at the newspapers talking about the Tata-Reliance tussle, tariff hikes and all that in the city, I give a cynical laugh. They’ll never know what it is like to be devoid of electricity, to live by the light of a kerosene lamp, to miss all your favourite TV programmes (even the re-runs), and how so many poor souls in hospitals have suffered. There are places in India where they have power for just two hours (or not at all); I don’t think I have a right to complain.

So, should I try to assert my consumer rights for equitable electricity? Maybe I should. But, where is that power going to come from? And more importantly, who’s gonna stand up for the kind of people I mentioned earlier. Power, water, health, they lack all the necessities we take for granted.

Sure, there are solutions; solar energy is one. But, I hardly think my neighbours are the kinds to afford it.

So, um, I think I should really stop writing; my laptop’s charge is dwindling. And I don’t expect the power to come in at least another two hours.

If nothing else, these long, dark hours have taught me patience, austerity and the value of enlightenment.

Or should I say ‘un-lightenment’…?

Do say: “Let there be light (some one go switch the damn generator on!)”

Don’t say: “So, are you guys planning to buy that air-conditioner this Diwali, or what?”  

The Warrior’s Wife

She’s standing by the door,

waiting for him.

He’s ventured into lands unknown,

to fight the enemy, in a task

to protect his king’s throne.

He’s a loyal knight,

And he’d do anything

to keep her safe,

from the forces of evil.

And that’s why he’s fighting a war,

in lands afar, and unknown.

She knows not where he is,

whether he is alive, and safe.

The nights have become days.

And days to months, yet,

time has lost meaning for her.

She waits resolutely for his return,

her stance resilient,

she does not live on false hopes.

Her eyes unmoved, upon the horizon.

She’s standing by the door, 
waiting for him.

He looks around him,

the horrors of war, realities

awaken his senses.

Leaning on his sword, he sees,

victory had cost them dearly.

The sun has left the sky,

the chill of the night numbs his senses,

and he’s reminded of his loving wife.

She’s waiting at home, anxiously,

for him to return.

He gathers all his strength, there’s little,

but he knows he cannot give in,

there is way too much at stake.

He has to get home, for now,

only that matters to him.

Journeying the lands, he’s made it far,

he thinks he can reach home.

He knows she’s waiting, but

his life leaves him, slowly.

He knows, 

his wife is standing by the door, 

waiting for him...

Brothers in Arms

Dense jungles, desolate deserts,

Blood stains on city walls;

All across the wide world,

I’ve seen them all.

Violence, murder, genocide,

Seen my brothers fall.

But I’ve had to move on;

Because I’ve seen it all.

Villages burning, children dead;

It happens when duty calls.

Survived my worst nightmares,

And I’ve seen them all

Demons in form of humans;

I’ve seen them all.

Though they were all men,

I've killed them all.

Here we are

In forsaken lands,

A bond of kinship we form

With bleeding hands.

The confluence of blood

In barren lands

Has made us kin

For times to stand.

We fight, not for

The glory of our nations,

But for the innocents

Who need our protection.

Brothers in Arms,

We’re doomed to damnation;

Please say farewell

To my wife and children.

Brothers in Arms,

We’re meant to fight;

With courage and valour

Keep the hope alight.

Brothers in Arms,

It’s not the end yet;

Grim it may seem,

But our fates have met.

Brothers in Arms

Fight till your last breath,

Hold your ground, for

We've had no fear of death.

Brothers in Arms,

Road to salvation;

I’m glad to have fought,

And died by my brethren.

"Hush..."

"hush…

listen to the chimes,

dancing to the tunes

of the untamed wind.

"hush…

listen to the music,

made by the flow

of the untamed stream.

"hush…

listen to the songs,

being sung at sunrise

by the untamed birds.

"hush…

look at the colours,

painted in the skies

by the untamed sunset.

"hush…

don’t say a word,

just listen to the rhythm

of my untamed heart.

"Feel my hand in yours,

as long as it stays;

for my untamed soul

can never live this love…

"hush…then, my love,

live this moment, 

there’s nothing to say.

So, hush…"

The Nation's Hero

Hullo Readers,
This is the first article in the series titled, 'The Nation's Heroes', a space where we give tribute to the men and women who've made India into what it is today...please feel free to leave your comments, suggestions, feedback etc.! You know, I will always appreciate it!

The Nation's Hero: Suresh Kalmadi

Suresh Kalmadi, who unarguably is the most talked about man in India (and perhaps, the rest of the Commonwealth), is a national hero. In a day and age filled with unscrupulous, conniving and corrupt schemers, Mr Kalmadi represents the shining ray of hope that this nation has to offer. Sure, one might say that he’s the one responsible for the debacle known as Delhi Commonwealth Games, 2010. But, Mr Kalmadi’s love for India and Indians far exceeds his desire for material gains, which if I may add, were just means to  a far greater and nobler end. 

In so many decades of Indian sporting history, what glories have our athletes won? I certainly cannot think of too many. One might cite certain statistical data, but it doesn’t paint the glorious picture that we’d wish to see. Too long have we been content with bronze and silvers; we just remember the one gold (won by Abhinav Dhingda. Wait, wasn’t it Bindra? Oh, well, anyway…). Another great tragedy is the treatment meted out to the players by the coaches, and the pitiful condition the politicians’ subject the coaches to (why, some even refuse to acknowledge that there are any coaches whatsoever!). The point is, India’s image as a sporting nation is in shambles (no, we do not include cricket in this category). In such grim times, Mr Kalmadi has done what many thought was beyond even the impossible.

Kalmadi had a simple philosophy when he began preparations for the Games: 'with great power, come greater responsibilities'. He sought to bring back the golden glory of Indian sports, and he did so by employing what some might call ‘questionable tactics’, but his intentions remained the noblest.

Well, to start with, Kalmadi orchestrated every single tendering process with pin-point precision giving the bids to those who wouldn’t get them otherwise. It takes an unselfish man to think of those who are more unfortunate than he is! Look at all the contractors who were given a job in these days of recession. Kalmadi’s concern was not just limited to these people; it was the athletes-the bright and shining future of India, that he really cared about!

Since the Games are in Delhi, our athletes would enjoy a home-ground advantage. Kalmadi merely made it more home-like. One has to but look in the papers and read about collapsing bridges, building, ceilings et al. Now, if Kalmadi gave the foreign athletes a flavour of India, is he really to blame?

I mean, it’s not exactly an act of sabotage; when in India, live like the Indians. Of course, if those poor chaps decide to pull out, it’s really their loss. And since Indians are so used to jumping over craters, pot-holes, dodging falling debris, branches from the sky, leaking roofs, and living in harmony with strays, the advantage is ours. If the Games do go ahead (and I assume they will), our athletes will show the world that they are the best, even in adverse circumstances! Of course, sceptics might argue that since there would be no foreign athletes, there would be no competition. Thus our fellows would win by default. This is utter nonsense. The Games are a celebration of India, and everything that we stand for, which is, resilience, endurance, sportsman spirit, and an optimistic outlook to life (exemplified by how Sheila Dixit goes on record to say everything will be fine. What an amazingly optimistic woman!).

And, we shall get home the gold, not by an act of shameless nepotism, but by overcoming the challenges that the common Indian man faces everyday.

Suresh Kalmadi, with his hard work and fruitful endeavour, has given a lease of life to a dream that was, is, and will always be cherished by Indian athletes: the gold medal. He did so not at the cost of harming others (no one died in any of the accidents), nor at the cost of chasing away foreign athletes (are we to blame that their infrastructure is so good? Besides, they even have different levels of hygiene!).

He has fought for the Indian dream, for the Indian common man, and the aspiring Indian athlete (there’s no evidence that he doped some of those losers, is there?).

And for all this, Mr Suresh Kalmadi is the greatest Indian of the decade, a true patriot and a national hero!








Note: This is article is heavy with sarcasm and satire; while the opinions are my own ( I mean, I wrote it!), the purpose of this is to bring out the blatant and shameless hypocrisy of Indian politicians, bureaucrats and everyone who's sending this nation to the sewers.

I would appreciate it if you bear the sarcasm, and leave your opinions, comments and feedback. Thank you!

The Price Of Genius

Why be content

With dreary routines of existence?

All of which

Is fallacy, falsehood and pretence

The powerful mind

Shall not rust idly in waste

If not used well,

Because all life passes in such haste

Accepting the obvious

Is grave injustice done to you

Question the truth

And seek out answers anew

Our purpose

On this earth is indeed a mystery

Attempts to understand it

Were always treated as Devil’s sorcery

He who sought peace

Was always called the coward

Brave they were

For they moved on forward

The head of true genius

Will never ever bow down in shame

Their glory is eternal

For in vain is all fortune and fame 

They stood tall, proud

When they were burnt alive at the stake

Their lives sacrificed

For mankind and its future’s sake

I am scoffed, mocked

And hated with contempt and jealousy

But, I too shall not bow

For I see their spirit in me…

Of Blacks and Whites...

“Hey, you up for a game of chess?” a friend of mine asked.

I took a moment. “Um, not really” I replied. “But thanks for the offer!”

“Oh, come on!” she said, trying her best to convince me. “I’ll go easy on you, too.”

Ok, I did not see that coming. But, I confess, I suck at chess. So, she discovered my Achilles’ heel. “You know,” I said, in my usual philosophical repartee, “I don’t subscribe to the whole concept of playing within 64 blocks. It’s too…”

She left by the time I could complete my reasoning. Anyway, she had a lot of better opponents out there. Who, I know for sure, are definitely better than I am.

So, as I stood there, rejected and a bit confused, I tried turning to philosophical logic to look for a sane explanation for my unnatural aversion towards the intelligent man’s game. I have been bad at chess since as long as I can remember. In fact, the last time I played chess, I lost to my 12 year old cousin, and that too despite of me having cheated. So, I guess chess is one of those things I am simply not made for. And as usual, I am not satisfied with this answer.

I never did quite understand the concept of chess. It’s a cool game, no doubt; with the knights, and rooks, and kings and queens. It stimulates my imagination and it’s almost as though you can see a miniature battle field on your own dining table (this is before Harry Potter, mind you). However, I failed to understand why each piece moved in a particular way. Some explained it as general rules, as you have with any other game; others offered more elaborate reasons, which of course, I do not remember. For me, the knight always moved two-and-a-half steps because his horse had a limp (which, if I might argue could’ve been the case).

Putting aside my general ignorance, and not to mention poor aptitude, for chess, I move ahead to examine the game. Unlike many other board games, in which victory is attributed to luck or often chance, chess involves the use of grey cells to a larger degree. No wonder that it’s called the intelligent man’s game. Anyway, there’s a lot more I deduced by just observing the game. And the most profound observation was that, the game of chess is too rigid. There are only 16 pieces, and 64 blocks, black and white (or any contrasting colour for that matter) and you have two people who fight it out, non-violently of course. People have often claimed that the great generals were chess masters, who orchestrated their battle plans on the chess board. And the outcome always ended in check mate. Somehow, I find this hard to believe.

While this may have been true in traditional battles of old, this theory doesn’t hold ground today, on account of the simple fact that it’s too simple, too straightforward. They often say that, in chess you have to think two steps ahead of the enemy. This notion, though a brilliant strategy, is greatly flawed. Human nature is unpredictable. At the time you’re sizing up your enemy, he’s doing the same with you. In your effort to understand his pattern, you’re revealing your own. Conflicts, I think, are the most unpredictable of events. The very moment you make a move, predicting your opponent or forcing him to think in a particular way, you’re drastically limiting your options. We cannot think beyond the 64 black and white boxes. Tradition then becomes the greatest hindrance to spontaneity. Classical moves, by their very nature, are predictable and obsolete (though, sometimes playing by the book helps).

As an artist (yes, I know…), we unconsciously create patterns, and at the same time, break away from these by the illusion of randomness. But, the game of chess is too hard bound to allow any form of creative thinking whatsoever.

In a battle, the king rides ahead of his army while charging at the enemy (the great kings, that is, or the foolish ones perhaps). The very concept of chess seeks to create an artificial world, enclosed and secure, where one action can be performed in just one way. And, as history’s proven it time and again, it’s always thinking outside the box that makes the larger difference.

As I grappled with these thoughts, feeling a whole lot better (after being rejected), there entered a new argument in my mind (can’t help it, you know…). The concept of black and white is too rigid. True, you have to choose a side sometimes, but a lot of the human mind is in the grey area between these two ends. Many people play chess by themselves, and I am most intrigued by this. Is it actually possible to be dispassionate; to refrain from choosing a side? When I tried doing it, I failed. But it doesn’t necessarily mean that I proved my point.

As an artist (ok, I get the point...), my mind cannot reside in any fixed area; it has to remain constantly in motion. From white to black, from happy to sad. Emotions change faster than thoughts. Impulsiveness is replaced by logic and reasoning, and vice-versa. Amidst such contradictions and patterns, I realized, there are no two ways to it. The possibilities are infinite. And by limiting our choices we shackle our own creativity.  

I would contradict myself here on one point. I’ve seen players who play chess with superb reflexes, reacting and countering almost instinctively. I have nothing but respect for these players, for the sole reason that, even within the constraints chess offers, these guys manage to artistically play with panache and precision. Then again, their reactions are a result of conditioning. There are only so many combinations they can try, though at staggering speeds. 16 pieces, 64 blocks, 2 colours…limited combinations. Do the math, because, I’m bad at it anyway…!

Do say: it don't matter if you're black or white!

Don't say: is Viswanathan Anand reading this?