A Streetcar Named Desire

Big boys play with big toys.

Happy days are not away. Tata uncle is going to present all the big boys (and big girls) his dream car, in just 100 thousand bucks! Now everyone will have his own car. Papa has his car and mamma has her car as well. Now I too am going to have my car. I will not have to wake up early in the morning to catch the bus. Oh how eagerly (more than for new Harry Potter!) I have been waiting for the day when I will break open my piggy bank and rush to the city center to buy it!

Wow! What a great fun it will be! I’ll drive, like Shahrukh (in that ad with Preity), looking all cool, burning the tires and zooming past all others on the surprised road. Yippee! I wonder how it feels like – to hold the control with soft hands and to turn the little wonder gently on corner, and to feel its tender hum with the touch of foot! Moon! Music! Oh God! It’s splendid! I will ask Neha for a drive, and we’ll go to ‘Temptations’, she and I. Hope that creepy thing - Rahul doesn’t poke his long nose, coz even he was talking about his piggy bank and his plans.

So even he will get a gift, not just I! And like he and I, everyone else! What nonsense!

But then how will I enjoy? Our town is already so crowded, and God knows how many red-lights are there, with those sneaky policemen around. And it is terrible to get stuck in one of those traffic hold-ups! I hate it - people mindlessly honking, and dust and smoke, and our sitting helplessly, sweating and waiting. TURN ON THE AC! What a terrible pain! What is car for if you are made to crawl it behind a rickshaw? It’s all useless junk, any model, any color!

I wish we were in Shahrukh’s town, where we could drive fast on broad clean roads with trees on both the sides, swaying with breeze as they show in TV. Our town is not that good for driving. Hope we shift to Shahrukh’s town some day. Last Friday mamma got so awfully hurt; some jerk had hit her car outside the parking. Now she leaves early for office so that she could reach safely and get a nice place to park her car. I guess traffic wouldn’t be that bad in the morning.

Oh no! Again I’ll have to wake up early!

Well, it’s a good idea to wake early if you could drive fast, at least drive without getting hurt. But with creeps like Rahul around, it’s foolish to suppose that they wouldn’t get this idea. And then it’ll be all the same. I’ll have to wake up even earlier.

Why doesn’t Tata uncle make some roads for us? I wonder how many roads he will have to make, and where! Perhaps it will be too hard on him. But then he should not sell his cars in our town if he, or anyone else for that matter, can not make roads here, the roads that we need to drive our cars without getting late or hurt. Why doesn't he see this? It is so plain and simple. Or may be he does!

Let me think.

I guess I don't need his gift. My bus is alright for me, with Neha sitting next to me. :)

Reliance Fresh

I have always loved Ranchi, and now I am proud of it. I feel unpardonably ecstatic that it has happened, and that it has happened there. I wish I were there! Standing with those ‘petty traders and vegetable vendors (courtesy Rediff.com)’ with an iron rod in my hands and smashing those ‘Reliance Fresh’ outlets!

I think I have a fair understanding of the significance of ‘Free Market’, perhaps better than many who, without applying their own minds, glibly invoke fashionable phrases in order to feel intelligent, and in turn, to rationalize any atrocity in name of business and GDP. Blind to the world around them, they fail to see the possibility of corruption inherent in these ideas, if accepted at face value without careful examination. But ignorance of many is not important. What is important is that those who know should not be contented so early and so easily, coz many such establishments are yet to be demolished.

Unfortunately, all of them can not be demolished by iron rods, because they are not made up of glass walls. They are ideas, or rather obfuscation of ideas, constructed of words carefully kept one over another with cold precision, and consecrated in our minds in order to achieve not only profit but also approval and applause (for having achieved profit!). And these ideas rely, for their prosperity, on the mechanism of continuous exposure to flashy neon-signs that sensitizes unknown vulnerabilities in man and then evokes the worst in all of us; they rely on all-pervading ads that whet our appetite to the limits of disgraceful gluttony. But this greed and this gluttony are ours and we have to own this.

Every word comes with an expiry date. Worn out words and phrases - clichés - not only eclipse the very thoughts they are supposed to contain, but also ridicule and trivialize its meaning, especially when used glibly in lowly context – the monk who sold his Ferrari – no correlation between words and state of mind at all! But then who will bother to climb mountains just to eats the apples?

But these stale, rotten apples gradually poison the mouth, and become instrument of deception and intimidation in the hands of the clever – the more respected a word, the more prone it is to be corrupted. And before they get tried and convicted, the priests make people commit all type of ungodly acts in His name – so to have a few (un)chosen ones, the scapegoats, sacrificed is okay for the noble purpose of growth; and often such measures of growth, in reality, stunt what is meant by growth. Now which rod can touch these words, and this ubiquitous gluttony?

Besides, the propagators and supporters of these ideas and these institutions are not only powerful, but supremely cunning as well, who very well know how to manage everything smoothly. These people are smart and trained professionals, smart enough to secure judicial protection from their ‘ridiculously tactless’ victims – those who are first rendered unemployed by capital vandalism, and then branded ‘petty’ and accused of ‘vandalism (!)’ by the corporate sponsored urban media, whose loyalty has always been towards balance sheet and stakeholders. It has done little to deserve our, the people’s trust. Truth is more than just a product laid out for sale, much more than something that provides intellectual entertainment to the unintellectuals.

Who needs Reliance Fresh in Ranchi? I never needed them. These outlets will spoil the aesthetics of the small hilly town without adding any economic value to it. It will not generate jobs but will surely leave a lot many people without jobs. In places like Ranchi, there is (or used to be) something called haat where villagers, men and women, even kids, I remember, gather in the vast field beside temple and sit under the shadow of trees, once or twice in a week, to sell their goods and grocery. Amid the clamor and noise of babu, bhaiya, sir etc there would be a cheerful atmosphere of festivity around. People not only go and buy vegetables but also haggle and talk and enjoy the whole outing. Villagers would greet their old patrons with smiles on their faces, and offer discounts and urge them to buy more. On one side there would be stalls of household items and on the other side the bright colored clothes hanging for display would attract your eyes. Children would eagerly wait for their turn to gorge on jalebis, golgappas and chaat after their parents are done with shopping. I remember myself visiting haats with my parents and our helpers. I have seen old women, who don’t know how to count, and who can’t tell between notes of Rs 10 and 100, carry on their trade simply on trust. Such simplicity and such innocent charm are unimaginable in cities. I don’t see even trace of such warmth in Pizza Huts and Crosswords, not even fake. Well, at dusk, they would roll their mat, pack the unsold grocery and leave for their homes with whatever they had earned for their toil from seeding to selling.

Now Mr Ambani decides to go and snatch a Rs 10 note from each one of them, of course not by disreputable old gun but by his honorable ‘Wharton’ enterprise. While someone loses his all, all that he can manage to get is but trifling small! And those who grow food for us have to sleep with their hunger wailing inconsolably whole night beside their beds. Perhaps I am getting sentimental, perhaps unreasonable as well, but only a blind can see something that deprives those poor farmers of their Rs 10 in positive light. And I don’t even find positive answers of many 'practical' questions that arise in my mind. Does he think he’d stay in market because he hopes to grow better fruits and vegetables? Will he make agriculture more efficient, of course, without snatching lands (even lands!) from poor farmers in name of SEZ and sacrosanct ‘growth’? Will this ‘industry’ generate jobs for people?

Actually this is a march of naked hubris and power. Mr. Ambani too, without doubt, keeps an unconcealed (and insatiable) desire for power without, it seems, having commensurate enterprise and risk-taking ability. Opening grocery outlets by Reliance is like a fake Ashwamedha Yagya by a coward king who has had the ashwa (horse) led in the direction of a desolate dessert where no potent rival could challenge him for a battle. With all the cash and confidence he possesses in the market, he could have ventured in the rough terrains of hardware products, or bio-chemicals, or even cola for that matter. That would have been a war worthy of the strength he has inherited and also of the title of ‘youth icon’ this urban media has cheerfully bestowed upon him. But the businessman contained himself in the trade of vegetables! He eyes profit no matter how many farmers starve and how many of them commit suicide. Given his character and (lack of) enterprise, the next sector for him seems to be drug trafficking and prostitution, if he is already not into it.

All of us live by the choices and decisions we make, and I have made mine – I can’t prevent them from hoarding their profits but certainly I will not allow them glory for doing that. Since when have we started respecting people for their ability to acquire, for their greed and gluttony? And I have always failed to see any value in acquisition though I admit that doing that ‘successfully’ is difficult. But an act is not worthy just for being difficult. And without any value these acts are nothing but gross and even criminal.

This country is invaded by her own sons – home-made Mehmoods whose only ambition is to loot as much as possible and take away to their Ghaznis. They don’t hold swords in their hands, and they sit in cubicles with their laptops, so that others could not recognize them. And they make us believe that what they do is what should be done thanks to Ayn Rand School of Morality. Money becomes its own justification, as it is material manifestation of virtue! Market will keep on supplying more and they will keep on looting and hoarding. And above all, they think they deserve respect for this!

Let them be powerful and strong. It is not easy to stop the juggernaut of Reliance Fresh, which is fuelled by the brazenly arrogant force of capital and monstrous greed. But we must resist and we must be man enough to say a resounding No to phallus worship in all forms! Fool devotees give birth to evil Gods. We will worship Christ because he taught us love and humility but not because he was son of some God. Each one of us must fight to his capacity, with iron rods or with pens or with both if needed.

Dil Se...

According to ancient Arabic literature, love is classified into seven different shades (or stages, I would say).

1. HUB - Attraction

2. UNS - Infatuation

3. ISHQ - Love

4. AQUIDAT - Reverence

5. IBAADAT - Worship

6. JUNOON - Obsession

7. FANAA ~ Annihilation, Atonement

As we move from tangible to intangible, from prosaic to poetic, and from worldly to spiritual, translation becomes impossibly challenging and the meaning of an expression relies increasingly on the attitude (frame of mind and mood) of the listener, given his/her intellectual and emotional aptitude.

Every mrityu is not 'Nirvana' and similarly 'Fanaa' is not just maut, even if Gulzar (aptly) chooses to say mujhe maut ki god mein sone de to describe this stage of love. What a beauty - lap of death! Gham-e-hasti ka asad kis se ho juj-marg ilaaj... Yes I do realize that I am beginning to deviate here. But while wandering I found a connection here. Ghalib talks (only) about release from a negativity, from existential angst (gham-e-hasti). But here the lover doesn't just want to run away from scorching sun to the shadow of death. But he, being a lover, is positively in love with it. He finds a rest, a solace, and a ceaseless joy, Nirvana, in its lap. So fanaa is maut only if and as long as it has a lap and it offers you an unperturbable sleep in its lap.

Philosophical musing - Did Sufis thought about, and do they believe in the cycle of life and death? And does Nirvana emphasize on the bliss of the state of nothingness, or is it just an escape from sufferings of life and its cycle?

Mea Culpa

I wanted to talk to someone about it. I wanted to get it off my chest. I took my phone out of my pocket and went through the entire friend’s list, twice, but couldn't find a single one to talk to. It was entirely my burden, my cross, I realized, and it couldn't be shared with anyone. It could only be multiplied, in my consciousness. Such a thing is shame.

Living a life like I do, we men sometimes tend to forget that there exists a creature in world called woman. And in the world of men, woman is only an abstract idea who is used to flaunt our manhood, often, I admit, in a perverse manner. Yes, I do talk to girls of my age but that is different. They are friends and they don't mind, if they are not positively amused by, our occasional indiscipline in speech. But women are different, especially when they are around in flesh and blood.

Today I was talking with my friend on office messenger, about someone else. And just then my team lead pinged me. And I wrote the following, by mistake, in her window –

“I hate that fat hag. I would have paraded naked in house if I could muster enough shamelessness, in order to scare her away.”

Even now I can't help but shudder as I write these lines. I felt a hard blow in my head when I realized my blunder. Tortured with confusion and frenzy, I ran to my friend to tell him about the disaster. Till now it was only a blunder. The worse was still to follow. Soon the deeper layers hidden in this episode presented themselves to me as I sat together in interview with my smart crime.

I was not scared of any consequence. In fact, I wrote a mail seeking apology with full awareness of the fact that it was a written confession, which could be produced in my appraisal or before that as well, depending on her sensitivity. But it was not about her, but me alone, and perhaps about the smile which she always flashed when she saw me. There are times when the person who could be most ruthless with you is none other than you yourself. There are times when you walk miles and seek punishment. And impulsive as I am, I have done such things and felt such moments earlier in my life as well. Knowing her nature, I was sure she would forgive me and forget this issue after a day or two. And I know that I have to pretend the same forgetfulness to let the awkwardness go. Oh how desperately do we sometimes need forgiving people around us! However, I do forgive but hardly forget things. And I take a few things very seriously. It is a morbid compulsion with me.

Anyways, practically I was safe. But what about the higher judge?

Guilty and shameful in my heart, I recalled my school days when I was considered an epitome of decency. And I was so, though it is hard for me to believe that now, and harder to write here. I looked at him who was I, but found him too away. I remembered the incident when a girl (who was his classmate, a close friend, and one of the most desirable girls of his batch) tried to get cozy with him in her bedroom and then playfully ‘warned’ him that she'd shout if he did anything naughty with her. And he said calmly with a proud smile, ‘Do it if you want. But no one will believe you.’ And the girl knew that he was right. Idealistic and upright, he used to say, ‘In moments of crisis, a man should not speak a word in his defense. His character alone should be able enough to defend him.’

A few years later, I remember, he used to shut his door and sit close to the TV to watch ‘tip-tip barsa paani’ keeping lowest possible volume so as not to wake his parents sleeping at the other floor. Poor guy! I remember how badly his whole being used to shake, in apprehension as well as in lusty excitement, raising each other to maddening heights. What would he do to hide that excitement if someone came? No, it couldn’t be hidden, nor could be rationalized. Like a thief, he used to hear the footsteps that were never there.

Still I cannot recall those nights without feeling something tingling beneath my skin. Was it wrong to wake late in nights in a breathless wait to see ‘something’ in those ‘18’ movies shown then in star TV? Perhaps not. But then imagine, God it’s scary, to get caught by your mother while doing that what you know is not wrong if not seen by your mother. And what about sex? Legal. Is that also wrong? Oh they behave unreasonably, you might say. Well, it’s a bit complicated. Perhaps we are at the wrong track; it’s not an issue of right and wrong. It’s not wrong but just embarrassing.

So everything that is embarrassing is not wrong. What if I had typed the same stuff in the right window? Everything would have been right, isn’t? So it was not immoral to write that about a woman, but only a blunder to write that in a woman’s window. All my guilt and shame were misplaced!

But somehow I am not convinced.

India Poised

What for?

2007 = 2006 + (1)

Many new stories knocked at my door in the last few months but I ignored them all for the sake of an unfinished story. There was a time when this story occupied my heart but now I am unable to feel its touch and see it happening inside me. The memories of its magic and its strength, with which it ruled my thoughts in those nights, are still vivid. But it lies pale and cold, somewhat dead, on the floor. So I'd, rather with something heavy there, leave this thread loose in the hands of time and walk towards the door.

The hidden side of the hills

PART 1 – The Prelude

Long long ago, I had read stories of the folks who lived in distant villages surrounded by high hills; of villages separated from the world by the ring of hills; and of the villagers who worked and played together under the vast canopy of bright blue sky and sneaked into their small houses when darkness fell.

In the winter nights, attired in a voluptuously white gown, the world would appear more confined than ever when the angels would unfurl the diamonds-studded blanket heavily over the hamlet, leaving the fringes loosely hanging over the other sides of the hills, towards the world unseen. And the horizon would seem to shine forth in the dazzling brilliance of the snow.

In a crystalline clean autumn morning, sun stretched his golden-orange arms and the molten diamonds dropped into the red open mouths of daisies and cracked open on the slanting palms of the plants. Under the glassy-golden shadow of the sun, a thousand stars would lay scattered, twinkling on the velvety-green carpet. The happy canary would hop at the branch and send forth melodies in air to wake the children up from their warm, fluffy beds. Soon the children would come out cheering and running towards the north hill, for the demon grand mother had warned about resided near the lake in the south.

Away from their noise, as if under the spell of the demon, young lovers would meet at the serene shores of the lake. Sitting for hours holding the hands of beloved in theirs, they would blush and smile, while the wind carried carts of cotton over the water, still since ages. The girl would gaze in the water and see how lovely they looked together with their faces floating on the blue mirror. And the boy would look amusingly at the sight of her ear-rings mating with her maiden-pink cheeks, and would fall in love again.

And far from the world of promises and their vanity, the children treaded their way up the hill through thorny bushes and dry leaves crackling beneath their feet. Unaware of the scratches on their hands, they climbed trees and sat on the branches. They chewed tender leaves and tasted unknown, unripe fruits, some bitter, some sour, but all tasty. And they plucked wild flowers and made garlands for little sisters. After wandering for some time, running after butterflies, and dipping their feet in the cold mountain spring, they would stroll back to their old spot and look up at the beehive and wonder if it had grown any larger. And then they would relax there and leave for home only after they hear the sound of the evening bells from the temple.


PART 2 – The Journey

A sudden jerk woke me up.

to be continued..

Rape

Disconcerted though I was by his ominous presence, the corner where I had to reach was hardly a minute away. And it was this teasing proximity that obfuscated my thoughts. It seemed ridiculously cowardly to go back from there; or perhaps the option of going back never occurred to me at all. I walked along the wall, keeping closely to it, and making sure not to make any noise that aroused the beast. From a distance, not sufficiently far but still the farthest possible from him, I saw his hairy, thickly tail sleeping on the floor.

On walking ahead a few earnest, bated steps, I began to get a sideward glance of his bulky belly, which heaved heavily with every breath he took. His formidable bulk had kept his head well-hidden behind it. I thanked God for keeping me out of his sight. I had forgotten that the beast didn’t need to see me to know I was there. I didn’t realize that no matter how sneakily I moved, he could hear my footsteps, he could smell my presence, and he could sense my fear as well.

All of a sudden my attention was seized by the sight of his ears waking up and standing alert on his head. My whole body shuddered with a dreadful anticipation and I found myself stuck to the wall. The beast turned his head to me and stood up. Rooted with fright, as it were, I averted his gaze and staggered ahead. He stood where he was, but turned his head towards me, keeping his gaze fixed on me. Under some unholy spell, perhaps out of panic and confusion, I diffidently stamped my foot on the floor to scare him off. The beast drew back with a start but didn’t take long to overcome the surprise. By looking at his expressions I soon realized that I had made a blunder. I had started it and now it could not be left unsettled. I hollered out the guard but got no response in return.

I looked around searchingly and got sight of a rod near the corner leaning against the wall. He noticed me looking at it and perhaps read my mind. He steadily followed me as I rushed towards the corner. I ran for my life, got hold of the rod and turned back in a frenzy. I looked back at my enemy and his sight left me gasping for breath. The infernal ferocity that sparkled in his eyes chilled my blood in my veins.

As per the last command of my doomed fate, I charged at him with my weapon. But it fell on him like a light thread! Betrayed, I cried with dismay when I looked at it again. It was a mere rope! I let it drop and helplessly, I looked at the wolf and waited for his reprisal. Many little curs had gathered there by then. They stood around him, in a hope the very thought of which was horrifying, wagging their thin rodent-like tails and cheering him for some heroic action.

He leaned back on his rear limbs to get a thrust and leapt with a fiendish force at me. I fell hard on the floor, with him on the top of my body. I struggled with all my collected strength to release myself but all my efforts went in vain, as my limbs were pressed hard on earth under his weight. He mirthfully allowed me to try as much as I could. He wanted the suffocating feeling of helplessness settle deep inside my mind. And he visibly enjoyed his victory. Defeated and exhausted, I gave up my futile battle. As if he had been waiting for this moment, he savagely pinned me down at the ground and flashed a trivializing smirk. Then his canine jaws opened wide and his tongue slithered out like a hideous snake. As I felt dizzied by the abominable stench of his hairy, slimy body, his saliva rained on my mouth and smeared my whole face. Tormented by the odious warmth of his breath and his flesh, which throbbed with wrathful lust and rubbed against me, I fainted after a while. In the background, the cheering and jeering continued endlessly.

When I woke up I found myself alone with an unbearable reek of my own body. I knew no soap, no sea could wash away those stains from my memory; no amount of tears could purge that shame from my eyes. As I lied flat on my back, I saw a thousand pieces of a broken mirror fastened to the purple-blue sky; and I saw myself being violated by a thousand pairs of eyes; my own scornful eyes!

And while my whole being revolted against the nightmare that happened, I felt my groin writhing with a loathsome longing.

Infidelity

He had vainly thought that he would never be able to forget her. But he did, sooner than he had expected. The fire of the time charred the statue, which he once admired and worshiped, to cinders and fanned away the dust in air. It happened quietly, without any ceremony, as if nothing significant happened.

Was his turn near too? Will he get the same mute death?  Will be forgotten by her, by all? Won't he be spared? No; sooner or later he will be dead forever, like footprints on seashore, forgotten, as if he never existed! He was revolted by this thought. Death is terrible because no matter how common it is, it is still unbelievable. He decided to resurrect her again. He closed his eyes and tried to draw her from the dark recesses of memories. He put both his palms on his ears and pressed hard not to get distracted by the noise of silence. He wanted to her her but her voice was lost. He kept on trying there till he grew tired of it. How long could one keep his hands pressed against his ears? Soon he gave up.

Life seldom gives a luxury to sit idle and revel in nostalgia. Having to dig deep in time to see her made it hard for him to do it often. Time had stolen the intense smell of the mustard long back, but till recently he was haunted by the echo of those promises that he had made in those melting moments. Now even her love-making whispers were sinking in silence. All that remained was a faint memory of the tortured nights that brought them together. Time was healing him, and infidelity looked to be inevitable.


Musical Mood - Kabhi tanhaaiyon mein (Hamaari yaad aayegi) - Mubarak Begum

Of prose and poetry

"If I had a message to convey, why would I make a movie? I would have gone to post-office."

- Naseeruddin Shah to a journalist who asked what message he was trying to send in his new film Yun Hota To Kya Hota.

This, I think, was a very suitable reply to such a stupid question. I wonder how can a journalist dare to face an actor like Naseer with such a glaringly pathetic (mis)understanding of movies and art! And I pity people like Naseer who have to put up with such jackasses.

People with towering IQs are likely to conclude, logically and naively, that movies don't carry any messages. Isn't what Naseer is saying?

No. I believe Naseer is not saying that. What he precisely wants to say is that if he had any message to say in words, he would have said that in words. He would have written it and published it somewhere. He would not have done anything else in that case.
But he chose to make a movie because the matter he wanted to send across could be achieved in the best possible manner by the medium of cinema only. He wanted to give a cinematic experience to people and that can be accomplished by no other means but movies.

Artists know the fundamental fact that there must be a consistency between the content and the form in a work of art. Also, it is the content(what is to be said) that chooses the form(how it is said) for its best representation and not the other way round. (courtesy Akshaya)
They master a form or two of their preference but they don't have confusion about its inherent limitations. Ustad Bismillah Khan, being a maestro, must have been aware that there are moods that can not be created by the use of Shehnai.
They don't play the nonsense and snobbish 'let's write a Haiku' games. And if they do, they don't take themselves very seriously.
I think they know very well what to write in prose and what in poetry, when to make a play and when a movie. Of course there are people in world who say 'let's make a movie' and make it. But we are talking about artists here and not businessmen. And I also admit, though not unreservedly, that an artist can have a business perspective too. But that becomes another case.

Let's come back to the question. On what basis do you think Tagore decided whether he should write a novel or a poem, or he should make a painting, or he should compose a piece of music to give expression to his feelings and thoughts? Did he decide that arbitrarily? Quite unlikely a case as per my understanding. It would be like deciding a name for the kid before his/her gender is known. Tagore wrote Geetanjali to express a thought that was essentially poetic in nature. He couldn't choose any other form because only poetry can carry the beauty, with all its subtlety and fragility, without staining it, without robbing of its dignity. He didn't write Gora, for example, in verse. Similarly, Kant couldn't write Critique for Pure Reason in verse and Descartes couldn't expound his Cartesian Coordinate System through the ethereal media of poetry. Art doesn't tolerate reason. It's hands are too feathery to lift the weight of heavy thoughts. A treatise of philosophy can only be written in a well-structured prose. To make sense, the manner must mind the matter. You can't do anything in any way you fancy without being frivolous about it. And this goes even beyond the realm of art. Can you swear someone musically without looking ridiculous?

There might be some areas of intersection between forms and contents. I don't deny that. It does happen that sometimes listening to music endenders an array of pictures in our mind. And sometimes a painting seems to contain a story in it. Arguably, there exists a hierarchy of forms as well. But I don't intend to go into the technicalities here. Nor I want to feel pedantic or puritanical. I am not feeling stimulated enough to commit glaring claims without even having a conviction in them. But the fundamental remains the same.

Those who understood what I said above would surely understand this - If I like Lata Mangeshkar and feel that she is the best, and if someone challenges my opinion or taste, then I would never argue a single word in order to prove that she is the best . I will just keep on listening to her.

Also, I refuse to accept that somebody was a great musician because his music was so powerful that it mobilized the masses against war and consequently, at the face of such massive a protest, the government of USA had to withdraw its troops from Vietnam.

song of life

Life is made up of little experiences. Sometimes insignificant things teach us memorable lessons and give us important insights. Small events sometimes create big waves in our mind. We hardly ever stop reading and learning, even when we are at leisure, even when we are traveling. We keep on reading places and people. But sometimes it also happens that we read everything entirely wrong.

There are thousands of people who travel by Mumbai local everyday for their bread and butter. Or for mere bread only. This post is about one of hapless them.

This man was not particularly remarkable. He was just ordinary, not even very ordinary. I would hardly ever notice people like him. Perhaps no one would. But he climbed on and stood in front of me in the compartment. I didn't even find him worth ignoring. With a cursory glance I scanned his frail figure. Short, thin, dark-complexioned, mid-aged, he looked emaciated and worn-out by ages of drudgery and hardships. He carried a black hand-bag, like thousands of those who earn Rs. 2500 per month carry with them. His collar-bones peeped out from his dirty cream-colored shirt. I guessed he was unbearably feeble. One push and he went flying down the train. I wondered why it was so difficult to respect people like him unless they do something to prove themselves, and keep doing so before we forget. Their physical appearance often evoke a sickening sense of superiority or indifference in you, or contempt in other circumstances. I tried to imagine how dreadful it was to be like him, poor and ugly; like being a miserable bug, a body filled with pulp of insignificance. The whole world would seem unimaginably depressing and indescribably hopeless. Suddenly he turned his head and caught me staring at him. His eyes seemed grotesquely large through the thick glasses he wore. I started looking elsewhere. Perhaps he saw my face that was contorted with revulsion. You can't look in someone's eyes while thinking that about him.

I kept on thinking about this man. I imagined what would happen after he reached his place. Many dismal, dreary pictures floated over my eyes. I saw him walking through smoke and stench, avoiding the sight of goats being skinned and hanged by hooks, and mongrels with hungry dark eyes loitering about, negotiating pigs in the narrow streets and then stepping on the broken ‘S’ of bricks outside his door to save his shoes from getting muddy. I saw his dark, gloomy, stuffy place, the dimly lit bulb overhead, and the continuous buzz of house-flies. A wailing reminder over the cup of tea to get the umbrella repaired before the impending onslaught of Monsoon. I wondered if she loved him. It was a queer thought. I was not sure. Had anyone ever loved him? May be. But he was too poor to be loved, and too ugly to ever charm anyone. It is not easy for anyone to see an ugly man’s love; and not to mention, it is slightly embarrassing too. Love would surely feel awkward to be associated with a guy like him. Imagine a love story with ugly characters. Amusing idea isnt? After all it hardly mattered. A poor man’s love is as good as his hatred. You don’t take any of these things very seriously.

I kept on brooding till I started to feel uneasy; choked by my own thoughts. In a very short time I had taken too deep a plunge in his world and it was high time I came out of it. It was horrible to be there. For the first time I felt a gnawing sense of pity growing inside me for the poor man. What a wretched life he was living! No joy, no grace; I realized that the cross he was carrying on his feeble shoulders was too heavy for him, perhaps heavier than that of many of us. And he was damned to carry the burden of his ridiculous life with utmost seriousness. For a moment my heart went out for him.

Not many people were left in the compartment by the time I looked around again. I started looking at the scene outside, at running trees and houses, at grey sky and brown rails, to distract my mind. I was pained by his thoughts. And all of a sudden I heard his voice. I turned and found him singing, not loudly but his voice was certainly louder than a timid humming. It might sound ridiculous but I admit I was amazed to see that. It took me some time to believe what I saw. He was singing for God’s sake! What the hell was happening! I never see anyone (except beggers of course) singing in train. And of all the people him! Did he have any reason, any right to sing in the setting his life had placed him in? Was he not afraid of those troubles that chased him and those that waited for him at the next corner? Amnesia? Insanity? Why that insolent defiance?

All these thoughts passed my mind in a flash. Oblivious of my state of surprise, he behaved as if he was alone there, as if no one was there to see him, as if he was away from the reach of all those troubles that were instead troubling me. I admit I found myself dumbfounded for a while. All my sullen and twisted thoughts and here was the truth, right before me, singing in cheerful abandonment. Perhaps too plain and simple for my imagination. Perhaps far beyond its range.

There have been moments in my life when I give up my pursuit of analysis and allow myself to revel in my sweet defeat. It feels nice to be wrong sometimes. How pleasant and delightful it was to see him singing, with all his joy and grace! I felt so pleased to see that. What a blissful sense of relief it was! As if someone suddenly acquited me of some unknown guilt, released me from a painful burden. For a forgettable but overwhelming second I felt like believing in God. I know that the ecstasy of dreams can not be shared with others. There is nothing to share as such. Nothing happened actually. Nothing had changed anywhere but suddenly everything seemed so refreshing. It was like reinventing the meaning of life. It was like realizing that the most beautiful and most invaluable things in life are amply scattered around us, to be felt and enjoyed, absolutely for free. And no one is as poor as we imagine. It was not that I didn't know all this before. I surely did. But it is very easy to forget things like that.

I felt a growing sense of gratitude in me for the man who made that tune, to all who make music, to all artists who spread and preserve what is human in us so diligently through years of hard work. I saw the magic of music, its reach, its power, perhaps more clearly than ever. For some time this realization hung heavy in my mind that everyone in this world is equally happy or unhappy. Most of the differences between us are illusory. All of us are tormented by similar Sisyphean troubles and rescued by the divine Veena of Saraswati.
.

a tiny boat in the stormy sea

I am beginning to see our lives as tiny boats tossing and turning in an infinitely stretched ocean in a dark, cloudy, stormy night. The mighty waves push and hurl our boats here and there and all that we are left to do is merely to come to terms with the vagaries of the wind and accept it as the reality of our lives. Why does reality have to throw us apart everytime it lets us meet? And why do we meet if we invariably have to be thrown apart by a sadistic stroke of reality? I helplessly see my boat being taken away. I look at my friend boats with longing eyes and slowly they become smaller and smaller in my eyes. Long before late they'd fade in the mist and vanish in the vastness of the ocean. Again I'd be left alone with the continually shrinking memory of past in the cold, dark, tempestuous future. Again I'll look for other boats in order to steal some moments of warmth in the eternity of icy isolation. And again I'll take out my two cold palms and rub them to get some warmth out of them.

From the Pavilion End

Do read this one. It's hard not to laugh like crazy after reading this. :)

"Bomber" Wells, a spin bowler and great character, played for Gloucestershire and Nottinghamshire. He used to bat at No.11 since one couldn't bat any lower. Of him, they used to paraphrase Compton's famous words describing an equally inept runner, "When he shouts 'YES' for a run, it is merely the basis for further negotiations!"

Incidentally, Compton was no better. John Warr said, of Compton "He was the only person who would call you for a run and wish you luck at the same time."

Anyway, when Wells played for Gloucs, he had an equally horrendous runner as the No.10. During a county match, horror of horrors.......both got injured. Both opted for runners when it was their turn to bat. Bomber played a ball on the off, called for a run, forgot he had a runner and ran himself. Ditto at the other end. In the melee, someone decided that a second run was on. Now we had *all four* running. Due to the confusion and constant shouts of "YES" "NO", eventually, all of them ran to the same end. At this point in time, the entire ground is rolling on the floor laughing their behinds out. One of the fielders - brave lad - stops laughing for a minute, picks the ball and throws down the wicket at the other end. Umpire Alec Skelding looks very seriously at the four and calmly informs them "One of you buggers is out. I don't know which. You decide and inform the bloody scorers!".

(Incident described in "From the Pavilion End" by Harold "Dickie" Bird)

Escaping from the abhicentric world

Times are changing fast. Frighteningly fast! The whole landscape changed while I was gazing at the moon. Nothing is there anymore where it was. Everything moved. Everyone departed. I wake up from a deep slumber and I find myself here, the very place where I was years ago. Even those for whom I waited moved ahead. Those who once held my hand and walked with me pulled their hands back and went away. Dazed and stunned, I look around. But I see nothing familiar around me. All that is left with me is memory of a dream. It was a dream!

I feel that I am transfixed at the center. Static. Arrested by intertia. Paralysed. Condemned to but see everything in lively motion. Dead.

That's how I'll portray you

This is my 100th post, a very special one for me. I present here an excerpt from 'Doctor Zhivago' by Boris Pasternak, a novel very close to my heart. Zhivago, the protagonist, who is also a poet, writes this for his beloved, Lara.

"I’ll stay with you a little, my unforgettable delight, for as long as my arms and my hands and my lips remember you. I’ll put my grief for you in a work that will endure and be worthy of you. I’ll write your memory into an image of aching tenderness and sorrow. I’ll stay here till this is done, then I too will go. This is how I’ll portray you. I’ll trace your features on paper as the sea, after a fearful storm has churned it up, traces the form of the greatest, farthest-reaching wave on the sand. Seaweed, shells, cork, pebble, the lightest, the most imponderable things that it could lift from its bed, are cast up in a broken, sinuous line on the sand. This line endlessly stretching into the distance in the frontier of the highest tide. That was how life’s storm cast you up on my shore, O my pride, that is how I’ll portray you."

koi ye kaise bataaye ke wo tanha kyooN hai

koi ye kaise bataaye ke wo tanha kyooN hai
wo jo apna thaa wahi aur kisi ka kyooN hai
yahi duniya hai to phir aisee ye duniya kyooN hai
yahi hota hai to aakhir yahi hota kyooN hai

ik zara haath baDha deN to pakaD le daaman
uske seene meiN sama jaaye hamari dhaDkan
itni kurbat hai to phir faaslaa itna kyooN hai

dil-e-barbaad se nikla nahiN ab tak koi
ik lute ghar pe diya karta hai dastak koi
aas jo TooT gayee phir se bandhaata kyooN hai

tum asarrat ka kahO ya ise gham ka rishta
kehte hain pyaar ka rishta hai janam ka rishta
hai janam ka jo ye rishta to badalta kyooN hai


Movie Name: Arth (1983)
Singer: Jagjit Singh
Music: Jagjit Singh
Lyrics: Kaifi Azmi

One of those songs that require a certain maturity to be appreciated. I go through a plethora of emotions while I listen to this song. Right now, I am feeling amused by the first line - koi ye kaise bataaye ke wo tanha kyooN hai. It's so ironical. With whom can I share my deepest loneliness? I get friends who help me forget my loneliness. But where do I get someone who could understand it?

Begaani shaadi mein Abdullah deewana

Last year I was in Germany thanks to the clumsy management of geometric and I had visited the newly built and very much talked-about stadium in Munich. To seize the moment (exclusively for public exhibition in years to follow) I flashed a smile keeping the phenomenal stadium in background and got myself shot. As Germany plays world cup soccer with considerable probability of winning and India doesn't even aspire seriously, I resolved to apply my emotional energy in the support of Germany as a mark of gratitude, coz they hadn't thrown me out of running train as I had feared.

If it won, I would win too. I would enjoy 'maine to pehle hi kaha tha' status. Else who minds if you support something for emotional reasons? Nobody can match me in all this petty business.

I was eagerly waiting for the world cup to come so that I could paste my Munich snap at orkut. But it is beyond me why others are so much excited about it? People of Kolkata with painted faces shouting slogans on TV and waving flags of Brazil look ludicrous to me. I fail to understand their passion. It looks a bit too much to me. Oh kitsch!

What is the nature of our passion? Are we passionate as sportsmen? Or as gamblers? Or as wanna-bes? Or as moviegoers? Think about it. I am rather sceptic about the first. Anything but that. We are not sportsmen. We don't play and we don't want our kids to play. We are those who believe in 'padhoge-likhoge to banoge nawaab, kheloge-koodoge to banoge kharab'. We play only as far as it helps us with our studies and above all with our CVs. We have become incapable to feel the spirit of sports. We have lost that. We have lost touch with the ground. If we didn't have power shortage, we wouldn't know the smell of sweat. No, I refuse to accept that. What explains this glaring inconsistency between our professed passion and our pathetic performance?

In actuality we are a nation of moviegoers. We want someone to do some heroic stuff to make us feel alive. We want someone to run and jump to titillate our fat bodies full of flatulence. We come out of cinema hall and rush to the railway reservation counter and reach their late coz of traffic hold-up. We spend half of our life standing in queues and we burn half of our blood in cursing the ubiquitous bollywood enthusiasts who think 'jahan hum khade ho, line wahin se shuru hoti hai'. We hardly get time to think beyond admission in schools and colleges. When you see the DU cut-off marks being displayed on TV and hear your parents wailing how they sacrificed whole of their life for your education, you are not left with nerves to kick a football. I find it hard to be optimistic about the future of sports in India under these conditions. I wish I am wrong.

So keep cheering while sitting in your wheel-chair. Who are you cheering for? France or Italy?

Blood of the Demon

Travelling by bus could be a traumatic experience in the age of Himesh Reshamiya. This time I took the government volvo to protect myself from movies like 'No Entry'. Watching this movie (or for that matter most of new Bollywood movies) is no less than a forced penance. You feel like fainting. Anyways, no 'No Entry' this time, thankfully.

But to my utter dismay, they started playing radio. How intolerable silence has become for us! God knows which channel it was, all the songs seemed alien to me. Not just alien but irritating and infinitely dumb with their monotonous beats, soulless rendition and nauseating lyrics. Even the hopelessly artificial enthusiasm of RJs couldn't out-dumb the dumbness of those songs. Well, there was absoluely no music at all. There was just a series of desperate attempts to avoid the horror of silence. Any class 10 year old can make such rubbish music. Melody is dead in bollywood. No wonder this Reshamiya guy is said to have composed some fifteen thousand tunes. I have heard that listening to the symphonies of Mozart improves your ability of recognize patterns. If this is true, then I am sure than listening to this Bollywood non-music is very much capable of making you a retard.

Listen to this -

a-aa-aashiqui mein teri
j-ja-jaayegi jaan meri

Ever heard that? I had not before my last bombay adventure. There are a few more, equally competent to make you feel like vomiting. Now I understand how did I fall sick just after coming back to Pune and couldn't raise myself for 2 days from my bed. Even now my head seems heavy.

Until recently, I used to live in a nuovo-bollywood-immunized environment. And I made sure that it remained like that. Whosoever came for accomodation at our place had to face an interview.

-do you have a TV?
-do you listen to rock?

If the answer to any of these question happened to be 'yes' then he was sent back without any further delay. Little I realized then that these indipop, remixes and punjabi crap are even more mediocre. It's strange that I never was consciously aware of that. But now I am, perhaps because one of my roomie is fond of only indipop and remixes and punjabi crap. Often I am made to hear someone howling a random jumble of words with a love that is worse than hatred. They don't even show minimal sincerity to what they say. They say words like 'fanaa' in the same tone as they utter words like 'mast'. Now I have to shut my door to keep those beats out and to write this post peacefully.

I see myriad of Himesh Reshamiya hate communities on Orkut. He surely is God's punishment to man. But he is successful and many more wanna-be music directors are more than happy to follow his way. I remember a story from Hindu mythology about this rakshas (demon; his name was Raktabeej) whose blood, if fell on earth, reproduced a clone of him. Goddess Kali beheaded him in the battle but his fallen blood gave birth to many other demons. He increased in number and it became very hard to defeat him. In order to kill him, Goddess Kali had to keep his blood from falling on the ground so she stored his flowing blood in a bowl and drank it. Only then he could be defeated. The tunes of Reshamiya have a similar effect. Wherever they fall, they make one more Reshamiya.

Reservation: some more thoughts

Philosophers have their say. Politicians have their way.

Read this article on reservation to know my views. I can't afford to be serious beyond a point about this issue. It's not because I am averse to debate but because I have huge problems in not considering the proponents of reservations incorrigibly asinine. At the cost of looking arrogant, I'll ask them to grow tails and live the arborial lives they deserve so much.

I had never expected Indian intelligentsia to be so profound and prudent. My mistake. But now I am proud of them. And I'm sure we have a bright future ahead. Look at the newspapers closely and then you'll find examples that'll convince you of their compelling talent.

Talent. Merit. Let's see what they have to say about it.

Merit can not be defined objectively. It has no value in isolation. It depends on many things, like time, context and circumstance. In Mahabharata age, having skills in archery was considered to be a symbol of merit. Draupadi was won by Arjun who hit the fish's eye by his arrow. But I'm not sure if modern day Draupadi would consider him even for 'a good friend'.

Like success, power, insanity etc, merit is also a social concept; a social construct. It has no meaning in isolation, for a man who is alone in world. It can not be defined in a one-man world. Society considered piercing fish's eye good then. Now it says cracking CAT is a token of talent. Tommorow something else will be considered as a mark of merit.

So Tendulkar should be thankful that there exists a game called Cricket. Else he would still be living in his old dwelling and would be driving a scooter instead of a Ferrari.

Oh my God! Keeping my erstwhile perception of the standard of Indian intelligentsia in mind, this idea seems to me simply SKYQUAKING! I am dizzyingly impressed!

Now they'll do what Bollywood directors do with the second half, the original part, of the movie they (re)make.

They say that as merit is a social construct, all the doctors and engineers therefore have to be grateful to the state for considering them talented. They are not talented per se, they are just considered talented, for some arbitrary reasons for which History must be implicated and hanged to death.

Enough is enough. Time to change. REVOLUTION! We cease to consider them talented from this very moment. As they are not talented, they have no right to be where they are. Vacate your places, you upper-caste bastards. When things are so mindbogglingly arbitrary, why not give turn to the other side - who are not talented as such but at the same time are talented too coz talent is a social construct. What will you do when all of us say that they are talented? When exams can not exactly measure what is valuable and worthwhile in a man then why not reward the failures and punish the exam itself! No it really makes sense. Who says that JEE selects right candidates for engineering? All of them fly away. So what's the harm in selecting those who score low, after all what do we lose? NOTHING!

What did you say? Reservation has not done what it was supposed to do in these decades? So what?

Preventive vaccination instead of humiliating crutches? Well, crutches cost less. And how many cripples bother to come all the way from their slums and villages to claim their crutches? Let us save some money for other things sir (smile).

I can not disagree that reservation is another form of injustice coz again it is not based on economic status but caste. But what of that? Caste comes handy my friend. Yes, I realize that nothing much will be achieved by this. Not a very insightful observation. But something must be done. Think about the coming elections. What do you think will save us from rising prices of petrol? If we keep on thinking about policies, who the hell will think about the elections?

What? How do we make sure that the benifits of this affirmative action reaches to the one who are oppressed and downtrodden and not to those rich guys who just belong to the caste that was oppressed and downtrodden? Well...arrr...that's none of your business. Next question please.

Justice? Now you expect justice from us? Where was your sense of justice then? What? Two wrongs dont make a thing right? See I am determined not to be fooled by words and rhetoric. I know you speak good. That's why I'm resolved not to talk over this. Why should I anyways?

What did you say? Nihilism? I don't understand what it is. I have no clue and I have no time either. I will support reservation in jobs and promotions and courts and olympics and everywhere, even at international level. I am not going to be deterred by logic and even by forwards on internet.

The SC/ST guys do pathetically in class. What? How come? But it is contrary to our social concept thing? Okay, that means the exams are politically motivated. We'll change the very nature of exams. Exams will be conducted properly in institutes. Subversive exams will be cancelled. Time for socialistic exams. All men are equal and no exam can suggest anything against this.

My friend's father belonged to a caste that has been scheduled. Wow! Neighbor's envy, owner's pride! He was selected in civil services. My friend, his son, also belongs to scheduled caste. Still he does! Isnt it cool? He got selected in IIT Delhi. He was our senior but he attended classes with us coz he was in the preparatory classes and then he was failed in a few courses too probably coz of some fascist profs. Recently I heard that he is going to IIMA. He wanted his snap with that red-brick building in background. Thanks to reservation, else his scheduled dream wouldve been very much like a dream and his scheduled heart wouldve been broken.

And why do you forget that these upper-class bastards flee to US for better prospects. Only our scheduled doctors serve the poor people of villages. What? They don't get chance? So you mean to say that they are less talented? You racist? But now we'll teach you a lesson. We'll redefine talent and this socialistic concept of talent will kick your brahmin asses bigtime. Just wait and watch.

And look here. Stop it. I am not interested in social justice as it has never been there except in books. I am interested in power. That was your time, this is ours. I am interested in this perrenial us verses them battle. Rest everything is, you know, shit. We carried your shit then. Now it's your turn. Don't waste my time and your words. You can not say anything that I don't know. Just do it. Do it or leave.

Remembering You

an sms...

Monsoon
First showers
Redolence of wet earth

Hot food
Steamy tea

Warm hugs
Insane moments

Lonely days
Restless nights

Memories of unfulfilled desires
Eternal nostalgia
Remembering you