Well no, not exactly.
But of course.
How can you tell?
Its in what you say.
But i've only been looking.
Objects have names and names become objects.
People are repeats, better versions of each other.
Lives are lived parallel, orthogonal, intersecting, bisecting, trisecting.
Destinies are a sorry geometry.
Liberation is lonely.
@ Music: SOS
Goodbye 2010
PS: (Read) Invisible Cities
(Listen)A Sort Of Homecoming
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Dystopia Utopique
Today's the day when you know exactly who you are, exactly who is important, exactly where you're going, exactly what you want. Its sublime, equilibrium has been attained.
Then you forget how to go the toilet, forget what to say to anyone, forget why you go about things the way you do, then the flux, then the change, disillusionment. Now there's a semblance of the before like it was a dream away.
Civilization is like a crying child who doesn't know if its hungry, sleepy or plain cranky.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
The Time Machine
All the love in her life had ended in different proximities. In a frenzied moment she was in X's building, Y's bed, Z's arms and A's head. The past faded into yellow-orange-red-maroon, all at once.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Dormant/Release
And its raining now!!
Finally the skies have given up and unleashed in full glory our beloved monsoon rain. The earth is cooling off and the encounter with each drop is nothing less than violent. These two elements bonded to each other since eternity meet in great grandeur from the months of separation. They are like lovers scorned and re-united by resistance, the reaction as precedented is epic. They have reconciled and the Earth manifests in their fertile union.
I love the rains, they have an innate quality of being so endearing that you can spend lifetimes looking far into sheets of their downfall. They particularly love the attention as well, finding every opportunity to shower their love on you. Moreover its the season of my favorite song!
And no matter how cliche this sounds, snuggling into a comforter with a cup of coffee and the vast volume of rain in the distance makes me feel extremely content and safe. Of course, listening to Jack Johnson only heightens the joy of monsoon :)
Finally the skies have given up and unleashed in full glory our beloved monsoon rain. The earth is cooling off and the encounter with each drop is nothing less than violent. These two elements bonded to each other since eternity meet in great grandeur from the months of separation. They are like lovers scorned and re-united by resistance, the reaction as precedented is epic. They have reconciled and the Earth manifests in their fertile union.
I love the rains, they have an innate quality of being so endearing that you can spend lifetimes looking far into sheets of their downfall. They particularly love the attention as well, finding every opportunity to shower their love on you. Moreover its the season of my favorite song!
And no matter how cliche this sounds, snuggling into a comforter with a cup of coffee and the vast volume of rain in the distance makes me feel extremely content and safe. Of course, listening to Jack Johnson only heightens the joy of monsoon :)
Friday, May 14, 2010
Blog held me at gun-point and demanded a post
Death penalty for Amir Ajmal Kasav!
While all the bureaucrats, politicians, government officials, police officers etc. heaved a sigh of relief, the strangest questions rose in my mind. I'd once very vehemently believed that capital punishment is what this man deserves and nothing less. But today i question the very norms of society and its policy-makers. Who gives any human being the right to sentence another man to death, who for that matter gives us the right to sentence lifetime captivity for another living being?
Priorities in this country are misplaced, there are villages without electricity and children still walk 5 kilometers in search of drinking water, and we spend valuable money on the security of an international terrorist. A drain of resources to the tune of 33 crores has been incurred by the government for Amir Ajmal Kasav's security and maintenance. I'm not taking sides, merely speculating at the dismal conditions.
I understand very well that with the hanging of Kasav, all that is associated with the 26/11 attacks and the horrifying impotency of the government displayed by their reaction, will be hung as well. It is a statement to the people, a promise of sorts, re-instating the authority of the government and its stance towards not only terrorism as a global phenomenon but also towards any force that causes harm to the people of India.
Finally the government has taken some action and the people are happy. How is it that they are not able to see through the phoniness? And yet again I remind myself that I do not represent India. The one billion people are not clones of me. "I" will always remain type-casted, marginalised, minoritized and unimportant.
The people who are this country will always be those who have a tarpaulin roof without any amenities or a pukka house with a water connection, depending on who is in power. I cannot expect to be protected under this faux-democratic system. And unless the disparity of our populace is bridged, we will continue to wear our best poker-faces, pretend like nothing happened and 'move on'.
PS: too many things on my mind, I've merely mentioned some things that are bothering me, each statement creates immense conflict which I cannot deal with right now. Phew!
While all the bureaucrats, politicians, government officials, police officers etc. heaved a sigh of relief, the strangest questions rose in my mind. I'd once very vehemently believed that capital punishment is what this man deserves and nothing less. But today i question the very norms of society and its policy-makers. Who gives any human being the right to sentence another man to death, who for that matter gives us the right to sentence lifetime captivity for another living being?
Priorities in this country are misplaced, there are villages without electricity and children still walk 5 kilometers in search of drinking water, and we spend valuable money on the security of an international terrorist. A drain of resources to the tune of 33 crores has been incurred by the government for Amir Ajmal Kasav's security and maintenance. I'm not taking sides, merely speculating at the dismal conditions.
I understand very well that with the hanging of Kasav, all that is associated with the 26/11 attacks and the horrifying impotency of the government displayed by their reaction, will be hung as well. It is a statement to the people, a promise of sorts, re-instating the authority of the government and its stance towards not only terrorism as a global phenomenon but also towards any force that causes harm to the people of India.
Finally the government has taken some action and the people are happy. How is it that they are not able to see through the phoniness? And yet again I remind myself that I do not represent India. The one billion people are not clones of me. "I" will always remain type-casted, marginalised, minoritized and unimportant.
The people who are this country will always be those who have a tarpaulin roof without any amenities or a pukka house with a water connection, depending on who is in power. I cannot expect to be protected under this faux-democratic system. And unless the disparity of our populace is bridged, we will continue to wear our best poker-faces, pretend like nothing happened and 'move on'.
PS: too many things on my mind, I've merely mentioned some things that are bothering me, each statement creates immense conflict which I cannot deal with right now. Phew!
Sunday, April 25, 2010
The Thinking Chair
It stood right there in the corner of her room, each morning since she had ever known; it was always there, unwavering, faithful. It was her grandfather’s chair and she remembered climbing onto his lap watching him as he rolled his pipe and settled down to begin a story. The magical quality of the stories was enhanced by their unfolding within those layers of hazy smoke that came from his pipe.
That was a long time ago and since he had passed away the chair was seen as redundant and discarded into her room which was also a makeshift storeroom. She recollected not minding it because it reminded her of him, his tobacco scented breath and the sweet-smell of his beard forever etched in her memory.
Those were some of the best childhood memories she had, the time she spent with him always passed by in a haze and she could keep listening to him for hours. He had the most peculiar way of telling stories, his stories never seemed to have an appropriate beginning or end, they was like one big story of which the smaller stories were instances. She would keep asking him if the story was over and he’d always say, “It’s up to you little one, the story is only finished when you want to hear no more of it.” She remembered thinking about how the story would never end and become like one of the Arabian nights tales because as far as she was concerned, getting tired of any story for her was like getting tired of splashing in monsoon puddles in the heart of Central Street and she surely wasn’t getting tired of that anytime soon.
It made her sigh, childhood fantasies. He called it his thinking chair, he said the chair gave him the inspiration to weave the web of stories and that he wouldn’t have been able to recite a simple tale if he wasn’t sitting on his thinking chair. She had almost believed him and had fervently prayed for its safe return when one of its arm-rests needed repairing and had been sent to the carpenter.
Story-telling had always fascinated her. Conceptualizing another character’s scheme of thoughts had always excited her. After his death, she had tried to gather the courage to give it a try, but being too scared of the outcome, of the very thought that the chair wouldn’t respond to her and refuse to flood her imagination.
It always felt good, thinking of the past, her most intimate joys and insecurities made her feel as good as sipping hot coffee and snuggling into her rug while it rained outside, comforting, that was the word.
She had managed to become a writer, though not a very famous one but she enjoyed her work and that was the only thing that mattered. This visit to her old house to clear out her room because it was being sold, re-introduced her to a world that had been her own, not a very long time ago. This time she decided to give it a try, there was no childish fear anymore, only the inkling of curiosity made her want to give it a shot.
She settled down on the chair and closed her eyes, all she saw was his sparkling face and flashes from the multitude of stories he had told her. At that moment she knew. Under his protective shell of self-sufficiency lay the desire to have a safety net. It had always been her, all his inspiration to narrate stories had been her, her enthusiastic face always ready to get blown away by his tales, and she knew he could have never disappointed her. She was his thinking chair.
This is something i wrote ages ago, figured i must have all that I've written in one place, forgive the violation of space-time.
That was a long time ago and since he had passed away the chair was seen as redundant and discarded into her room which was also a makeshift storeroom. She recollected not minding it because it reminded her of him, his tobacco scented breath and the sweet-smell of his beard forever etched in her memory.
Those were some of the best childhood memories she had, the time she spent with him always passed by in a haze and she could keep listening to him for hours. He had the most peculiar way of telling stories, his stories never seemed to have an appropriate beginning or end, they was like one big story of which the smaller stories were instances. She would keep asking him if the story was over and he’d always say, “It’s up to you little one, the story is only finished when you want to hear no more of it.” She remembered thinking about how the story would never end and become like one of the Arabian nights tales because as far as she was concerned, getting tired of any story for her was like getting tired of splashing in monsoon puddles in the heart of Central Street and she surely wasn’t getting tired of that anytime soon.
It made her sigh, childhood fantasies. He called it his thinking chair, he said the chair gave him the inspiration to weave the web of stories and that he wouldn’t have been able to recite a simple tale if he wasn’t sitting on his thinking chair. She had almost believed him and had fervently prayed for its safe return when one of its arm-rests needed repairing and had been sent to the carpenter.
Story-telling had always fascinated her. Conceptualizing another character’s scheme of thoughts had always excited her. After his death, she had tried to gather the courage to give it a try, but being too scared of the outcome, of the very thought that the chair wouldn’t respond to her and refuse to flood her imagination.
It always felt good, thinking of the past, her most intimate joys and insecurities made her feel as good as sipping hot coffee and snuggling into her rug while it rained outside, comforting, that was the word.
She had managed to become a writer, though not a very famous one but she enjoyed her work and that was the only thing that mattered. This visit to her old house to clear out her room because it was being sold, re-introduced her to a world that had been her own, not a very long time ago. This time she decided to give it a try, there was no childish fear anymore, only the inkling of curiosity made her want to give it a shot.
She settled down on the chair and closed her eyes, all she saw was his sparkling face and flashes from the multitude of stories he had told her. At that moment she knew. Under his protective shell of self-sufficiency lay the desire to have a safety net. It had always been her, all his inspiration to narrate stories had been her, her enthusiastic face always ready to get blown away by his tales, and she knew he could have never disappointed her. She was his thinking chair.
This is something i wrote ages ago, figured i must have all that I've written in one place, forgive the violation of space-time.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Desi Mills and Boons
The smell of coconut hair oil and sweat filled the atmosphere. She clamped the door and turned the fan speed to counter the oppressive mass of humidity that had settled. How each sewn mirror on the rajasthani bed-sheet captured the rays of light from the Philips tubelight would be etched in her memory forever.
He drew her closer, his tobacco filled breath overwhelming. The seemingly strong shoulders whose strength she could not gauge broke into hers. His tentative motions made her mind race with uncomparable desire. Flashes of all those moments in such intimacy strengthened her will. She loved herself as she loved him. The times that he drove away into the night, his truck rattling the unpaved roads as it dimmed into the distance always took a part of her away. Never again would it happen. As he buttoned his shirt his face in the partial glow from the beedi in his mouth, she gazed out to the expanse of fields, she would be married the next day. He would never know of her again. It was the last time that she wouldn't be able to tell where she ended and he began.
I love writing stuff like this, its so emotionally charged almost like a Hindi film in a nutshell, man I'm obsessed with theatrics :D
He drew her closer, his tobacco filled breath overwhelming. The seemingly strong shoulders whose strength she could not gauge broke into hers. His tentative motions made her mind race with uncomparable desire. Flashes of all those moments in such intimacy strengthened her will. She loved herself as she loved him. The times that he drove away into the night, his truck rattling the unpaved roads as it dimmed into the distance always took a part of her away. Never again would it happen. As he buttoned his shirt his face in the partial glow from the beedi in his mouth, she gazed out to the expanse of fields, she would be married the next day. He would never know of her again. It was the last time that she wouldn't be able to tell where she ended and he began.
I love writing stuff like this, its so emotionally charged almost like a Hindi film in a nutshell, man I'm obsessed with theatrics :D
Monday, April 12, 2010
Backdoor Exit
Must write. Must write. Must write.
I feel guilty about creating a blog and not using it. I'm brimming with things to say. I always end up like a dried up river when i sit to write. Music always fills the spaces.
I'm surrounded by too much phoniness all of a sudden. Look. Listen. STOP. Breathe.
How can another post be about nothing, i think.
StickyKeys always turn up when i make a post out of pressing Shift too much, uneasily i wonder where does the sentence begin?
Ideas are never invented, only discovered. Stop asking me anything. I'm disgusted with all the trampling. Thoughts inspire each other yet seem disconnected.
Bhendi Bazaar has a mind of its own. Having survived over 200 years through the rule of the British, the partition of India, the 92 blasts, JJ flyover, it is now tired. "We will now have buildings that reach the sky, a shopkeeper gushes", i dryly wonder if he will recognize himself in the reflection of shiny glass facades. Over a thousand homes with spotless marble and billowing curtains inhabit unbelievably dilapidated structures. Will these homes and families re-develop too? Who makes bhendi bazaar what it is? Is extremity the only solution or is it my fear of Fascism that looks for in-between, intermediate recourse?
Im scared of my incapability, this city deserves something else, something i definitely cannot articulate.
Its the gray areas that disturb the most.
Funny:
Everything is always one notch above my threshold of tolerance.
I feel guilty about creating a blog and not using it. I'm brimming with things to say. I always end up like a dried up river when i sit to write. Music always fills the spaces.
I'm surrounded by too much phoniness all of a sudden. Look. Listen. STOP. Breathe.
How can another post be about nothing, i think.
StickyKeys always turn up when i make a post out of pressing Shift too much, uneasily i wonder where does the sentence begin?
Ideas are never invented, only discovered. Stop asking me anything. I'm disgusted with all the trampling. Thoughts inspire each other yet seem disconnected.
Bhendi Bazaar has a mind of its own. Having survived over 200 years through the rule of the British, the partition of India, the 92 blasts, JJ flyover, it is now tired. "We will now have buildings that reach the sky, a shopkeeper gushes", i dryly wonder if he will recognize himself in the reflection of shiny glass facades. Over a thousand homes with spotless marble and billowing curtains inhabit unbelievably dilapidated structures. Will these homes and families re-develop too? Who makes bhendi bazaar what it is? Is extremity the only solution or is it my fear of Fascism that looks for in-between, intermediate recourse?
Im scared of my incapability, this city deserves something else, something i definitely cannot articulate.
Its the gray areas that disturb the most.
Funny:
Everything is always one notch above my threshold of tolerance.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Misperception
happiness is not a state of mind, its the state of traffic, bowels and yummy food.
freedom is not about not being bound its about being bound comfortably
victory is not about winning its merely the shadow of defeat
love is not a facade, its a momentary lapse of reason
disparity is not helplessness it is an action of complacency
there's no such thing as 'out of the box', its out of one box into another
form is temporary but essence is transient
nothing is not the lack of something, it is the something that fills every void of somethings
some things are not true they're just convenient
justice is the biggest joke mankind cracked
the world is not one, its only 6,692,030,277
music is unattainable not only beautiful
there are no characteristics, only cheap imitations
there are no misconceptions, only perceptions
happy birthday guadalupe :D
freedom is not about not being bound its about being bound comfortably
victory is not about winning its merely the shadow of defeat
love is not a facade, its a momentary lapse of reason
disparity is not helplessness it is an action of complacency
there's no such thing as 'out of the box', its out of one box into another
form is temporary but essence is transient
nothing is not the lack of something, it is the something that fills every void of somethings
some things are not true they're just convenient
justice is the biggest joke mankind cracked
the world is not one, its only 6,692,030,277
music is unattainable not only beautiful
there are no characteristics, only cheap imitations
there are no misconceptions, only perceptions
happy birthday guadalupe :D
Monday, January 4, 2010
Dream of No Sleeping
So one day the daffodils grew and cast their happiness in her eyes,
Her feet found joy in the step of the earth and her arms embraced sunshine
Everyday, every moment, she was theirs and they all wanted to be her
Finally they found peace in her wandering mind
The world ended that day, they all slept waiting for eternity.
And then the lull without promise of a storm, how I long destruction so there's a new way to begin.
Happy New Year
Her feet found joy in the step of the earth and her arms embraced sunshine
Everyday, every moment, she was theirs and they all wanted to be her
Finally they found peace in her wandering mind
The world ended that day, they all slept waiting for eternity.
And then the lull without promise of a storm, how I long destruction so there's a new way to begin.
Happy New Year
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