Tuesday, May 30, 2006
I think...
I am going to clear up the links along the left pane... I haven't been maintaining them properly. Expect a few changes in the days to come!
Silk Butterflies
It sickens me. As she moves farther away I feel my breath pulled out of my breast with scalding iron claws. No, it is not an asthmatic torso that wheezes. It is she. The feel of her skin beside me, against my opisthenar, her exhalation rippling down, leafing through the hair on my arms, her eyes in which I see myself, those vacant, large, black eyes which hold everything with the innocence that only blindness can give, all of this and more kills me. She perfects me for her world while making me entirely invalid in the world where we met.
Aah! And how we met! Like a salve to my festering reality, I recall those days when she innocently stood me naked and vulnerable. It could have been a pair of butterflies that bounced of my forearm while she searched for the exit out of the metro rail. It could have been my racing pulse trying to match the starkness of her gaze which was, as I later knew, but a non-gaze. It could have been the trepidations of the Devil and the God alike, while they draped the anchors of prescience around my arm begging me to rush in the opposite direction. To you it was but her fingers; to me a beckoning into a world best left unknown.
Innocence is not a virtue, my friend. Innocence is what leaves you aware of your filth. Innocence is what leaves you feeling sick. Innocence is what murks the looking glass in your toilet-room. Innocence is what stares from behind those moist eyes as it holds me above her, while I lie spent beside her, innocence is what makes me want to give her more while I struggle to find the same strength in my veins. Innocence is what tears my skin when she kisses me without knowing that I work at the garbage disposal unit of New Yorkshire and not at the management circle of the city beautification department. Those kisses that mar the end of my working day, burn like a dollop of frozen acid melting to the retching warmth of my skin. As I reel under this torment of innocence, she slides under the cover and looks vacantly in the direction where she last left me.
I walk towards the bed and vainly attempt to discourage her innocent demarche with a conversation of corporate banalities which I had overheard while carrying the crates across the floor. She continues to look at where I was as if she prefers what I was to her kiss over what I could be to any woman. She slowly lifts her knees and I watch the silk covers slide down her shin while her gown rushes down her thigh, like a figure skater covering the length of ice, but moving backwards. Every word I speak is now turgid with gasps and I realize that my earlier gestures in conversation have migrated to quick movements which leave me undressed. She prefers that I wear my tie.
What followed has never been available to recall and hence, I confess to having but one mnemonic salve. But one thing I always remember is that hours of meshed togetherness leave no telling mark on her eyes. It is the same dewdrop face with those large vacant eyes peering straight ahead unless I call out to her along her cleavage as I lay on her stomach. We spend a few silent moments while our chests fall with lesser sharpness and transform into a roll.
Now, I come to what sickens me. Like the friction of a hairbrush on dry hair, I watch myself involuntarily swell with her departure. And as I study her rise from the bed to wash herself, I feel my entire throat stretch towards her departing thighs. I throw out an arm and voicelessly beg her to return to my side. She is my lungs. Love is not in the heart, my friend, but in the lungs of a breathless man. As she walks under the shower and slides the tip of her fingers along the ceramic, I recall that day, that day of butterflies and anchors, till the coldness of fluid drenches her and leaves me drowning in the want to have run away that day.
I call out to her.
"Anushka!"
She turns around under the cone of watery darts and I watch them lecherously cling to her skin. She looks towards the door as if all that allows entrance can be likened to me. In that sight of wetness, I feel my skin go dry and scream, "Anushka!"
She runs towards me, her hands defining the contours of every impeding object. The wet squish of feet against the wooden floors assures me of a returning calm. She nearly topples over the bed which struck at her knees. She pushes the covers aside and climbs on the bed, on her knees. Wet depressions on the bed mark the ascent of life in my blood. She lies on top of me irrigating my skin in more ways than one.
"I am here. I am here."
This desperate revival is all that is left of me. It is in this revival that I know that I am alive. Love is not the pleasure of knowing that you are wanted, but it is the pain of being bereft of that want. As our hearts beat in the other's breast, I hear the water pour down the drain in choking sobs.
Aah! And how we met! Like a salve to my festering reality, I recall those days when she innocently stood me naked and vulnerable. It could have been a pair of butterflies that bounced of my forearm while she searched for the exit out of the metro rail. It could have been my racing pulse trying to match the starkness of her gaze which was, as I later knew, but a non-gaze. It could have been the trepidations of the Devil and the God alike, while they draped the anchors of prescience around my arm begging me to rush in the opposite direction. To you it was but her fingers; to me a beckoning into a world best left unknown.
Innocence is not a virtue, my friend. Innocence is what leaves you aware of your filth. Innocence is what leaves you feeling sick. Innocence is what murks the looking glass in your toilet-room. Innocence is what stares from behind those moist eyes as it holds me above her, while I lie spent beside her, innocence is what makes me want to give her more while I struggle to find the same strength in my veins. Innocence is what tears my skin when she kisses me without knowing that I work at the garbage disposal unit of New Yorkshire and not at the management circle of the city beautification department. Those kisses that mar the end of my working day, burn like a dollop of frozen acid melting to the retching warmth of my skin. As I reel under this torment of innocence, she slides under the cover and looks vacantly in the direction where she last left me.
I walk towards the bed and vainly attempt to discourage her innocent demarche with a conversation of corporate banalities which I had overheard while carrying the crates across the floor. She continues to look at where I was as if she prefers what I was to her kiss over what I could be to any woman. She slowly lifts her knees and I watch the silk covers slide down her shin while her gown rushes down her thigh, like a figure skater covering the length of ice, but moving backwards. Every word I speak is now turgid with gasps and I realize that my earlier gestures in conversation have migrated to quick movements which leave me undressed. She prefers that I wear my tie.What followed has never been available to recall and hence, I confess to having but one mnemonic salve. But one thing I always remember is that hours of meshed togetherness leave no telling mark on her eyes. It is the same dewdrop face with those large vacant eyes peering straight ahead unless I call out to her along her cleavage as I lay on her stomach. We spend a few silent moments while our chests fall with lesser sharpness and transform into a roll.
Now, I come to what sickens me. Like the friction of a hairbrush on dry hair, I watch myself involuntarily swell with her departure. And as I study her rise from the bed to wash herself, I feel my entire throat stretch towards her departing thighs. I throw out an arm and voicelessly beg her to return to my side. She is my lungs. Love is not in the heart, my friend, but in the lungs of a breathless man. As she walks under the shower and slides the tip of her fingers along the ceramic, I recall that day, that day of butterflies and anchors, till the coldness of fluid drenches her and leaves me drowning in the want to have run away that day.
I call out to her.
"Anushka!"
She turns around under the cone of watery darts and I watch them lecherously cling to her skin. She looks towards the door as if all that allows entrance can be likened to me. In that sight of wetness, I feel my skin go dry and scream, "Anushka!"
She runs towards me, her hands defining the contours of every impeding object. The wet squish of feet against the wooden floors assures me of a returning calm. She nearly topples over the bed which struck at her knees. She pushes the covers aside and climbs on the bed, on her knees. Wet depressions on the bed mark the ascent of life in my blood. She lies on top of me irrigating my skin in more ways than one.
"I am here. I am here."
This desperate revival is all that is left of me. It is in this revival that I know that I am alive. Love is not the pleasure of knowing that you are wanted, but it is the pain of being bereft of that want. As our hearts beat in the other's breast, I hear the water pour down the drain in choking sobs.
Friday, May 26, 2006
A Zen Koan
Okugawa sensei walked in calmly into the stiflingly packed auditorium. He was smiling as he walked in, his eyes fixed on the floor. He came up to the mike and surveyed the auditorium. It was quite unlike the open field where his Master had introduced him to Aikido. His Master never smiled; hence, Okugawa sensei learnt to smile. But their hearts were the same.
He spoke as if from the pit of a ravine and his voice struck every attendee with full force. Some people gestured awe for the auditorium acoustics; those who knew, smiled.
"Welcome to your free introductory session in this Aikido camp."
His smile seemed to increase although physical limits would have told you that it didn't...
"I have 4 things to tell you and I would like you to reflect on them and decide whether you wish to enroll."
Some children took out their notebook and pen and wrote something like "Aikido Tips" on top.
"After sharing each one of the 4, I will leave the auditorium for 10 min. Your actions will not be questioned or judged."
Notes were made: 10 minute intervals are vital to Aikido.
"Firstly, we will not be breaking anything for the next 3 years. No bricks, no tiles, no iceblocks. We would not be throwing the opponent 30 feet away. I am sorry, there will be no dramatic improvement in your display of martial arts capabilities."
He walked out, though some thought he glided over the floor.
Murmurs rose even before he had walked out of the door and many people packed their bags and were exchanging other camp details where "they teach you how to bend a bar in 72 hours. Can you beat that?"
After 10 minutes, Okugawa sensei returned and was still smiling.
"Secondly, we will not be learning kicks and punches everyday. There will be sessions of meditation and discussions on the philosophy of creating harmony out of conflict."
He disappeared with an ease which seemed to leave him exactly where he was, but merely invisible.
Some of the parents who had come to escort their wards, grew impatient.
"I wanted some good activity for my son, not old wives' gossip. Come on, Hiro."
"My girl needs lessons in self-defense. She can't talk to people who come to attack her, right?"
After 10 minutes, Okugawa sensei returned and gestured the remaining 50 attendees to come closer. He moved away from the mike but thundered in the same tone and tempo.
"Thirdly, there will be no competitions nor any red, brown or black belts awarded. You will get a receipt of your payment and that might be the only document that you will receive from this camp."
He stood there for a few seconds ensuring that this point sank in, before walking out. His pace never altered, nor did he stumble or roll anywhere. It was as his Master had once described: Silk over purer silk.
"Damn! What am I going to show Kunio? See, Kunio my-love, no belt, but I can close my eyes and ponder over the great ... bull! I'm not going to stay here!"
Okugawa sensei returned after 10 minutes, but was now in the customary uniform. He beckoned to the last boy standing.
"No gimmicks of resilience, strength, power, depth and truth will be taught here nor will they, on your part, help you further yourself."
So saying, he started to walk out.
"Master, I am not going to go. In all your four points I still haven't learnt what Aikido is. I do know what it isn't, now."
Okugawa sensei turned around to watch this dark haired boy kneel in supplication.
"Who are you, boy? What is your name?"
"Morihei. Morihei Ueshiba"
He spoke as if from the pit of a ravine and his voice struck every attendee with full force. Some people gestured awe for the auditorium acoustics; those who knew, smiled.
"Welcome to your free introductory session in this Aikido camp."
His smile seemed to increase although physical limits would have told you that it didn't...
"I have 4 things to tell you and I would like you to reflect on them and decide whether you wish to enroll."
Some children took out their notebook and pen and wrote something like "Aikido Tips" on top.
"After sharing each one of the 4, I will leave the auditorium for 10 min. Your actions will not be questioned or judged."
Notes were made: 10 minute intervals are vital to Aikido.
"Firstly, we will not be breaking anything for the next 3 years. No bricks, no tiles, no iceblocks. We would not be throwing the opponent 30 feet away. I am sorry, there will be no dramatic improvement in your display of martial arts capabilities."
He walked out, though some thought he glided over the floor.
Murmurs rose even before he had walked out of the door and many people packed their bags and were exchanging other camp details where "they teach you how to bend a bar in 72 hours. Can you beat that?"
After 10 minutes, Okugawa sensei returned and was still smiling.
"Secondly, we will not be learning kicks and punches everyday. There will be sessions of meditation and discussions on the philosophy of creating harmony out of conflict."
He disappeared with an ease which seemed to leave him exactly where he was, but merely invisible.
Some of the parents who had come to escort their wards, grew impatient.
"I wanted some good activity for my son, not old wives' gossip. Come on, Hiro."
"My girl needs lessons in self-defense. She can't talk to people who come to attack her, right?"
After 10 minutes, Okugawa sensei returned and gestured the remaining 50 attendees to come closer. He moved away from the mike but thundered in the same tone and tempo.
"Thirdly, there will be no competitions nor any red, brown or black belts awarded. You will get a receipt of your payment and that might be the only document that you will receive from this camp."
He stood there for a few seconds ensuring that this point sank in, before walking out. His pace never altered, nor did he stumble or roll anywhere. It was as his Master had once described: Silk over purer silk.
"Damn! What am I going to show Kunio? See, Kunio my-love, no belt, but I can close my eyes and ponder over the great ... bull! I'm not going to stay here!"
Okugawa sensei returned after 10 minutes, but was now in the customary uniform. He beckoned to the last boy standing.
"No gimmicks of resilience, strength, power, depth and truth will be taught here nor will they, on your part, help you further yourself."
So saying, he started to walk out.
"Master, I am not going to go. In all your four points I still haven't learnt what Aikido is. I do know what it isn't, now."
Okugawa sensei turned around to watch this dark haired boy kneel in supplication.
"Who are you, boy? What is your name?"
"Morihei. Morihei Ueshiba"
[This is a fictional story about how O-sensei merged with Aikido.]
Saturday, May 20, 2006
It's Out!!!
Finally, Alvibest May 2006 issue is out. The official blog carries the announcement in detail. Here is the cover page design for the same.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Crazy Days
You know what gets me? Arrant confusion (gotcha!)
I think we are worse of than the days of slavery (did we in India ever have them?) or being ruled by someone else. Think about it. Freedom, everyone says, is the right/will to chose (or something like that, I really dunno). God save me if I get freedom and the inability to choose from so many brazillion (no? that's not 100 zillion?) things!!! And lagniappe to the choices is the various possibilities!!!
I want shoes: Nike or local-maal? Why do I need it? Will I use it? What is best if I am only going to use it occasionally?
I want a good career: Should I switch now? Where should I go? Teacher? Architect (software)? Consultant (business)? Start my own restaurant? Write? Should I wait till I have X amount in my account?
I want a good wife (replace it with a husband, if you aren't interested in a wife. Sorry, married men who realise that they aren't interested in their wife are not eligible ;-): Homely (what on earth is that? Now to sit and choose the characteristics that make someone homely!)? Good looking (whoever says no to this, send me an email. I really love collecting rare species.)? Intelligent? Artistic? Suave? Understanding? What can I do without?
I want peace: Should I go to the mountains? Should I first earn enough? Should I become a teacher first? A writer? A monk? Would marriage bring peace? Think a monk's better? Kids? Surely a monk? Should I strive for fame before I try for peace? Shoot the monk?
I want nothing: Nothing!? Damn! What about food? Books? Clothing? Shelter? Pizzas!!!?
So many choices for nothing!! Aaaaaaaarrrrrrrrgggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!
I think we are worse of than the days of slavery (did we in India ever have them?) or being ruled by someone else. Think about it. Freedom, everyone says, is the right/will to chose (or something like that, I really dunno). God save me if I get freedom and the inability to choose from so many brazillion (no? that's not 100 zillion?) things!!! And lagniappe to the choices is the various possibilities!!!
I want shoes: Nike or local-maal? Why do I need it? Will I use it? What is best if I am only going to use it occasionally?
I want a good career: Should I switch now? Where should I go? Teacher? Architect (software)? Consultant (business)? Start my own restaurant? Write? Should I wait till I have X amount in my account?
I want a good wife (replace it with a husband, if you aren't interested in a wife. Sorry, married men who realise that they aren't interested in their wife are not eligible ;-): Homely (what on earth is that? Now to sit and choose the characteristics that make someone homely!)? Good looking (whoever says no to this, send me an email. I really love collecting rare species.)? Intelligent? Artistic? Suave? Understanding? What can I do without?
I want peace: Should I go to the mountains? Should I first earn enough? Should I become a teacher first? A writer? A monk? Would marriage bring peace? Think a monk's better? Kids? Surely a monk? Should I strive for fame before I try for peace? Shoot the monk?
I want nothing: Nothing!? Damn! What about food? Books? Clothing? Shelter? Pizzas!!!?
So many choices for nothing!! Aaaaaaaarrrrrrrrgggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Blog Updated
The Tao blog is now updated with an incomplete rendition of the 2nd verse (commentary is mostly complete). Most of the commentary for the verses are ready, but the accompanying material that I have promised per verse is consuming a lot of my time.
Birth
Filled with the nourishing wetness of zest, I push against the life-giving decaying humus. I burst my silken cloak and lay myself bare with the confidence that I will grow. The harsh heat above and the patient earth below gaze at me with questioning eyes:
Are you sure you want to do this? After all the security of being well ensconced in a tough epidermis, impervious to the ruthless world which feeds you for no more a favour than the fruits and flowers you shall bear them till your natural decay, would you, who contain the wisdom of several generations, want to abrade against the very soil which promises to protect you, rise for a purpose unknown or at best one which is steely destined?
I cleave my tender green coat and push it apart with my cotyledons and embrace the dark world fragranced by the petrichor of promise and a world beyond. The umber of the grains lie lazily, awarding nothing but stiff resistance. Is this how one must grow, breaking through strata of impeding forces, constructive by no means but obstructive by instinct? Is this the world I must face, tiny individuals who collectively scrape my resolve to be perfect, to accomplish what I aspire?
Water trickles down to break my strife and I fill my veins with this divine impetus. Tenuous roots offer me the strength to push against this lumbering earth on which I intend establishing my worth, my full.
I watch my roots nudge the grains and expand to push them apart in order to establish their rightful footing. My zeal and energy take form as a slight and pointed shoot. How rightly they call it so? Shoot. Nothing else could describe the fervid effort of mine. As my roots and cotyledonous arms brace me for my heavenward growth, I patiently press against the soil that bears me so possessively. I wince as sharp corners cut through my shoot, but grow I, nevertheless, do. A faint unknown seems to wait for me. What is there beyond the world of burnt colours and nourishing rot? Will it be the same onerous brown ad infinitum? Will this toil be worth it? What if I wish to return to my early days? I look at the torn epidermis now nourishing me. Is this the divine will to grow or a devilish plot to lead me deceptively towards my own ruin?
I do what comes naturally to me.
I rise.
I stay steady.
I steady myself and pierce the enormous earth with my pinpoint resolve.
I must give my fullest.
I can only do this.
I can only rush strongly, patiently towards my calling.
I would rather do what is instinctively mine, than lie in foreign inactivity.
As the grains fall apart unable to contain my determination, I break free with my roots deeper in the soil than I have ever been, but my head held high for I have been honest to my calling, to my love, to my passion... to myself.
And if this is what I should get for my single-minded march, this beautiful firmament with its never-repeated tapestry, this breeze with a fresh song every hour, these scented whispers from mustard fields leaping into the green velvets of long stalked paddy, this bliss to offer myself, in my entirety... then I shall do this again, and again.
I would do this even if I arrived on a dark and foreboding world of less engaging sensual wonders.
Isn't this the wisdom that I silently bore?
This post is dedicated to a dear friend who readily suggested that I write on such matters... Here is to you, dear void!
Are you sure you want to do this? After all the security of being well ensconced in a tough epidermis, impervious to the ruthless world which feeds you for no more a favour than the fruits and flowers you shall bear them till your natural decay, would you, who contain the wisdom of several generations, want to abrade against the very soil which promises to protect you, rise for a purpose unknown or at best one which is steely destined?
I cleave my tender green coat and push it apart with my cotyledons and embrace the dark world fragranced by the petrichor of promise and a world beyond. The umber of the grains lie lazily, awarding nothing but stiff resistance. Is this how one must grow, breaking through strata of impeding forces, constructive by no means but obstructive by instinct? Is this the world I must face, tiny individuals who collectively scrape my resolve to be perfect, to accomplish what I aspire?
Water trickles down to break my strife and I fill my veins with this divine impetus. Tenuous roots offer me the strength to push against this lumbering earth on which I intend establishing my worth, my full.
I watch my roots nudge the grains and expand to push them apart in order to establish their rightful footing. My zeal and energy take form as a slight and pointed shoot. How rightly they call it so? Shoot. Nothing else could describe the fervid effort of mine. As my roots and cotyledonous arms brace me for my heavenward growth, I patiently press against the soil that bears me so possessively. I wince as sharp corners cut through my shoot, but grow I, nevertheless, do. A faint unknown seems to wait for me. What is there beyond the world of burnt colours and nourishing rot? Will it be the same onerous brown ad infinitum? Will this toil be worth it? What if I wish to return to my early days? I look at the torn epidermis now nourishing me. Is this the divine will to grow or a devilish plot to lead me deceptively towards my own ruin?
I do what comes naturally to me.
I rise.
I stay steady.
I steady myself and pierce the enormous earth with my pinpoint resolve.
I must give my fullest.
I can only do this.
I can only rush strongly, patiently towards my calling.
I would rather do what is instinctively mine, than lie in foreign inactivity.
As the grains fall apart unable to contain my determination, I break free with my roots deeper in the soil than I have ever been, but my head held high for I have been honest to my calling, to my love, to my passion... to myself.
And if this is what I should get for my single-minded march, this beautiful firmament with its never-repeated tapestry, this breeze with a fresh song every hour, these scented whispers from mustard fields leaping into the green velvets of long stalked paddy, this bliss to offer myself, in my entirety... then I shall do this again, and again.
I would do this even if I arrived on a dark and foreboding world of less engaging sensual wonders.
Isn't this the wisdom that I silently bore?
This post is dedicated to a dear friend who readily suggested that I write on such matters... Here is to you, dear void!
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Search
Dear All,
I am off blogging for a while, and how long that might last is unknown to those I know (completely or partially, including myself). But I shant leave without telling you a story. :-)
In the plateaus, which are so called because they are level with the mountains and cannot be called the plains, of Tibet there was this young boy called Ichtang Korya. Ichtang was nearly an omen in his village; see him early in the morning and your day will be pleasant, at night the dreams are memorable at the break of dawn. Adults and girls pulled his cheeks and bullies had no heart to trouble him though they occasionally pushed him away from their path, only to watch his face turn a shade of red that evoked tears in him and guilt in their breasts. He was very obedient and his parents had least trouble in managing him. He studied fairly well in school and was scolded once for not doing his Math homework, but that was three years ago. In short, he was someone who would never make a spicy character in any novel.
But he did.
He continued to be a child while others grew around him. Initially, they found it queer, then weird. Soon they disliked his manner of living and were eager to mutate that dislike into hatred. Some even said that he wasn't like a child and some called him vile. One fine day he vanished in the Himalayas that surrounded his village. So sudden was his departure that people energised their rumours with the shock of the incident.
I am blabbering... :-D See you guys later...
Naaah! Don't get high on speculating. I just wanted to write a 2 line "bye for now" and let my fingers flow. Then I realised that it is 22:05 and I have to sleep. The story was going nowhere!! :-D or maybe it would if I let you into the next two lines of the story:
.
.
.
maybe later... :-)
I am off blogging for a while, and how long that might last is unknown to those I know (completely or partially, including myself). But I shant leave without telling you a story. :-)
In the plateaus, which are so called because they are level with the mountains and cannot be called the plains, of Tibet there was this young boy called Ichtang Korya. Ichtang was nearly an omen in his village; see him early in the morning and your day will be pleasant, at night the dreams are memorable at the break of dawn. Adults and girls pulled his cheeks and bullies had no heart to trouble him though they occasionally pushed him away from their path, only to watch his face turn a shade of red that evoked tears in him and guilt in their breasts. He was very obedient and his parents had least trouble in managing him. He studied fairly well in school and was scolded once for not doing his Math homework, but that was three years ago. In short, he was someone who would never make a spicy character in any novel.
But he did.
He continued to be a child while others grew around him. Initially, they found it queer, then weird. Soon they disliked his manner of living and were eager to mutate that dislike into hatred. Some even said that he wasn't like a child and some called him vile. One fine day he vanished in the Himalayas that surrounded his village. So sudden was his departure that people energised their rumours with the shock of the incident.
I am blabbering... :-D See you guys later...
Naaah! Don't get high on speculating. I just wanted to write a 2 line "bye for now" and let my fingers flow. Then I realised that it is 22:05 and I have to sleep. The story was going nowhere!! :-D or maybe it would if I let you into the next two lines of the story:
.
.
.
maybe later... :-)
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Animal Instinct
"We ain't yet humans, man!"
That wasn't meant to invite discussion. It wasn't meant for anything other than pushing that gulp of beer further down. He let his hand drop and hang from the hammock while the beer bottle swung freely between the knuckles of his fingers. His other hand was busy scratching his stomach. He fountained the last sip of beer and let it land with a splat on his chest. I didn't complain. This was his territory, his castle. In a minute the bottle slid further down and settled on the floor with a glassy clink.
I wanted to let him sleep before I left but he turned sharply and asked me, "Have you ever felt that?"
"What?"
"You know," and he turned hastily in his hammock making it swing from under him and releasing his sorry mass onto the floor. I rushed to help him but he simply raised a hand. "I am fine. " He lay there as an imploding lump of flesh, bones and everything human.
"Have you ever worked, slogged for months on end? So much that you can feel every muscle in your body rush to find the softest lump on your bed while your eyes pull themselves to the back of your head and try to bore through them and escape? Have you felt your nails hurt, man? Your damn nails. Throbbing, itching and when you scratch the bed or your thigh it might peel off, it damn pains, but so good. So good. Aah. Have you felt it man? The sun beating on you and you falling under the force of that strike? Your feet sticking to the ground and you simply crashing? Inertia? Just a wonderful fall and the pain of that fall is nothing compared to what your damn slogging gives you? Have you?"
"Well no. I am a writer, so I rarely slog the way you do. I either write or read. And when..."
"And you guys make the theory of being human. Its all bullshit, man. We ain't no human. We are all still animals, hungry thirsty, lusty, scared, aggressive... animals man, like dogs or wolves or leopards. We ain't different. We like to be, but we ain't different."
"I think it is a matter of one's will and core strength."
He laughed and slapped his hands on the floor. He was roaring and rolled on his back and slapped both his palms on the floor.
"God-freakin-damnit!! Core strength!" and he laughed and rolled all his contempt into a bout of spasmodic coughing where he let the spit freely and tenuously drip out of his mouth.
"You guys are invalids. Go pick a tonne of bricks for half a year. Go work in the mines, with a lumberjack, pick garbage, pick shit man and you will know. This world ain't made of air-conditioners and peons, man."
"So what is your point?" I was getting irritated. The last thing I wanted was this man telling me that all that I had achieved in the past so many years was nothing because I couldn't haul coal.
"The point is this, sweetheart, you ain't human. I ain't human. When you are lying in your bed and your flesh leaves you hell-ward and your bones creak as they move together like willow branches in the winter wind, you ain't human then. You are animal."
"So being tired makes you an animal? I don't..."
"You don't get it, man. That is when you are so tired, so beaten up that you cannot pretend. You cannot be all fashionable and sophisticated. You can't be all oh-my-dahling-cool. You're butchered, man. You are stripped off all shiny armour, baby. That is when... what is that word... some cute French thing...."
"What? For what?"
"All tired and tongue flopping on the side and bored and ... some French thing you keep saying..."
"Ennui?"
"Yeah, ennui, on-my-crazy-wee-wee! That is it. You are so cute. Yeah, that is when ennui comes to you or you become ennui or how do you say it..."
"Ennui sets in. ... How does it matter?" Irritation trembled in my voice and made me push myself off my chair.
"Yeah, how does it matter? You right, honey, it doesn't, because we become animal then. So blessed beaten up and done that all we want are animal needs. Food, drink, two long legs around your waist, you know," he smiled, "and rest and sleep and all things animal. You want to prowl, grab, divorce. You don't want no crazy innovation or muse bugging you. You don't want to think straight. You don't care about anything straight, because even the crazy Tower of Pizza is bent when you are with good 'ol ennui."
"The Leaning Tower of Pisa is...well, leaning." I said and shook my head at wanting to clarify things to this muddled creature.
"See? You too with good ol' ennui. Wee. Weeeh. Wee-wee-wee."
He poured the beer on the floor and started lapping it up. I had to leave and got up hurriedly. I rushed to the door and caught sight of his hand waving me goodbye.
"Sweetheart, man is always an animal, ashamed of being that and calling himself human."
That wasn't meant to invite discussion. It wasn't meant for anything other than pushing that gulp of beer further down. He let his hand drop and hang from the hammock while the beer bottle swung freely between the knuckles of his fingers. His other hand was busy scratching his stomach. He fountained the last sip of beer and let it land with a splat on his chest. I didn't complain. This was his territory, his castle. In a minute the bottle slid further down and settled on the floor with a glassy clink.
I wanted to let him sleep before I left but he turned sharply and asked me, "Have you ever felt that?"
"What?"
"You know," and he turned hastily in his hammock making it swing from under him and releasing his sorry mass onto the floor. I rushed to help him but he simply raised a hand. "I am fine. " He lay there as an imploding lump of flesh, bones and everything human.
"Have you ever worked, slogged for months on end? So much that you can feel every muscle in your body rush to find the softest lump on your bed while your eyes pull themselves to the back of your head and try to bore through them and escape? Have you felt your nails hurt, man? Your damn nails. Throbbing, itching and when you scratch the bed or your thigh it might peel off, it damn pains, but so good. So good. Aah. Have you felt it man? The sun beating on you and you falling under the force of that strike? Your feet sticking to the ground and you simply crashing? Inertia? Just a wonderful fall and the pain of that fall is nothing compared to what your damn slogging gives you? Have you?"
"Well no. I am a writer, so I rarely slog the way you do. I either write or read. And when..."
"And you guys make the theory of being human. Its all bullshit, man. We ain't no human. We are all still animals, hungry thirsty, lusty, scared, aggressive... animals man, like dogs or wolves or leopards. We ain't different. We like to be, but we ain't different."
"I think it is a matter of one's will and core strength."
He laughed and slapped his hands on the floor. He was roaring and rolled on his back and slapped both his palms on the floor.
"God-freakin-damnit!! Core strength!" and he laughed and rolled all his contempt into a bout of spasmodic coughing where he let the spit freely and tenuously drip out of his mouth.
"You guys are invalids. Go pick a tonne of bricks for half a year. Go work in the mines, with a lumberjack, pick garbage, pick shit man and you will know. This world ain't made of air-conditioners and peons, man."
"So what is your point?" I was getting irritated. The last thing I wanted was this man telling me that all that I had achieved in the past so many years was nothing because I couldn't haul coal.
"The point is this, sweetheart, you ain't human. I ain't human. When you are lying in your bed and your flesh leaves you hell-ward and your bones creak as they move together like willow branches in the winter wind, you ain't human then. You are animal."
"So being tired makes you an animal? I don't..."
"You don't get it, man. That is when you are so tired, so beaten up that you cannot pretend. You cannot be all fashionable and sophisticated. You can't be all oh-my-dahling-cool. You're butchered, man. You are stripped off all shiny armour, baby. That is when... what is that word... some cute French thing...."
"What? For what?"
"All tired and tongue flopping on the side and bored and ... some French thing you keep saying..."
"Ennui?"
"Yeah, ennui, on-my-crazy-wee-wee! That is it. You are so cute. Yeah, that is when ennui comes to you or you become ennui or how do you say it..."
"Ennui sets in. ... How does it matter?" Irritation trembled in my voice and made me push myself off my chair.
"Yeah, how does it matter? You right, honey, it doesn't, because we become animal then. So blessed beaten up and done that all we want are animal needs. Food, drink, two long legs around your waist, you know," he smiled, "and rest and sleep and all things animal. You want to prowl, grab, divorce. You don't want no crazy innovation or muse bugging you. You don't want to think straight. You don't care about anything straight, because even the crazy Tower of Pizza is bent when you are with good 'ol ennui."
"The Leaning Tower of Pisa is...well, leaning." I said and shook my head at wanting to clarify things to this muddled creature.
"See? You too with good ol' ennui. Wee. Weeeh. Wee-wee-wee."
He poured the beer on the floor and started lapping it up. I had to leave and got up hurriedly. I rushed to the door and caught sight of his hand waving me goodbye.
"Sweetheart, man is always an animal, ashamed of being that and calling himself human."
Thursday, April 20, 2006
A Zen Koan
Mornings made the mountain bleed along a scar of a path which broke away from the monastery above to the valley below. This carmine cascade was pockmarked in yellow at various points. Farmers in the valley looked up and bowed their heads to the diurnal procession of monks. When the monks reached the valley, the monks slowed down but the breeze, caught often in their habit and adding volume to the frail frame that walked within, gave the monks a phantom vigour and mobility which their eyes and hearts lacked.
Sanchen, Pizkog gathered around a low wooden table which served but one old monk. They bowed low to him and then sat equidistant to each other. The old monk smiled at
them and gathered the warmth of his cup of tea with hands that trembled more with love for them than of age. He sipped his tea and pursed his lips savouring the fluid in the collapsing caverns of his mouth. When he opened his eyes, he let out a breath of contentment. Sanchen ordered for jasmine tea and while they waited he decided to continue with their conversation of before their occupying the table.
"Pizkog, may we continue till the tea arrives?"
Pizkog nodded his head and looked at the old monk. The monk smiled and Pizkog returned his attention to Sanchen.
"So as I was saying, life is not always about achieving. There is certainly more to life than achieving."
"But isn't that "more" also a want for achieving, now something else? Isn't it but a diverted desire?"
"No, it wouldn't be driven by desire. The more of life is not something one seeks for self-propagation."
"Then why do we seek it? Isn't it either another covert means of self-propagation or escapism with the intent of self-propagating beyond the realms of ineptitude?"
"No not really", said Sanchen and turned towards the monk. "Dear Sir, would you be kind enough to guide us confused farmers on this matter?"
"What do I have to say? Let us wait for the tea, as the leaves of the mountains impart wisdom."
The monk continued to sip on his tea and after every half-mouthful he stretched his chin towards the ceiling and returned with a smile and warm eyes.
Sanchen reached for the mud-cup of water to occupy himself while they waited for their tea. He gulped it in one shot and placed it on the table. While reaching for the pitcher to refill his cup, his sleeve caught it and it toppled over.
"Thank god there was no water in it! It is always better to leave a glass empty", said Pizkog.
"I partly agree, but it would be better to have a filled cup in case one needs it urgently. What about when a man has a violent fit of hiccups? Wouldn't it be better that the cup was already filled?", asked Sanchen.
"But such accidents could ruin clothes and food laid on the table."
"What are the chances that such accidents would happen?"
"I feel the chances are higher than a man having a fit."
The monk, having finished his tea, reached forward and filled his cup with water, swirled the contents and drunk it all. He bowed and smiled at the farmers and ambled back to the mountains.
Sanchen, Pizkog gathered around a low wooden table which served but one old monk. They bowed low to him and then sat equidistant to each other. The old monk smiled at
them and gathered the warmth of his cup of tea with hands that trembled more with love for them than of age. He sipped his tea and pursed his lips savouring the fluid in the collapsing caverns of his mouth. When he opened his eyes, he let out a breath of contentment. Sanchen ordered for jasmine tea and while they waited he decided to continue with their conversation of before their occupying the table."Pizkog, may we continue till the tea arrives?"
Pizkog nodded his head and looked at the old monk. The monk smiled and Pizkog returned his attention to Sanchen.
"So as I was saying, life is not always about achieving. There is certainly more to life than achieving."
"But isn't that "more" also a want for achieving, now something else? Isn't it but a diverted desire?"
"No, it wouldn't be driven by desire. The more of life is not something one seeks for self-propagation."
"Then why do we seek it? Isn't it either another covert means of self-propagation or escapism with the intent of self-propagating beyond the realms of ineptitude?"
"No not really", said Sanchen and turned towards the monk. "Dear Sir, would you be kind enough to guide us confused farmers on this matter?"
"What do I have to say? Let us wait for the tea, as the leaves of the mountains impart wisdom."
The monk continued to sip on his tea and after every half-mouthful he stretched his chin towards the ceiling and returned with a smile and warm eyes.
Sanchen reached for the mud-cup of water to occupy himself while they waited for their tea. He gulped it in one shot and placed it on the table. While reaching for the pitcher to refill his cup, his sleeve caught it and it toppled over.
"Thank god there was no water in it! It is always better to leave a glass empty", said Pizkog.
"I partly agree, but it would be better to have a filled cup in case one needs it urgently. What about when a man has a violent fit of hiccups? Wouldn't it be better that the cup was already filled?", asked Sanchen.
"But such accidents could ruin clothes and food laid on the table."
"What are the chances that such accidents would happen?"
"I feel the chances are higher than a man having a fit."
The monk, having finished his tea, reached forward and filled his cup with water, swirled the contents and drunk it all. He bowed and smiled at the farmers and ambled back to the mountains.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Honesty vs Stupidity
A long while ago I made this statement to a trapped friend of mine: "There is a very thin line between honesty and stupidity" He put forth his wonder about such a line and I continued thus.
"When one is called upon to present oneself, vocally or otherwise, then one must be true. That is honesty. While a stupid man is one who believes that in the name of honesty he must go all over the world and tell everyone what he believes to be true and shout it down ears, interested or not."
I believe I had made myself clear to my friend and myself. At least to myself. When not requested or (its aggressive brother) demanded, presenting oneself is stupidity. Who asked for it? Or so I believed.
Over the recent times of my life, I have come to realise that being honest even when called upon to present oneself is pure naivete. Before I proceed, I must confess that I haven't been honest always. I have told my share of lies especially when it was in relation to missing cookies or being late (which is a recent disease of mine). But regarding what I believe and what I feel I have, as of today, never been dishonest. I assure you that "never" was not accidental.
But recent times makes me rethink this whole business of honesty. A dear friend of mine coaxed me into reading Fountainhead, something I have been resisting for nearly 10 years now. I still don't find it great, but certain aspects of Mr. OrangeHead make me sit back and think. My friend compared me to Mr. OrangeHead (and I shall have a separate post about the different names I have been given. No one, and I mean absolutely no one, believes I am who I am) and I failed to see the similarity (as I always do!). One thing I liked about him was his honesty. He was clear and honest about what he believed in and his seemingly misanthropic nature helped not care about what people thought or felt towards him.
People are prompt in preaching about honesty. Whether they stick to it or not is a matter which helps the world go around. I do not believe that honesty is the best policy (and did you know that good ol' Shakespeare said that?). I enjoy and love being honest and hence I do that except for days when I have hiccups! What gets my near invisible goatee is the double standards people prescribe to honesty. Everyone should be honest but they will decide when the right time for honesty is.
Recently I have had startling incidents when people have surprised me and enjoyed lying and using honesty as a weapon rather than a simple reality as light as the early morning breeze.
A while ago a person who is up in the hierarchy of things was discussing with me the problems that one particular product release had had. I had been crying wild since day one as I disliked the design and the technical details, but they fell on stone deaf ears. She said, "E, let us put aside all those technical issues and revisit them later. Now tell me honestly (damn! she had to use that word), do you see places where the team fell short of expectations?" I thought she was serious to analyse the situation and listed out areas where the team had not been wise enough to do things correctly and the like. A few days later she used those statements against me and bypassed all the technical flaws that we were supposed to revisit!!! All I could do was laugh.
Its not just this. I am sure each one of us has several incidents when we come across a blatant lie selling better than the truth, or the truth being the last nail on your coffin for the day. Honesty is often equated with ruthlessness. The most common class of incidents that I have faced are ones in which character X would say something and I would refute on the grounds of having data which would prove otherwise. They would try their bluff for one more time. When I go out and bring in the data they would yelp and call me ruthless or heartless or "E, you aren't the same guy I knew!"
What happened to truth? If people don't like being honest then why can't they rather accept it and admit to it. Why keep saying that people like the truth when they actually don't, or they like it as long as it serves them favourably?
Truth has become chattel and whore to a man's whim and it is unfortunate to my sensibilities. Truth has become a function of one's ego and insecurity and it is disappointing to see it become thus.
And then it is also a thing to be discarded if one of the debating parties is emotionally wrought. I have heard my mother say so many times, "Why do you wish to stick to it? See the poor girl is crying." and I would reply, "But then what about this matter at hand?" and I would be asked to take it with me to hell (no, not by mom. Mom never used the word hell!).
Once in college a guy and girl (and I think another couple too) who were going around were caught being inappropriate and it became a big issue. The guy was all set to rake in support and go against the senior batch which was planning to impose curbs on our batch in case the guilty party didn't come forth and apologise. He wasn't ready to apologise. For some strange reason, I was called upon to sort this matter (I think that is when the batch started considering me to be a pain). I stood before our entire class of tickled and nervous students and started thus, "I assume we are all serious. Now, let us get the facts of this together..." What came out was unacceptable to the man of the couple and his girl huffed and puffed and walked out. He came forth and said, "See what you have done now. You have got her so distressed that she is crying and has left the room (like I didn't notice!)" I had to assure him that all I was juggling here were facts and though the class agreed he never did and didn't speak to me for a long while.
I ask not for much but the last act of honesty from an unwilling soul, not more, just one act when they ponder long and finally decide whether they care about honesty or not and stick to it. Let us spare truth and not twist it. Please.
I think it helps at times to be a misanthrope like Mr. OrangeHead! :-)
Naaaah! Not worth it... :-D
Music and blogs
There is nothing more thrilling, more laden with suspense than when a singer hums and modulates her voice before she embarks on the song itself. For that initial 2-5 seconds, it could be anything, absolutely anything that could come out and mesmerise you, and the suspense (in case the singer doesn't provide the details apriori) is what adds an extra zing to the rendition.
I have admired a few blogs for their literary content. Most of them can be found on the left pane on my blog. But there blogs which shine not purely for their literary content but they are art nonetheless. Dheepak Ra's blog (sudasudacoffee in the left pane) had commanded a mention a while ago for the sheer beauty he combined (on a regular basis) using photographs, quotes and some personal reflections. An amazingly wonderful blog.
Recently a dear friend of mine sent me an MP3 of her friend's singing. I downloaded it and was about to head for my breakfast when the piece (after downloading) started playing. This lady with the gift of the finest divine spirits, started with a level humming and I stopped in my tracks (why do people tantalise me thus :-( ). Then she started snaring me in the immense beauty of her voice.
Before I forget: Nearly nothing, NOTHING, makes me give up my food unless I decide to fast. So expect the world of rudeness if you ever interrupt me while I eat!! ;-p
Her voice held me securely in my chair and I kept listening to it over and over again. Is her voice control the best; not entirely. Would I laud her as the best singer; too early. But she is deep and spiritually intense in what she renders. Such secure lodging in the other-world made me forget my breakfast and I put my ear close to the speakers to listen to the various flows of her voice. The song (which is something of a bhajan/abhanga composed by, if I recall correct, by Sri Adi Shankaracharya) was well rendered and made the emotion clear and beautiful.
I am not sure how many believe (or have ever thought in these terms) that a song must be filled the emotion due to it. When a song of plea makes the listeners heart beg, then it is well rendered. When a song of love makes love blossom in your breast then the song has been rendered in all truth. Hence, it is essential to understand the lyrics and the context of the composition. Many wonderful singers don't know what they are singing or why/when/how the composition came to be born (I refer primarily to classical Indian music with a bias towards Carnatic) and it is very unfortunate when they seem to apply a standard template manner of singing every song.
Another very important aspect of singing is mouthing each word correctly. I think the dear reader might be interested in this post that Padma put up on her blog where another Aacharya (I bow to him) explains the silly manner in which lyrics are messed up (because Indian languages with their rules of sanddhi can create funny partitions!). Some singers stress so much on semantics that they forget to do justice to the raga/tune (I am illiterate as far as ragas are concerned).
This young lady had rendered the bhajan beautifully and hadn't messed up the lyrics. The recording was crystal clear and replete. I fell in love with the voice and it occupied most of my waking day. Another song from her (proxied by my dear friend) sealed my decision to write about her voice (I know nothing about her). I listen to her wonderful voice as it sings a song titled "Pani Thirai". I have heard this at least 10-20 times since I woke up and I listen to it while I type this out.
I later got to know that this wonderful singer has two blogs to her credit. For those who enjoy good music sans language, please do visit her Music Blog and those who wished to interact with her through her writings on matters spiritual (and such matters cannot be judged as good, bad, beautiful or contorted), she has another blog.
I wish the Goddess continues to be pleased with her and nourishes her voice like Her very own child.
I have admired a few blogs for their literary content. Most of them can be found on the left pane on my blog. But there blogs which shine not purely for their literary content but they are art nonetheless. Dheepak Ra's blog (sudasudacoffee in the left pane) had commanded a mention a while ago for the sheer beauty he combined (on a regular basis) using photographs, quotes and some personal reflections. An amazingly wonderful blog.
Recently a dear friend of mine sent me an MP3 of her friend's singing. I downloaded it and was about to head for my breakfast when the piece (after downloading) started playing. This lady with the gift of the finest divine spirits, started with a level humming and I stopped in my tracks (why do people tantalise me thus :-( ). Then she started snaring me in the immense beauty of her voice.
Before I forget: Nearly nothing, NOTHING, makes me give up my food unless I decide to fast. So expect the world of rudeness if you ever interrupt me while I eat!! ;-p
Her voice held me securely in my chair and I kept listening to it over and over again. Is her voice control the best; not entirely. Would I laud her as the best singer; too early. But she is deep and spiritually intense in what she renders. Such secure lodging in the other-world made me forget my breakfast and I put my ear close to the speakers to listen to the various flows of her voice. The song (which is something of a bhajan/abhanga composed by, if I recall correct, by Sri Adi Shankaracharya) was well rendered and made the emotion clear and beautiful.
I am not sure how many believe (or have ever thought in these terms) that a song must be filled the emotion due to it. When a song of plea makes the listeners heart beg, then it is well rendered. When a song of love makes love blossom in your breast then the song has been rendered in all truth. Hence, it is essential to understand the lyrics and the context of the composition. Many wonderful singers don't know what they are singing or why/when/how the composition came to be born (I refer primarily to classical Indian music with a bias towards Carnatic) and it is very unfortunate when they seem to apply a standard template manner of singing every song.
Another very important aspect of singing is mouthing each word correctly. I think the dear reader might be interested in this post that Padma put up on her blog where another Aacharya (I bow to him) explains the silly manner in which lyrics are messed up (because Indian languages with their rules of sanddhi can create funny partitions!). Some singers stress so much on semantics that they forget to do justice to the raga/tune (I am illiterate as far as ragas are concerned).
This young lady had rendered the bhajan beautifully and hadn't messed up the lyrics. The recording was crystal clear and replete. I fell in love with the voice and it occupied most of my waking day. Another song from her (proxied by my dear friend) sealed my decision to write about her voice (I know nothing about her). I listen to her wonderful voice as it sings a song titled "Pani Thirai". I have heard this at least 10-20 times since I woke up and I listen to it while I type this out.
I later got to know that this wonderful singer has two blogs to her credit. For those who enjoy good music sans language, please do visit her Music Blog and those who wished to interact with her through her writings on matters spiritual (and such matters cannot be judged as good, bad, beautiful or contorted), she has another blog.
I wish the Goddess continues to be pleased with her and nourishes her voice like Her very own child.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Lucrenifor: Lover... lost
There was once a time, and such times haven't yet ended, when the God and the Devil walked beside each other and indulged in long evening strolls while they discussed the many doings of this world. To some watchers, they were but object and shadow, each changing into the other ad infinitum. The tale told here is of one of their conversations on one beautiful evening.
It might seem that the beauty of the evening extracted such dialogues from the hearts of the duo. It might also be that the conversation needed the backdrop of
such resplendent fibre, for the evening skies were dressed in astonishing finery. Puffs of crimson were trapped in the grey cotton wool of clouds and from this sanguine game of peek-a-boo, the firmament stole the most divine gown of dark velvets bleeding beautifully. The conversation was, after all, about the heat in human blood, which causes the heart to beat to the rhythm of a hummingbird's wing and moistens the eye with untold pleasure and pain - each fairly indistinguishable to the affected heart; the Devil spoke of love and the God listened.
As the Devil described the lightness of the heart and the mind when trapped in the presence of the lover, the skies broke in claps and sprinkled fresh stars as far as the echo traveled. God was amazed and sat down lest the walking as an activity blunt the brilliance of such a conversation. The earth blossomed in marigolds and daffodils punctuated with primroses where God was about to sit.
"And thus are the ways of a lover, a true lover, my friend."
"But is there any truth in love?"
"Why indeed!", gasped the Devil, "Love is truth, and one never searches wetness in water."
"Is it? Amazing, indeed. And you say it is not of class or clan?"
"Not of skin nor skill."
"Quite a wonder you have made for your entertainment, dear Devil."
"Not much of my volition, dear God."
And the Devil sat beside God, and the earth was nourished where the Devil sat. Silence spent their time together, for beauty and words make mean companions.
"Lo! Who walks there, dear Devil? Is that your love-child Lucrenifor?"
"Such handsomeness can't be of another, dear God. Yes, indeed that is he."
"Love as you describe it cannot be foreign to his blushing breast."
"Alas! It is. He lives in the pure world of absolute beauty and the brushes of love are yet to paint on his heart's canvas."
"Then it should be today."
The skies parted for the honey of the evening sun to trickle down to the horizon and, after gathering over the sparkling waters, cascade along the never-touched line which separates the earth and the heavens as much as it does man's sense of reality and his world of beliefs.
"So be it, brother."
"You shall present him with what you can, and I shall give him the best of my might."
"Generosity colours the world today, dear God."
And they watched Lucrenifor walk down the dried bed of the Santory stream. Such grace and firmness of walk was unknown and the sturdiness of his calves were only matched by those of a panther. A wide shoulder trimmed its way down to his waist fastened at the right places by rippling muscles. His knee was prominent and so was his chin, but both were softened by the flesh that surrounded them. Dreamy eyes caught the slightest wonder and left his full mouth half open with the edges of his lips not wishing to come apart. Lucrenifor was made to tear out the heart of every virgin and every woman who wished she was virgin again.
As he climbed over the bank, the taut muscles of his derriere supporting the entire weight of the lady-killer, he spotted something. He bent down to pick it up.
"What is it that catches his eye, dear Devil?"
"You might want to go and find it out for yourself", Devil said and smiled.
God rushed to where Lucrenifor was on his haunches, and cleared his throat. But so absorbed was Lucrenifor in what he held in his hand, that the voice of God fell on deaf ears. God looked sheepishly at the Devil and returned to address Lucrenifor.
"Dear son, what is it that you hold?"
Lucrenifor smiled at his palm and brought it close to his breast where he held it with great devotion.
"What be it, that pulls you dearly, son?"
But Lucrenifor replied not. Slighted, God returned to where the Devil stood and failed to hide his disturbance.
"What troubles you, my friend?"
"He refuses to respect God."
"Such be the power of love that he holds in his heart now."
This didn't quieten the agonised God and he continued to grumble under his breath.
"Suffer not, my friend, for that is the way of love. The infected see not time and feel not hunger. The world is nothing to them, and at once is everything because it houses their lover. What could you then possibly wish from such a lover's heart?"
God stared deeply at Lucrenifor's blissful expression and smiled more towards his left ear.
"So be it, but I shall fill his heart with the need to rationalise it and place it on the leaden pans of pragmatism to weigh it till he lives not of his love."
It might seem that the beauty of the evening extracted such dialogues from the hearts of the duo. It might also be that the conversation needed the backdrop of
such resplendent fibre, for the evening skies were dressed in astonishing finery. Puffs of crimson were trapped in the grey cotton wool of clouds and from this sanguine game of peek-a-boo, the firmament stole the most divine gown of dark velvets bleeding beautifully. The conversation was, after all, about the heat in human blood, which causes the heart to beat to the rhythm of a hummingbird's wing and moistens the eye with untold pleasure and pain - each fairly indistinguishable to the affected heart; the Devil spoke of love and the God listened.As the Devil described the lightness of the heart and the mind when trapped in the presence of the lover, the skies broke in claps and sprinkled fresh stars as far as the echo traveled. God was amazed and sat down lest the walking as an activity blunt the brilliance of such a conversation. The earth blossomed in marigolds and daffodils punctuated with primroses where God was about to sit.
"And thus are the ways of a lover, a true lover, my friend."
"But is there any truth in love?"
"Why indeed!", gasped the Devil, "Love is truth, and one never searches wetness in water."
"Is it? Amazing, indeed. And you say it is not of class or clan?"
"Not of skin nor skill."
"Quite a wonder you have made for your entertainment, dear Devil."
"Not much of my volition, dear God."
And the Devil sat beside God, and the earth was nourished where the Devil sat. Silence spent their time together, for beauty and words make mean companions.
"Lo! Who walks there, dear Devil? Is that your love-child Lucrenifor?"
"Such handsomeness can't be of another, dear God. Yes, indeed that is he."
"Love as you describe it cannot be foreign to his blushing breast."
"Alas! It is. He lives in the pure world of absolute beauty and the brushes of love are yet to paint on his heart's canvas."
"Then it should be today."
The skies parted for the honey of the evening sun to trickle down to the horizon and, after gathering over the sparkling waters, cascade along the never-touched line which separates the earth and the heavens as much as it does man's sense of reality and his world of beliefs.
"So be it, brother."
"You shall present him with what you can, and I shall give him the best of my might."
"Generosity colours the world today, dear God."
And they watched Lucrenifor walk down the dried bed of the Santory stream. Such grace and firmness of walk was unknown and the sturdiness of his calves were only matched by those of a panther. A wide shoulder trimmed its way down to his waist fastened at the right places by rippling muscles. His knee was prominent and so was his chin, but both were softened by the flesh that surrounded them. Dreamy eyes caught the slightest wonder and left his full mouth half open with the edges of his lips not wishing to come apart. Lucrenifor was made to tear out the heart of every virgin and every woman who wished she was virgin again.
As he climbed over the bank, the taut muscles of his derriere supporting the entire weight of the lady-killer, he spotted something. He bent down to pick it up.
"What is it that catches his eye, dear Devil?"
"You might want to go and find it out for yourself", Devil said and smiled.
God rushed to where Lucrenifor was on his haunches, and cleared his throat. But so absorbed was Lucrenifor in what he held in his hand, that the voice of God fell on deaf ears. God looked sheepishly at the Devil and returned to address Lucrenifor.
"Dear son, what is it that you hold?"
Lucrenifor smiled at his palm and brought it close to his breast where he held it with great devotion.
"What be it, that pulls you dearly, son?"
But Lucrenifor replied not. Slighted, God returned to where the Devil stood and failed to hide his disturbance.
"What troubles you, my friend?"
"He refuses to respect God."
"Such be the power of love that he holds in his heart now."
This didn't quieten the agonised God and he continued to grumble under his breath.
"Suffer not, my friend, for that is the way of love. The infected see not time and feel not hunger. The world is nothing to them, and at once is everything because it houses their lover. What could you then possibly wish from such a lover's heart?"
God stared deeply at Lucrenifor's blissful expression and smiled more towards his left ear.
"So be it, but I shall fill his heart with the need to rationalise it and place it on the leaden pans of pragmatism to weigh it till he lives not of his love."
Friday, April 07, 2006
And now I reveal the plan
A long while ago, this blog had featured a post which then seemed like just another tag-post sequence. Frankly, I didn't concretely know why I was starting it, but I just felt that it was going to be a trend for something that nagged me at the back of my head. Many people thought that it was pointless, and maybe they were right.
The day before yesterday I read this article in the newspaper. Maybe what I started in Oct. has some meaning now. Unfortunately, it was death by neglect... :-(
For some strange reason I believed that a book would grow out of it. That it would be the first (at least one of the 1st) book to be published in collaboration, without regard to spatial location of the authors. I wanted to give it one year and at the rate of 100 words per blogger and branching wildly, I expected a decent sized novella (or two) to spring to life. The picture in my head was clear (then). But with such a mushrooming growth, the clarity could not be sustained.
Serendipity cannot be planned as much as life.
http://www.lulublookerprize.com/index.php
The day before yesterday I read this article in the newspaper. Maybe what I started in Oct. has some meaning now. Unfortunately, it was death by neglect... :-(
For some strange reason I believed that a book would grow out of it. That it would be the first (at least one of the 1st) book to be published in collaboration, without regard to spatial location of the authors. I wanted to give it one year and at the rate of 100 words per blogger and branching wildly, I expected a decent sized novella (or two) to spring to life. The picture in my head was clear (then). But with such a mushrooming growth, the clarity could not be sustained.
Serendipity cannot be planned as much as life.
http://www.lulublookerprize.com/index.php
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Retro-graphy
Shall I play along? Let me stretch myself a bit before I suggest the plan that is smouldering in my mind, for the pleasures to strive at rekindling the dying nuggets of coal far out-excite those of pouring out the details quickly and fervidly. Lean forward, mate, as what I have to say is better festooned between your ears and my tongue.
I wish to write a retro-graphy. Don't wonder about what it means as it means what I want it to. I shall write a detailed tome of my life starting now and till the age of 60. It should take me about 12 months to do that. Help me a bit and we can pack it in 11. So the next 11 months of my life will be excluded. It should be easy to understand the plot. I will write about my life 12 months from now till I am 60. Now here starts what makes me smack my lips like a tongue of mango pickled in lime and salt.
I shall live my life according to that book!! What say, mate? A little over 40 years lived according to the Book of E. What say, mate? I promise you I won't chose anything otherwise. If I mention a Monday spent in a blue shirt with camel trousers to go, then so shall it be. If I don't mention it, I ain't no violating! What say, mate? People will know me before I die. But the fun starts here.
I can write about murdering someone and that the jury forgives me. Well, I will murder that blessed fella, but the jury must forgive me. We can't have a retro-graphy go wrong, can we, mate?
And then I will write about investing money in some stocks and they will all grow and make me rich. Its upto the government to see that my retro-graphy works out to be true. They owe truth that much.
Then I will write about marrying sweet Charlize Theron or some younger actress (I think a Mary or a Julia is common enough to happen at Hollywood) or maybe both. I won't give the lady's name but write that I changed it to a Susan. This will let me pick any woman I want and change her name. What say, mate?
I will write about being the single man responsible for stopping the damned war. I am sure the US won't pull out for many years now, so I can safely put that into my book. If they do pull out, we better have them attack good ol' Iraq at the time mentioned in the retro-graphy. The world must support truth, eh! mate?
Think about all the Nobel prizes they will want to give me and beg me to come and receive. Think about all the villas they want to build for me. Think about all the damn good things in life that people will sponsor for good ol' me. I will have it all in the retro-graphy.
What say, mate?
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Essence
Firm and taut. You would call her a beauty; I call her my lover. She lay there, covering little - very little - of herself with the blanket we shared to soak her sweat from mine and mine from her body. The Burgundy of the silk spread turned dark to indicate the passionate duo within. Soon the spots merged, like we had done a while ago.
I watched her body rise and fall to the relaxed rhythm of her breath. Her stomach rose so gently, tugging her lovely nether regions towards the soft mounds, victim to my parched mouth. And in that motion, she drew me to unite with her and we breathed together in separate beings. I watched her hand, raised to cover her brow, a full breast held in place by her youth. But nothing pleased me more than what I saw now. The gradual welling of her peace accentuated by the glint in her eye, as it orgasmed into a tear and lazily burnt its way down her cheek...
Like last night.
Generation gap?
I was pulled into an article in The Hindu. It started thus:
So here I was with the newspaper in my hands and I think: "Hmmm, so true! Let's hear what this person has to say." Well, what the person said revealed how little he knew about presenting a topic and he was so thoroughly confused. If someone makes a statement like:
It is not that they are useless: most speak good English and are confident of themselves. They are aware of the latest ring tones, movies and jokes. But when one goes a little beyond, they stare at me with dull eyes.
I know the person has very little clue about what he wants to really say. How does knowing English relate to being useful? Or being aware of the latest ringtones!!?? :-O
But the topic is something that is of relevance. People of the present generation believe that being disrespectful can be likened to one or more of the following:
1. Being confidant
2. Being cool
3. Essential for getting work done
I disagree with all of them (don't I love that!? ;-)
What has being confidant have to do with being disrespectful? Or getting the work done? Frankly, I think anything that needs to be realised only by being disrespectful is rather left unrealised. The article talks about things beside the point and I was left rather exasperated!
India (and most of Asia) has had (and still does) have a deep tradition of paying respects as protocol for most societal interaction. This is dying. This tradition has been considered privy to places like Japan, but India too has a very rich tradition of being respectful. It is a traditional practice and tradition cannot be mistaken for a mere formality.
When youngsters today talk to their parents, it is quite disturbing to watch their gestures and the phrases they used were unthought of a few years ago.
"Get lost dad! You are such a bore!"
Huh! :-o
"Paati (grandma) is so outdated. I really do not know what to do with her."
Huh! :-O
"You know Krishnan mama (uncle)? That old neighbour of ours? Yeah the fat one. He keeps coming every morning to borrow the newspaper. Such a miser!"
HUH! :-O
And these are the mild ones. As I mentioned in an earlier post, the words used (like screw, pain-in-the-you-know-where, etc.) are appalling. So much said about language.
When an elderly person walks into the room, we were taught to rise and sit only when the person instructs us to do so. Maybe that is too old-fashioned, but extending your legs in front of someone old enough to be your grandfather/mother? Or munching on some snacks and talking to them?
Something I find entirely unacceptable is the "mobile" culture that has crept in. People must have their mobiles on and they must attend to it no matter what. As the article mentions, many candidates I interviewed for companies would suddenly have their pants singing out to them!! Loud enough to disturb other candidates sitting at other tables. To my present teams I made it clear that mobiles should be switched off during meetings or turned to silent mode and left ignored (so that you can find out who called and return those calls after the meeting). What can be so urgent in this world? A member whose wife was expecting (don't ask me what) was allowed to answer his mobile, but he too had to keep it in silent mode. I don't know why this has to be told. Isn't it a basic modicum of decency?
We never spoke in presence of elders unless our opinion was sought. Nowadays I find children butting in and rudely disagreeing with them. There are polite and definitely decent ways of putting forth a point.
On the roads, people talk to vendors rudely or in a rough voice. They think that by doing so, they can establish who is in control. This is not something that only youngsters seem to do. In Madras, people tell me that you have to be tough with autorikshaw drivers as they are most inclined to fleece you. I have been here for nearly 4 months now and I have never had to even once raise my voice. I clearly state the price and if they disagree then I simply walk away. I have never (knock on wood, else another post will come up :-) had to be tough with them. With the vegetable vendors too, I have never had to be gruff. It was mostly a case of a clear steady voice and then the deal is realised or not. Another thing on roads that I observe today is the way drivers treat each other. Without doubt it is annoying when a car cuts your path, but there are decent ways of telling the driver that s/he was doing something stupid. People shriek and shout and of course! swear.
Why have we stopped respecting human beings and lost ourselves to getting things done and making an impression? Why is it so important to make an impact and be firm, when we cannot master the art of being gentle but persuasive?
Somewhere along the line, young people have started to mistake bad manners for confidence
So here I was with the newspaper in my hands and I think: "Hmmm, so true! Let's hear what this person has to say." Well, what the person said revealed how little he knew about presenting a topic and he was so thoroughly confused. If someone makes a statement like:
It is not that they are useless: most speak good English and are confident of themselves. They are aware of the latest ring tones, movies and jokes. But when one goes a little beyond, they stare at me with dull eyes.
I know the person has very little clue about what he wants to really say. How does knowing English relate to being useful? Or being aware of the latest ringtones!!?? :-O
But the topic is something that is of relevance. People of the present generation believe that being disrespectful can be likened to one or more of the following:
1. Being confidant
2. Being cool
3. Essential for getting work done
I disagree with all of them (don't I love that!? ;-)
What has being confidant have to do with being disrespectful? Or getting the work done? Frankly, I think anything that needs to be realised only by being disrespectful is rather left unrealised. The article talks about things beside the point and I was left rather exasperated!
India (and most of Asia) has had (and still does) have a deep tradition of paying respects as protocol for most societal interaction. This is dying. This tradition has been considered privy to places like Japan, but India too has a very rich tradition of being respectful. It is a traditional practice and tradition cannot be mistaken for a mere formality.
When youngsters today talk to their parents, it is quite disturbing to watch their gestures and the phrases they used were unthought of a few years ago.
"Get lost dad! You are such a bore!"
Huh! :-o
"Paati (grandma) is so outdated. I really do not know what to do with her."
Huh! :-O
"You know Krishnan mama (uncle)? That old neighbour of ours? Yeah the fat one. He keeps coming every morning to borrow the newspaper. Such a miser!"
HUH! :-O
And these are the mild ones. As I mentioned in an earlier post, the words used (like screw, pain-in-the-you-know-where, etc.) are appalling. So much said about language.
When an elderly person walks into the room, we were taught to rise and sit only when the person instructs us to do so. Maybe that is too old-fashioned, but extending your legs in front of someone old enough to be your grandfather/mother? Or munching on some snacks and talking to them?
Something I find entirely unacceptable is the "mobile" culture that has crept in. People must have their mobiles on and they must attend to it no matter what. As the article mentions, many candidates I interviewed for companies would suddenly have their pants singing out to them!! Loud enough to disturb other candidates sitting at other tables. To my present teams I made it clear that mobiles should be switched off during meetings or turned to silent mode and left ignored (so that you can find out who called and return those calls after the meeting). What can be so urgent in this world? A member whose wife was expecting (don't ask me what) was allowed to answer his mobile, but he too had to keep it in silent mode. I don't know why this has to be told. Isn't it a basic modicum of decency?
We never spoke in presence of elders unless our opinion was sought. Nowadays I find children butting in and rudely disagreeing with them. There are polite and definitely decent ways of putting forth a point.
On the roads, people talk to vendors rudely or in a rough voice. They think that by doing so, they can establish who is in control. This is not something that only youngsters seem to do. In Madras, people tell me that you have to be tough with autorikshaw drivers as they are most inclined to fleece you. I have been here for nearly 4 months now and I have never had to even once raise my voice. I clearly state the price and if they disagree then I simply walk away. I have never (knock on wood, else another post will come up :-) had to be tough with them. With the vegetable vendors too, I have never had to be gruff. It was mostly a case of a clear steady voice and then the deal is realised or not. Another thing on roads that I observe today is the way drivers treat each other. Without doubt it is annoying when a car cuts your path, but there are decent ways of telling the driver that s/he was doing something stupid. People shriek and shout and of course! swear.
Why have we stopped respecting human beings and lost ourselves to getting things done and making an impression? Why is it so important to make an impact and be firm, when we cannot master the art of being gentle but persuasive?
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Gizmos
Now that the days find me less occupied with work at the office, my domestic responsibilities take over. I enjoyed living out-o'-box but no longer! I set myself the task of cleaning it all up and it sure is a tiresome job. Cartons upon cartons of books took most of my time. This time I decided to stack the loft with books that I will not be reading in the next 12-18 months. All my lofts are full. Then I decided to stack the lower compartment of my massive cupboard with books and magazines that I have read and will not be re-reading in the next 12-18 months. The compartment is full. Goes to show that I have a lot of reading to do after a year! :-)
In the midst of all these cartons stood an innocent and seemingly drab structure. A wooden stool which looked vaguely familiar (many things in my house are vaguely familiar, and my mother would ask me occasionally, "Remember me? Your mother?" ;-). I stopped my sweaty job and stood staring it. It looked fresh, but something about it reminded me of days which coloured my life about 15 years ago. I went around it and around, but it refused to bring to the forefront the memories that clung to the remote recesses of my mind. Such memories are like gum stuck on a shoe. They are fresh and of their particular colour till we walk great miles; then they mingle with the sole's contours and are covered with what covers the world.
I cleared the contents placed on the stool and kept staring at it. Then it struck me. I toppled it on its side like you see in the picture. Voila!! This was the spacecraft of 5-10 year old Condor 2000, the greatest ever warrior to save this earth (don't ask me from what!). I couldn't help laugh and cry at the same time, a kind of behaviour fond memories are known to incite.
Who was Condor 2000? That shall come up in another post. But this spacecraft was a
wonderful creation. This spacecraft is nearly as old as the author. I fail to understand how the wood lasted so long (not referring to my bones!). It has been through many avataras and holds its present look. In its heydays it was coated in grey synthetic paint (which made it shine, like a hero's spacecraft should).
The rungs create compartments and Condor 2000 would always be in the middle. The rear was reserved for his pesky sister and the front compartment was for his knees!! The cockpit (as indicated) was very sophisticated and had all the controls required to navigate through any terrain. Traveling under water, through lava (learnt this one from the UGC programmes), through space and through vacuum (something I learnt from my sister's books) was piece o' cake (which usually followed hours of traveling in the craft. Come on! Heroes get hungry too!). The best thing about this cockpit was its understanding. Depending on the need of the situation, it would spring new controls and gears and levers. So I could shoot Shington rockets and Freezo rays whenever I wanted. There were nail biting situations when I would run out of supplies of ammunition, but the craft was clever enough to send out radio requests to its automated helper crafts which would navigate based on the signals (see? I had invented GPS long ago!) and replenish the supply. These rockets couldn't be detected by enemy spaceships or vehicles (the B-2 stealth bomber learnt this from me!! ;-) and would attach themselves to my spacecraft. I believed in reuse and hence these "subordinate" mini-spacecrafts morphed themselves into rockets and bombs (so they didn't have to waste a trip back to the station!! ;-)
Many adventures were lived and played in this spacecraft. Those were also the days of Star Trek and my inspiration was obvious. I also had a secret code for friends of Condor 2000. Things have changed since then. The spacecraft has retired to become a stool (I still remember once my mother demanding that I get out of the "stool" and my telling her that she couldn't recognise a stool from a spacecraft. What followed is best left censored! :-(
I do not fit between the rungs anymore (I could turn it around and I would fit into the rungless spacecraft of Eroteme, but I look stupid in there). My sis is too far away to trouble me with her incessant request of getting a ride (geez! how many people hitchhike a spacecraft!!??). I have forgotten the names of my rockets and bombs. The stool was re-painted twice and has a spanking new "sanmica" sheet on its top. As you notice, it has "sissy" plastic bushes under its feet.
Things change. Now my room is cleaner...
In the midst of all these cartons stood an innocent and seemingly drab structure. A wooden stool which looked vaguely familiar (many things in my house are vaguely familiar, and my mother would ask me occasionally, "Remember me? Your mother?" ;-). I stopped my sweaty job and stood staring it. It looked fresh, but something about it reminded me of days which coloured my life about 15 years ago. I went around it and around, but it refused to bring to the forefront the memories that clung to the remote recesses of my mind. Such memories are like gum stuck on a shoe. They are fresh and of their particular colour till we walk great miles; then they mingle with the sole's contours and are covered with what covers the world.
I cleared the contents placed on the stool and kept staring at it. Then it struck me. I toppled it on its side like you see in the picture. Voila!! This was the spacecraft of 5-10 year old Condor 2000, the greatest ever warrior to save this earth (don't ask me from what!). I couldn't help laugh and cry at the same time, a kind of behaviour fond memories are known to incite.
Who was Condor 2000? That shall come up in another post. But this spacecraft was a
wonderful creation. This spacecraft is nearly as old as the author. I fail to understand how the wood lasted so long (not referring to my bones!). It has been through many avataras and holds its present look. In its heydays it was coated in grey synthetic paint (which made it shine, like a hero's spacecraft should).The rungs create compartments and Condor 2000 would always be in the middle. The rear was reserved for his pesky sister and the front compartment was for his knees!! The cockpit (as indicated) was very sophisticated and had all the controls required to navigate through any terrain. Traveling under water, through lava (learnt this one from the UGC programmes), through space and through vacuum (something I learnt from my sister's books) was piece o' cake (which usually followed hours of traveling in the craft. Come on! Heroes get hungry too!). The best thing about this cockpit was its understanding. Depending on the need of the situation, it would spring new controls and gears and levers. So I could shoot Shington rockets and Freezo rays whenever I wanted. There were nail biting situations when I would run out of supplies of ammunition, but the craft was clever enough to send out radio requests to its automated helper crafts which would navigate based on the signals (see? I had invented GPS long ago!) and replenish the supply. These rockets couldn't be detected by enemy spaceships or vehicles (the B-2 stealth bomber learnt this from me!! ;-) and would attach themselves to my spacecraft. I believed in reuse and hence these "subordinate" mini-spacecrafts morphed themselves into rockets and bombs (so they didn't have to waste a trip back to the station!! ;-)
Many adventures were lived and played in this spacecraft. Those were also the days of Star Trek and my inspiration was obvious. I also had a secret code for friends of Condor 2000. Things have changed since then. The spacecraft has retired to become a stool (I still remember once my mother demanding that I get out of the "stool" and my telling her that she couldn't recognise a stool from a spacecraft. What followed is best left censored! :-(
I do not fit between the rungs anymore (I could turn it around and I would fit into the rungless spacecraft of Eroteme, but I look stupid in there). My sis is too far away to trouble me with her incessant request of getting a ride (geez! how many people hitchhike a spacecraft!!??). I have forgotten the names of my rockets and bombs. The stool was re-painted twice and has a spanking new "sanmica" sheet on its top. As you notice, it has "sissy" plastic bushes under its feet.
Things change. Now my room is cleaner...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)