Small steps..

If you know how to drive or swim, you never forget it. Alas!!! It doesn't go with expression. Not so long back I was content with the immense satisfaction that small writing bouts offered me. It was an aphrodisiac for me. I kept returning for more like a jilted lover who pines for the last look of his beloved. I touched her through words, spoke to her in broken dreams of my thoughts and fantasized of my 'neverland'. I don't know if i have that flair anymore. I am rather unsure of what am writing right now and i cannot possibly contemplate if this would be of any coherence or sense. But broken steps only could break into gallops and strides. And to be frank and candid, I dont want that now. Am pretty absorbed in my meaningless world and am too scared to raise the curtain and let the darkness or light flow in. I have become a prisoner of my habits, my fears, my OCD and my ever prodding sense of 'what is right or wrong'. I feel as though am chained in my own trappings and yes!!! Rousseau does make sense to me now. I was born free but here I am entrapped in my own creations, my own festivities, dejections, ambitions and whatever else there is to me. Am all but myself.

I don't know if this post would ever be read by anyone or be understood in the exact way i perceive it. Believe me, it is not my concern. But yes, the optimist in me still sees some light, hope, possibility. Maybe my soul would raise from the depths where I have drowned and breathe in fresh morning air of dew, all the while reminiscencing the longing of the night which in all its beauty and confusion has trapped me.

I wonder if I could write and feel as I did.

Mumbai blasts - A deep disgust and vociferous anger

As I my heart grieves on the loss of my fellow countrymen in a tide of uninhibited terror and yet another blast soiling our soul, I switched off the tv channels with their extensive coverage and rhetoric. All they had to offer was kind of clichéd and I had seriously no desire to hear the lame ramblings and unfaithfully stern resolve of those sitting at the helm. It was barely a day after the cabinet reshuffle where people like Jayaram Ramesh who I feel to be more sincere in his cause had been shown the boot while Chidambaram was hailed and swung in his plush chair deciding on the questions ensuring our next breath. But after all there was no alternative to him and we as forgetful and responsible citizens were comfortable with the arrangement.

After making a quick call to take heed of the dear ones in the unfortunate city of Mumbai, I logged on to my facebook account inundated with status updates of the gruesome tragedy and an appeal to rally and buy new spectacles for the government. I was disgusted a little more. After all it was a déjà-vu I have come across a lot many times in past years. We write powerful slogans, take out marches, distribute pamphlets, light candles and after that walk back to our pads with a sense of smugness and content with playing the role which we believe is not our right but some obligatory peer pressure. I am sorry for being callous and cynic but am deeply hurt and very angry with all of us at this point of time. I hate the idea of forgetting and getting on with our lives as though nothing has happened, choosing to ward off the bad dream and exhibiting our cultivated anger only when we are poked with a pointy stick.

I don’t want to be a cynic here and I have no right to doubt the veritable emotions that surge when tragedy befalls. But strangely it all appears to be hypocritical for I know that just after a couple of days we shall be sharing videos on youtube and liking pictures of some exotic holiday on the very page where we plead for the cause of the country. It seems as though reality is shifted behind a thin veil of our own misery and thankfulness that we weren’t the victims, that we were safe (period) and life moves on with its sultry screeching pace.

As I logged on to NDTV website to check more on the catastrophe, my eyes shift to a near 3 min. video clip saying that Aishwarya Rai’s French award cancelled in wake of Mumbai tragedies. I seriously don’t give a fuck to what honour she was to be bestowed but I give a damn to how this news is important at such a ruminating hour. There were also posts on what Big B and other Bollywood celebs. had to speak on the blasts and my disgust spiraled higher. After all it’s another piece of news and such cheap gimmicks do sell.

Insanely furious and dejected over our sense of belonging and responsibility, I realize that I’ve no right to criticize the government and intelligence, when we as citizens are as callous and fake as could be. After all our blood boils only with the sound of the tragedy. We are pretty sedate otherwise. I don’t feel like giving any gyan and telling people that It is we who need to change. After all it is more convenient to believe in top down approach, waiting for the benefits to come within reach whence we could crawl and grab them not as our right but a favour done to us for being such responsible, proud and content citizens of the idea called India.

Jogging on a rainy evening

Jogging in the fading light of the dusk with the drizzle drenching my T shirt more than my sweat, I was actually feeling ecstatic. It was the first time I remember in my short lived memory when I had not taken my i pod and the humming of insects mixed with the croaking of stray frogs and the splatter of rain was playing the role of a joint of fine hash. I was intoxicated and though my legs were aching and my chest burning, I yearned to go a while longer, till I could fall facedown in the rainy puddle and feel triumphant.

It was a long while, more than two months since I ran last and the surge of breathlessness as my muscles secreted more lactic acid was overwhelming. I wondered why did I ever give up on running? Wasn't it one of the few acts in the day which made me feel alive, which granted a somewhat subtle meaning to this soporific life of mine? My mind was riddling with such many thoughts as I gazed around to see the brilliant green of the trees washed of dust. It felt as though my eyesight had improved and my specs. fogged by the rain was only an unnecessary accessory much like the appendix which is there but which I do not feel any need for.

I tried running on the road as the pavement beside was slushed and it would stain my brilliant white sneakers. But Hell!!!! Who cares? Am not here modelling for Dolce and Gabanna or doin an Akshay Kumar act for the Levis. I remembered Fightclub and how Brad Pitt says to Edward Norton of the false notions of a perfect man and how we readily believe what the brands have to speak for us. I jumped in the mud splashing it around, waiting for it to skid underneath my feet and lure me forward for a skateboard ride. I was a kid again - intrepid and impetuous and was loving every bit of it.

My tired legs slammed against the earth with a thud of the dead and it felt as though am a Frankenstein struck by the thunder that fused a life in me I had long forgotten. The rhythmic tap-tap of my shoes felt like rains on a cold grave and me the resident of that coffin. I was a dead man injected with a yearning and a wail.

As my breath choked me and my stomach gave a cry of the cramps, I stopped and walked. I didn't care to wipe the sweat on my forehead and back of neck. It was one with the rain. The rain was also salty. I broke into a brisk pace so that I could hold a little more on the last sips from the goblet. I was happy and after a much long time felt alive and meaningful.

Doubts here and there, flying everywhere

Ever wondered what an aura of a person looks like? We have a perceived idea that it is a golden round hallow glowing at a flame gentler and engulfing the saintly figures stretched across the pages of history. I often picture Gautam Buddha when I think of an aura. I have always wondered what it means? Is it a mere sense of divinity bestowed on a person by Upasakas (lay followers), Is it the story of the person and his travails with life that makes us see him as one with a golden halo, Is it our idea of the light of God, Is it our delusion or illumination to prostrate ourselves on feet of the hallowed? The questions are many, the answer is singular yet it is evasive and like millions of flickering dots of white light which we all have seen at some point or the other.

We all believe that there is a way in which the world is conducted and managed. Even the atheist and agnostic emotions know that there is some force which guides what we do, what we perceive and how we go about it. The mere difference is that it is God or faith or religion or multiple such other notions for the believers and it is self-confidence, self-determination, belief in one's qualities and inner voice and strength for the atheists and agnostics.

If we carefully observe there is not much difference though. Whether the tale is of confirming or denying the existence of God, it always boils down to what we believe and how far we believe in our belief. This is the only operative word. This is the only word that determines the chart and course we tread in our life and this only is the determinant of where we land.

This belief can be characterised in its innumerbale forms. We chose to believe at times only when we could see or hear the definite. We often forget that the definite is not only sensory but it could be tangible in ways our senses could perceive only when we stay still and listen. Isn't that how we can smell the fragrance of wind even when it is not raining, isn't it how we can feel the warmth of the Sun even when it is still up or below the horizon, Isn't it how we know that a stream in a forest will eventually lead us to some settlement. The last observation i made here is deliberate and emphasizes the quantum of faith we carry in our daily lives, no matter whether it comes from experience, trust, a hunch or a known fact. The chances are always dual and we choose to believe what we have to.

Our mind if often crept up with doubts swelling and swimming like phytoplanktons in the Antarctic sea (they are lesser now as applies to doubts too) and like an algae enveloping the entire river body (the doubts are multifarious). No matter what we do this cycle of doubts goes on and the vicious circle sucks us inside with its centripetal force so that all our mind possibly dwells on is doubts, explanation of doubts, answers for doubts and the way to break out of the cycle.

We all have faced this task at some point in our lives and we all have mantras to de-stress and to let go. At times the solution is elusive, at times it lasts for a while (till we shop and party) and at times it is a self-deceptive exercise (where we shun the existence of doubts). But it is only seldom that we accept them as they are and face them in their behemoth form.

We have also realized that the tyranny of doubts is overwhelming and the moment we are about to cross its borders, it spins harder and like a giant black hole it pulls us back destroying the thin strands of faith we rode on to escape its singularity.

But at all points of time we are also aware that there is a world, a creation beyond these strangling doubts and we all envision how happy and peaceful we are out there. When this awareness is visualized the doubt monster is in a frenzy as his reign of darkness is pulsated by a light which is the result of our belief and firm knowledge of the turn of tides and advent of better days. All that is dark perished when the light shone. In this light, in this aura, in this hallow we find our doubts melting and scattering far far away into some dungeon. It becomes anti-matter (something which is nugatory to our recent flush of belief and hope in good). And when this tide of light shines and verbates, all we need to do is not to chase it and hang on it tightly but let it suck us in in its still aura of illumination and peace. That is a place where the behemoth would fear to tread. And that is where lies our hope.

Hope is a beautiful thing. It tells you to expect the unexpected, to believe the implausible, to fly even when your feet are stuck in the dark mud of the pestilential agony and loss of worth. It is indeed one of the languages in which Gods at some end of this Universe speak to us in his sincere, grey and comforting tone.

To be agitated is a state which we all have so become habituated to. We believe that resilience will slowly spread its silken wings and descend on our parched souls, long lost in fits of despondency and contemplative and meticulously crafted pity.

I was spoken to today in many ways which are not only the most unusual but least expected. As fate and destiny are the instruments in the hand of invisible omnipresence, I won't delve on them much. I won't speak of instances which made my faith stronger and resolve impermeable. I won't saunter into the grey zone of my belief and phases of agnosticism. I won't speak of the tones in which I was comforted and assured. That all is kind of personal. Maybe all that I said here can be justified in the undermentioned lines from the Scraps of Bob Dylan. And then I shall get to writing what is meant to be written. A note of thanks and a heart of gratefulness.

The quote goes thus:-

"DESTINY is a feeling you have that you know something about yourself nobody else does. The picture you have in your own mind of what you're about WILL COME TRUE. It's a kind of a thing you kind of have to keep to your own self, because it's a fragile feeling, and you put it out there, then someone will kill it. It's best to keep that all inside."

So keeping inside what is supposed to lighten (Both in terms of pressure and transitive verb), and thanking God for his support and bringing to us what we need most at a particular stage, I shall speak of a phone conversation that not only uplifted me from the nooks of some creepy alley but also fed me with a music (hard rock) that was both deafening and enamouring at the same point.

It was 12:15. Sitting aimlessly and hyperventilating over How I fared in a task I undertook and whether success is elusive, I had a strong urge to speak to a long lost friend. Our friendship is more defined by the ways in which fight and not talk for 6 months after that, cut off each other from one's life and then in some strange twist of fate we end up speaking like we are meant to be with each other. Its a strange and fearsome compatibility. Something I won't dare to mess with but something I frequently risk to mess with.

We spoke for two and a half hours rambling on stuff we both desire, seek and hope for. We spoke of tales of success, the persevarance and patience it demands, the need for focus and determination, the resolve of not being bent by the tsunamis of failure and non-activity and on a cheerful note of how I can play a matchmaker to my friend.

We argued, we fought, we debated (even over our debating skills and who is better). We spoke in rowdy tones of uncouth hoodwinks, in tones of a sadness and depressions and in guffaws of laughter smirked across with innumerable smiles.

We spoke of how one year is less valuable than a life of frustration, how even 5 years is worth the wait for where we want to see ourselves and how the Universe shall be bent to fulfill our destined destinites. We were Alchemists conjuring every rare potion that could soothen our burns. We were optimists, we were victors, we were even the vanquished and the defeated.

In mid of this I remember one of the lines I read in Archies Comics. " What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to What lies within us".

Thus even in our frantic searches for answers, we could relate to the possibility of a perfect plate life is bound to serve as and when the time arrives and the destiny's bell is struck. I told you, we were optimists.

There is no good way to close something which has had such a deep and profound impact on you in such a short span. Maybe at times we know what is right and what is to be done. Maybe we have our paths charted out. But all that is required is a sense of reassurance to resurrect us from our own ashes. I found that flight in more than one ways today and speaking strictly for this phone conversation, all I would like to say is:-

Thank you so much Komal.

The observer and the observed

It was early morning. The sky was still sleeping in the hammock stretched between stars, stealing the final moments of the bluish dark of an early morning. The earth smelled of the cool breeze and the breeze had the fragrance of soil. Everything was stationary as though frozen in some picture whose soul was everywhere but in the picture. The hills were visible through the mist that hovered over the plains. It seemed as if the mist and fog were bedazzled by the splendour and might of hill and chose to tread on the lowly lands. Everything was silent and the only sound one could hear was the song of the dawn audible only to those who cared to wait and listen. The breeze was also quiet, thickened by the laziness of the night.

Esteban twitched in his bed. He opened and then closed his eyes, trying to live the final moments of a dying dream. He waited for the crow of the roosters. The first lights of the cold sun were faintly visible over the horizon. Esteban labored to open his eyes to escape the temptation of morning sleep. Reluctantly he got up and walked to the water pot in the corner of the hut. He splashed his face with cold water. As he wiped his face he tried to remember the dream he had. Most of it was lost by the touch of reality. He wondered about the world of dreams and the way they appear more alive and close to heart.

The sheep in the pen were also awake from the stupor of sleep and eagerly awaited to be herded to the pastures where the grass was flavored with tears of night. Esteban was calm and lost as he led the sheep to the greens. His mind was silent and observant and his face was radiant with the glow of imagination and thought. There was not a sound anywhere. Estebancraned his neck to look for the orange glow over the hills. He was startled by the unusual calm as he pressed his ears against nothing to hear the whisper of the wind.

The sheep walked in a rush as Esteban led them from the back. He wanted to be one of them for a while, nonchalant and dependent. He was tired of the daily chores and the only satisfaction he had had for days was lying back against the trunk of the mango tree and gaze at the birds flying over the blue horizon. At times he left his body and entered that of a bird. He flew over hills and lakes, looking at things from a different perspective, looking at his body balanced against the tree trunk, eyes distant and liquid.

The moon was still etched on the sky. Stretched against the infinite and seamless expanse, it resembled an old ship lost in a very ancient sea. The ghost of the moon ship longed for a port to lay down its anchor and rest its tired sails. The observer craved to be observed. Esteban looked up at the cloudless sky. The outline of the orange mixed with hint of yellow and red was visible over the hill. It belonged to some other world looking down at Esteban, his sheep and the green pastures bathed in sorrow of beauty. The upcoming day looked nonchalantly at dusk dissolving in small waves. In that moment of communion between day and night, one totality made way for other, one tired giant celebrated the victory of other. The moment was of submission, of sleep, of hope.

The pasture was the color of greenish black stone. The sheep quickly dispersed over the emerald glaze. Esteban walked slowly to the mango tree. The tree was still in sleep, silent and quiet as the dark of the early hours. He removed the bag from his shoulders, stretched his arms and poised himself against the wide trunk. He looked at the sheep, lost in their own minds, thoughtfully chewing the grass. Esteban thought “The sheep are saints. They meditate, think and maintain silence.” He slowly closed his eyes mirroring what was inside on the screen of his soul. His mind was a whirlpool of thoughts as he tried to silence it.

It could not have been more than five minutes but ages had passed since he had closed his eyes and wafted over the breeze mingling with stardust. Everything around was still extraordinarily quiet. Frozen in eternity, the vibration of life radiated every small object. The physical dependence was lost in the freedom of mind. The chains broke as Esteban plunged deep inside his imagination, creating and shaping the curve of everything beautiful.

Esteban thought “I am not actually hearing the golden sound of molten wax. This cannot be. It is just not possible to realise something so distant that even folktales elude it.” His muteness was shaken by the voice of sorrow, of love, of freedom, of beauty, of dreams, of wings over the distant hill. He looked around, ears pressed against wind, drinking the finest drop of that melting beauty. The sun was ephemeral, rays embracing the green of the grass. A million rainbows sparkled in the dew drops, bringing a million Gods, a million Devils to a standstill. Esteban looked up at the almond tree in bloom. The canvas was sketched against the blue orange eternity. One picture was painted inside other. The resplendence of goodness rained over the seed of hidden petals. And there perched on one of the highest branches, mixing with the radiance of the golden rays, stood a bird. The majesty of existence was summarized in one creation. The aura of truth was revealed at one sight. The bird was no creation of awe and amazement. It was no work of grandeur. In fact the beauty was so hauntingly simple that it amazed Esteban that why couldn’t he ever imagine such a thing. The bird was singing the song of frigid memories, bringing back to life tiny bubbles of fazed longings and forgotten dreams. Esteban tried to escape from his body to rest his tired soul in the voice of the Golden feathered bird. He tried harder and the more he tried, the more his soul clung to him. It refused to leave and create an imaginary universe, paralyzed by the fear of getting lost forever.

Hours passed and the song went on and on, shining with the rays of climbing sun, misted by the clouds, crying in the afternoon showers, promising for a return with the descent of sun over the hills. Esteban leaned on to his stick and whistled for the sheep to return. His voice reverberated in his ears, mixing with the sound of the evening clatter of birds. The sheep ledEsteban in obedience. Their saintliness was teeming with the satisfaction of satiation. Esteban had no words. He had forgotten his usual rush to return early. His steps were in slow motion. His being was silent while his mind sang a thousand tunes.

Esteban retired to bed early. His quiet mind feverishly searched for the nostalgia of the song he was immersed in. He closed his eyes and transcended into a familiar world. He looked at the green pasture enveloped in seas of darkness. The hills were a ghostly serene blue in the shower of moonlight. The mango tree slept with Esteban in the arms. The wind halted over his face, breathing over his postured body. And there over the hills in the depths of the lake he often dreamt of, stood the almond tree with the Golden winged Bird perched on the topmost branch, singing the song of full moon midnights.

I feel like an Idiot

Its 12:17 A.M. I've just had a smoke without really wanting to. I had it coz I felt like an idiot, chasing something I don't even know I feel for right now. I thought of writing this in word and stashing it in documents folder, never to be seen on read again till a few years down the line When I would have looked at it and thought well!!! I wasn't such an idiot after all. But here I am posting this in a public space coz the sight of a blank word document staring at me brings out what all I have been seeing inside me. A total void, a seething confusion, a complete forgetfulness of who i am and what i seek from life.

Lately I have been in two minds. Its no novel situation for me. I have always been in double states, always looking at the greener grass on the other side and invariably at all times when I have moved ahead I long to gaze back as i realize that the pasture i so despised and wanted to flee was the one which was my fold. At times I feel that I realize things later, later than they are to be understood and lived for and in this wanton mode i always miss to stay back and live in the present. Am too much of a past guy with eyes always set to some future which am not even sure of. Life has turned into one incongrous oxymoronic experience.

I love to write. I have always wanted to write a book and each and every time i read a moving piece, I think I could have written it. They all start speaking of my life, my meanderings and my poetry. I get so obsessed with the idea that I dream it often. I dream of writing, ideas springing in my head aimlessly. I would dream of plots and characters and in my dreams i would take a resolve that as soon as i get up I would pen it all down before it sinks back into the oblivion of my head. But with an uncanny ability of procrastination, I always leave it for some future date when am calm and composed and settled and when I could have all the time I wished for without the hurt and rush of accomplishing and striving for. I while away my time in wait for some day when all signals would be green and I could drive with the wind in my face and tears in my eye.

I take chances. I have always. Life to be is never stagnant but in pursuit of the unknown that i desire and hope for I never take an opportunity to sit and see life as it is. Am always torn between 'what is' and 'what ought to be' and 'what could be'.

I always want to write and say each and every thought that bubbles but i restrain for I don't want to sound like an idiot. Guess this is the reason I am one. In my pursuit for that tiny bit of happiness, i have often let gone the spontaneity and innocence I have so cherished.

But it all isn't about my desire to be a writer. It's about my soliloquy. At times I have glorified it, considering it the note that makes me who I am and pulls me back from joining the herd in some frantic chase of some ideal or state everyone is running after. On the contrary, I also have considered joining that herd, losing myself, forgetting who i am, forgetting who I want to be. The debate is always conventionalism v. conventionalism. It's the battle between succumbing and succumbing and resurrecting. It's between who i think I am and who I am not. Its between my fixed perceptions and my hatred for dogma. As i said it is always an oxymoronic existence for me.

I feel tired, sucked out of life, waiting to be resuscitated, waiting to be pushed over the cliff so that as i get into the free fall I could fly.