Who dare wrap your soul in chains
and watch as it goes up in flames?
Of a thousand rainbows your dreams are made,
never should a single one fade.
Break the prison your mind is in,
free the genius enslaved within.
Burn the fences around your thoughts,
rise above the world that rots .
Spit the posion that is fear,
taste the freedom so sweet and near.
Pay no heed to Reality,
nor Discipline's brutality.
Obedience is nothing but traitor,
you were born to play Creator.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Saturday, May 24, 2008
The Pianist (short story)
The Pianist
THE BOLD summer sun broke through the half-drawn curtains of Ketan's bedroom, almost mocking the inability of any man-made object to keep out its powerful rays at the height of a Hyderabad summer. It did not take long for Ketan, a chartered accountant in his late twenties, to realise that these same powerful rays had announced to him the arrival of another day. As with many people, Ketan's waking procedure consisted of one swift jerk that transformed him from a reclining homo sapien into a half-upright one. As he did so, his head hurt slightly, and he felt his temples beat to the rhythm of his pulse. This was slightly unusual. A frown and a recollection later, the reason became apparent. The previous evening had consisted of an unpleasant dinner with two of his colleagues from the firm where he worked. It was unpleasant for two reasons. The first was the company of two rather brash individuals, who derived great pleasure from giving unsolicited advice. The second reason was slightly more complex- before the unpleasant dinner, Ketan managed to have a five minute conversation in a nearby coffee shop with an old school friend he had run into. Not too much can be said in five minutes, and in this case the conversation comprised the usual details of work and residence, quality of coffee, and the opening of an art exhibition. Five minutes can, however, give one something to hope for, and throughout the torturous barrage of professional advice that he was getting, that conversation seemed to waft through the corridors of his mind. He wanted to be someplace else, with someone else, who seemed to exist on a higher plane than those he was used to seeing. Higher or not, it was a plane where he could be honest with himself, a place where he did not need to convince himself over and over again that he was comfortable there. For five mintues, there was a hand reaching out and offering to take him to that plane. The more he thought about it, the more he felt trapped by the world he had allowed to be built around him that evening.
Apart from that headache, there was not too much about the last three decades in Ketan's life that was unusual. He was the average student, and the average neighbourhood boy with the average number of friends who all together would fit wonderfully into a picture captioned "Hyderabad city life, circa early 90's".
Just as he emerged ready to take on another workday at the firm, his average mobile phone rang. "What is your sad face doing today ? ", blurted a loud voice on the other side.
"What do you think it would do?", came the response from Ketan, who proceeded towards a tea-stall outside his apartment building. A smile started to flicker on his face. These were the two things that granted Ketan asylum from a job and society that he was mostly indifferent to, and disliked once in a while. The owner of the loud voice, Rohit, who was a loud, outspoken, ambitious twenty-nine year old, but deep down an extremely perceptive and sensitive childhood friend. The tea stall, which seemed to have a soothing effect on all who were within a few metres of it. It was as if it had a climate of it's own, offering it's clients shelter from all their problems
"Is it six’ o’clock today as well?", blurted Rohit again.
"Done. See you there".
A signature of the society and times Ketan lived in was the belief that life was just that unavoidable period between tea sessions. Therefore, there was never a lack of enthusiasm for scheduling the next one, even if it was more than eight hours away. With that taken care of, he completed his morning tea-drinking ritual and sped away to Allied Associates (AA).
Six’ o’clock arrived, and as it did, the ever rising city skyline began to swallow the large orange ball that was the setting sun, and in it's likeness, the citizens swallowed another set of frustrations, fears and ambitions that belonged to them that day as they returned home.
The sunset was a pretty sight from where Ketan and Rohit sat, a lakeside cafe.
"How is your piano coming along?", asked Rohit.
"Alright, it's coming along", Ketan replied, in a manner that seemed to suggest that he anticipated the question and came prepared with an answer. The piano was a component of Ketan's life that was somewhere between the usual and the unusual. He happened to come from a family of enthusiastic amateur musicians, who were well known among their circles to be one of the better amateurs. He had been playing the piano for about five years, more as an acknowledgement of a tradition in his family, rather than to derive pleasure from it, which he occasionally did.
"There is a month long evening course at Kala Bhavan for intermediate level piano", continued Rohit, handing Ketan a newspaper clipping. "I think you should go. It will be fun and you are actually good at it."
"I should probably give it a try".
It was a rather bland reply considering that this newspaper clipping was the harbinger of a season of euphoria that would drench Ketan's parched landscape in beauty and thrill. The tea-session next evening was compromised, and Ketan found himself filling out a form in Kala Bhavan, assisted by a sleepy but well-natured clerk. A middle-aged man of slight build started peering over his shoulder. Surely, this chap had to be some kind of phony, agent of fraud, or one of those salesmen who try to sell you things that are too good to be true.
"When do you begin?", asked the man whose shiftiness still made Ketan keep his guard up.
"Monday".
"This is Suhas sir. He will be your teacher." This came from the clerk, who didn't seem as sleepy anymore.
"And Dev, how late will you sit at this desk?", snapped the instructor.
"As long as you want me to, sir".
Suhas suddenly burst into a loud, wheezy, laugh that never seemed to end. Rather like the noise a very old car makes when it struggles to start.
As is the habit with Mondays, the next one came sooner than expected. Barely was Ketan getting used to the fact that this shifty, small-built man would be his teacher for the next month, when he, along with fifteen others, was already under his stern command.
"In music, if you don't have discipline and practice, you have nothing", asserted Suhas who suddenly seemed more like a general than a thief. If not fingers on a keyboard, he seemed to be giving Ketan's imagination a thorough workout. By the time one week had breezed past, Ketan began to enjoy himself. The class was something he would look forward to. He would look forward to marveling at the musical genius and expertise of Suhas, straining his fingers on the musical instrument, almost shredding every note that he played with his auditory senses until he was convinced that the piano approved of what he was producing from it. He was playing a short piece from Mozart.
"Rather hard for the twelfth day, isn't it". Ketan looked up from the piano, as though one of his better dreams had been interrupted. However, he found the interruption to be rather pleasant. Megha and Vikram, also from the piano class, smiling. Although he mingled fairly freely with most of the others, there was something about these two people that drew Ketan towards them- like the school friend from the cafe.
"There's good pakora at the place downstairs. Do you want to join us?", inquired the pleasant faced girl at the end of a discussion on the Mozart piece. An excuse to eat is not something to turn a blind eye to. Especially not when it is in the company you desire.
In the days to follow, the steady stream of income for the owner of the pakora place became slightly steadier, thanks to the three pianists who made it a fuelling station for mind, soul and stomach. The pakoras were always hot and crisp, and at the heart of the discussion was always this:
Music, to those who love it, is as pure and perfect a form as human beings can ever wish to create. It seems untouched by all the imperfections we suffer from. It is so immune to our individual shortcomings and faults that life has inflicted upon us, and indeed, can even turn sorrow and pain into something beautiful.
Ketan no longer looked forward to the music class- it simply became the core of his existence. The piano was no longer a hobby. It was a companion who took him to that higher plane, where he wasn't constantly interrogating himself and there were no thoughts about futility or lack of purpose. When he heard the piano, joyously congratulating him on a piece he had mastered, he closed his eyes; as Time was in its restless element, relentlessly hurrying by and taking the whole frenzied world with it, he had managed to steal a few moments from it to keep for himself, to treasure. He felt the thrill rush through his viens. It was unusual- there was no compromise- it was pure euphoria.
It was the last evening of class. Ketan had just left his office on his trusted motorbike. He had never felt this fresh about life before. He heard a huge blaring horn behind him. Followed by a dull clink-clank of metallic objects, and a buzz of muffled human voices; he could not make out what they were saying. In fact, he was not moving anymore. Where was his bike? Where were the traffic and the pollution? Where was he?
"I'm so sorry, bhai".
Rohit. Without any flippant expression or smart remarks. This was the serious Rohit expression, the one which Ketan saw only when something was desperately wrong, and he knew it. Megha and Vikarm too. But speechless.
A truck…a pair of failed brakes…a collision…a hospital…and an amputated right arm. That was what was revealed to our budding musician. So much lost so quickly, it was enough to make the sufferer flinch in the presence of any optimism. Over the past four weeks, his spirit had been soaring high above the drudgery of an industrialised life, smelling freedom and ecstasy in the winds. Now something had clipped its wings, and made it limp on the ugly ground beneath: a makeshift job at AA that his boss was kind enough to offer, and adjusting to a one-handed existence. The medication made him fall asleep. Rohit was by his side when he woke up again. "You're staying with me, buddy. I'll be your right-hand man... or even your right hand". A smile.
"I heard you can even play the piano one-handed", said Ketan, face turned towards the window.
The bold summer sun broke through the barely-drawn curtains of Ketan's room. It announced to him the beginning of a new day.
THE BOLD summer sun broke through the half-drawn curtains of Ketan's bedroom, almost mocking the inability of any man-made object to keep out its powerful rays at the height of a Hyderabad summer. It did not take long for Ketan, a chartered accountant in his late twenties, to realise that these same powerful rays had announced to him the arrival of another day. As with many people, Ketan's waking procedure consisted of one swift jerk that transformed him from a reclining homo sapien into a half-upright one. As he did so, his head hurt slightly, and he felt his temples beat to the rhythm of his pulse. This was slightly unusual. A frown and a recollection later, the reason became apparent. The previous evening had consisted of an unpleasant dinner with two of his colleagues from the firm where he worked. It was unpleasant for two reasons. The first was the company of two rather brash individuals, who derived great pleasure from giving unsolicited advice. The second reason was slightly more complex- before the unpleasant dinner, Ketan managed to have a five minute conversation in a nearby coffee shop with an old school friend he had run into. Not too much can be said in five minutes, and in this case the conversation comprised the usual details of work and residence, quality of coffee, and the opening of an art exhibition. Five minutes can, however, give one something to hope for, and throughout the torturous barrage of professional advice that he was getting, that conversation seemed to waft through the corridors of his mind. He wanted to be someplace else, with someone else, who seemed to exist on a higher plane than those he was used to seeing. Higher or not, it was a plane where he could be honest with himself, a place where he did not need to convince himself over and over again that he was comfortable there. For five mintues, there was a hand reaching out and offering to take him to that plane. The more he thought about it, the more he felt trapped by the world he had allowed to be built around him that evening.
Apart from that headache, there was not too much about the last three decades in Ketan's life that was unusual. He was the average student, and the average neighbourhood boy with the average number of friends who all together would fit wonderfully into a picture captioned "Hyderabad city life, circa early 90's".
Just as he emerged ready to take on another workday at the firm, his average mobile phone rang. "What is your sad face doing today ? ", blurted a loud voice on the other side.
"What do you think it would do?", came the response from Ketan, who proceeded towards a tea-stall outside his apartment building. A smile started to flicker on his face. These were the two things that granted Ketan asylum from a job and society that he was mostly indifferent to, and disliked once in a while. The owner of the loud voice, Rohit, who was a loud, outspoken, ambitious twenty-nine year old, but deep down an extremely perceptive and sensitive childhood friend. The tea stall, which seemed to have a soothing effect on all who were within a few metres of it. It was as if it had a climate of it's own, offering it's clients shelter from all their problems
"Is it six’ o’clock today as well?", blurted Rohit again.
"Done. See you there".
A signature of the society and times Ketan lived in was the belief that life was just that unavoidable period between tea sessions. Therefore, there was never a lack of enthusiasm for scheduling the next one, even if it was more than eight hours away. With that taken care of, he completed his morning tea-drinking ritual and sped away to Allied Associates (AA).
Six’ o’clock arrived, and as it did, the ever rising city skyline began to swallow the large orange ball that was the setting sun, and in it's likeness, the citizens swallowed another set of frustrations, fears and ambitions that belonged to them that day as they returned home.
The sunset was a pretty sight from where Ketan and Rohit sat, a lakeside cafe.
"How is your piano coming along?", asked Rohit.
"Alright, it's coming along", Ketan replied, in a manner that seemed to suggest that he anticipated the question and came prepared with an answer. The piano was a component of Ketan's life that was somewhere between the usual and the unusual. He happened to come from a family of enthusiastic amateur musicians, who were well known among their circles to be one of the better amateurs. He had been playing the piano for about five years, more as an acknowledgement of a tradition in his family, rather than to derive pleasure from it, which he occasionally did.
"There is a month long evening course at Kala Bhavan for intermediate level piano", continued Rohit, handing Ketan a newspaper clipping. "I think you should go. It will be fun and you are actually good at it."
"I should probably give it a try".
It was a rather bland reply considering that this newspaper clipping was the harbinger of a season of euphoria that would drench Ketan's parched landscape in beauty and thrill. The tea-session next evening was compromised, and Ketan found himself filling out a form in Kala Bhavan, assisted by a sleepy but well-natured clerk. A middle-aged man of slight build started peering over his shoulder. Surely, this chap had to be some kind of phony, agent of fraud, or one of those salesmen who try to sell you things that are too good to be true.
"When do you begin?", asked the man whose shiftiness still made Ketan keep his guard up.
"Monday".
"This is Suhas sir. He will be your teacher." This came from the clerk, who didn't seem as sleepy anymore.
"And Dev, how late will you sit at this desk?", snapped the instructor.
"As long as you want me to, sir".
Suhas suddenly burst into a loud, wheezy, laugh that never seemed to end. Rather like the noise a very old car makes when it struggles to start.
As is the habit with Mondays, the next one came sooner than expected. Barely was Ketan getting used to the fact that this shifty, small-built man would be his teacher for the next month, when he, along with fifteen others, was already under his stern command.
"In music, if you don't have discipline and practice, you have nothing", asserted Suhas who suddenly seemed more like a general than a thief. If not fingers on a keyboard, he seemed to be giving Ketan's imagination a thorough workout. By the time one week had breezed past, Ketan began to enjoy himself. The class was something he would look forward to. He would look forward to marveling at the musical genius and expertise of Suhas, straining his fingers on the musical instrument, almost shredding every note that he played with his auditory senses until he was convinced that the piano approved of what he was producing from it. He was playing a short piece from Mozart.
"Rather hard for the twelfth day, isn't it". Ketan looked up from the piano, as though one of his better dreams had been interrupted. However, he found the interruption to be rather pleasant. Megha and Vikram, also from the piano class, smiling. Although he mingled fairly freely with most of the others, there was something about these two people that drew Ketan towards them- like the school friend from the cafe.
"There's good pakora at the place downstairs. Do you want to join us?", inquired the pleasant faced girl at the end of a discussion on the Mozart piece. An excuse to eat is not something to turn a blind eye to. Especially not when it is in the company you desire.
In the days to follow, the steady stream of income for the owner of the pakora place became slightly steadier, thanks to the three pianists who made it a fuelling station for mind, soul and stomach. The pakoras were always hot and crisp, and at the heart of the discussion was always this:
Music, to those who love it, is as pure and perfect a form as human beings can ever wish to create. It seems untouched by all the imperfections we suffer from. It is so immune to our individual shortcomings and faults that life has inflicted upon us, and indeed, can even turn sorrow and pain into something beautiful.
Ketan no longer looked forward to the music class- it simply became the core of his existence. The piano was no longer a hobby. It was a companion who took him to that higher plane, where he wasn't constantly interrogating himself and there were no thoughts about futility or lack of purpose. When he heard the piano, joyously congratulating him on a piece he had mastered, he closed his eyes; as Time was in its restless element, relentlessly hurrying by and taking the whole frenzied world with it, he had managed to steal a few moments from it to keep for himself, to treasure. He felt the thrill rush through his viens. It was unusual- there was no compromise- it was pure euphoria.
It was the last evening of class. Ketan had just left his office on his trusted motorbike. He had never felt this fresh about life before. He heard a huge blaring horn behind him. Followed by a dull clink-clank of metallic objects, and a buzz of muffled human voices; he could not make out what they were saying. In fact, he was not moving anymore. Where was his bike? Where were the traffic and the pollution? Where was he?
"I'm so sorry, bhai".
Rohit. Without any flippant expression or smart remarks. This was the serious Rohit expression, the one which Ketan saw only when something was desperately wrong, and he knew it. Megha and Vikarm too. But speechless.
A truck…a pair of failed brakes…a collision…a hospital…and an amputated right arm. That was what was revealed to our budding musician. So much lost so quickly, it was enough to make the sufferer flinch in the presence of any optimism. Over the past four weeks, his spirit had been soaring high above the drudgery of an industrialised life, smelling freedom and ecstasy in the winds. Now something had clipped its wings, and made it limp on the ugly ground beneath: a makeshift job at AA that his boss was kind enough to offer, and adjusting to a one-handed existence. The medication made him fall asleep. Rohit was by his side when he woke up again. "You're staying with me, buddy. I'll be your right-hand man... or even your right hand". A smile.
"I heard you can even play the piano one-handed", said Ketan, face turned towards the window.
The bold summer sun broke through the barely-drawn curtains of Ketan's room. It announced to him the beginning of a new day.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Mirrors
One mirror in my bedroom
in which I see shattered dreams
One on the lake so calm
a thought on its surface gleams
Perhaps one
In every grain of sparkling sand
to show what infinity means
One mirror on pure white marble
to me my faults it shows
One in every puddle I see
before I break it with my toes
Perhaps one
held in the clear blue sky
to show where innocence goes
One mirror this world holds up
to a purpose it pretends to find
and one by one the masses go
their thoughts and acts aligned
One mirror within us all
an image beautifully desinged
and in the fear of a fall
to this beauty fools are blind
in which I see shattered dreams
One on the lake so calm
a thought on its surface gleams
Perhaps one
In every grain of sparkling sand
to show what infinity means
One mirror on pure white marble
to me my faults it shows
One in every puddle I see
before I break it with my toes
Perhaps one
held in the clear blue sky
to show where innocence goes
One mirror this world holds up
to a purpose it pretends to find
and one by one the masses go
their thoughts and acts aligned
One mirror within us all
an image beautifully desinged
and in the fear of a fall
to this beauty fools are blind
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