Memory can be a strange thing. Sometimes it is a stalker, persistently reminding us of moments we would like to forget; sometimes the kind stranger who covers us with something warm when we are out in the cold; and perhaps sometimes an old friend we can visit for consolation, advice, inspiration, or hope.
What is a photograph but an attempt to capture a memory, to put a colorful bird in a cage, to run into the kind stranger, to give the old friend an address we can always find? And then came lenses, Eastman Kodak, zoom, flash, Polaroid, SLR, digital photography, camera phones, and megapixels. Capturing a photograph has become a hobby, a profession, an art, a passion, and, for some, even an obsession.
But the mind still remains the best camera, the best instrument of photography. There is something one-dimensional about photography. Light is its only tool. Even video recording has a limited arsenal- sound and light. Capturing a true photograph, stuffing a moment or two in time into your pocket, giving physical form to a fragment of memory, requires perception, of the thousands of stimuli and emotions whose complex interplay gives birth to a single moment in our lives, and not merely precise measurement of the physics of light and sound. What was I feeling like when the photograph was taken? What did I smell, hear, or react to? Which emotions were racing through my head and heart? What madness was I just about to be guilty of? These are all questions that cannot be answered in megapixels. The mind captures the moment; the mind captures that infinitesimal yet profound fragment of our insignificant yet confusingly active lives.
In my moments where I want to visit that old friend, I do not flip through albums. I find myself opening little snuff-box-sized boxes of these moments. Where I can feel the crispness and innocence of a blue sky that I once saw; where I am stirred by the deep melancholic sound of ocean waves meeting their eventual fate on a rocky seashore; where I am overpowered by the mystic gloom of the evening fog (smog?) that enveloped the ocean and the horizon as I crossed a marvellous bridge. Strangely enough, I have no photographs of the moments that have stayed with me longer than others. Maybe that's because life's most special moments never announce themselves with a pose--when they come, we are never ready with a camera. But I am digressing here.
Here is perhaps what makes the mind's "camera" more special to me: a photograph captures the moment like a hunter would a prize, but when we capture a moment or object of beauty in our mind, it is a tribute, and to some infinitesimal yet profound extent, an act of surrender.
I wonder how many would agree. :)
Friday, November 13, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
A Dream
Little drops of golden sunshine filled his hitherto empty bowl. He looked up at the sky, his eyes shining with joy and intelligence, clear as they were because of the innocence that he still played host to. In his eyes was the reflection of the sky, which was still crisp and true in its azure hue. He felt warmth on his skin, but he did not know where it came from or why he felt it. The warmth made him feel like more than a collection of chemicals and organic substances—the warmth assured him that he had a right to hold that bowl and that it should, at least occasionally, be filled with the golden drops. A stream flowed nearby—he heard its constant gentle murmur; as if the stream was conversing meekly with everything that happened to be along its path, as if it was whispering little secrets without knowing whether little secrets can be whispered safely. The boy started walking towards the murmur, curious as he was about where the soft rolling sounds were coming from. The azure sky swiftly turned into a ceiling of dark green, with only a few sieves in it that barely allowed the sunlight to touch the bed of dried leaves, fallen fruit, and traveller’s footprints that was the forest floor. The boy still had his bowl, and he kept looking at it, sometimes to admire the golden drops, sometimes to make sure they were still there, and sometimes to simply feel secure among the trees that towered above him and the jungle that was breathing its intimidating chaos through the damp wind. As his steps—sometimes hesitant, sometimes bold, sometimes hopeful—led him along a path that the bewildering complexity of the jungle did not let him understand, he began to perspire, and the cold drops of sweat reminded him that he was alone in this little adventure of his. A few wandering moments later, he stopped to catch his breath and comprehend what he was doing. He wanted to know why the forest was aloof and unhelpful, almost proud of its power to perplex. Just as fear and reason began to win the incessant war that they waged on courage and innocence, he heard sweet music from one of the trees. The ceiling began to appear darker than before; but this time, it was because the darkness was in contrast with a brilliant crisp ray of light, with a touching glow that made all the demons born of the insensitive darkness of the jungle and conceived by its incomprehensible chaos instantly turn to dust. The glow belonged to an angel—a being of captivating beauty, with an intoxicating fragrance, with eyes that seemed to shine and bring out purpose in a meaningless existence, a warm embrace to melt a thousand cold winters, and a smile that for a moment, seemed to be the only believable truth in the forest that existed only to deceive. The angel drew him into flight, and even though he did knew he would never be able to find his way back to where he began, he gave himself no choice but to follow.
When his eyes opened, he was by the stream that continued to meekly murmur its little secrets. He tried to remember the sweetness and exhilaration of his flight. He did. But his bowl was gone, and so was the angel. The stream continued to whisper; the pure untouched stream was calling out to him to look into the gracefully flowing mirror of truth. In the mirror, he found a rugged man with scores of scars running across his face and a body that was now sprinkled with bruises, the souvenirs from his journey through the forest. And there he sat, looking into the stream, listening to it, and making peace with his bruises; he, the guardian of innocence and adventure.
When his eyes opened, he was by the stream that continued to meekly murmur its little secrets. He tried to remember the sweetness and exhilaration of his flight. He did. But his bowl was gone, and so was the angel. The stream continued to whisper; the pure untouched stream was calling out to him to look into the gracefully flowing mirror of truth. In the mirror, he found a rugged man with scores of scars running across his face and a body that was now sprinkled with bruises, the souvenirs from his journey through the forest. And there he sat, looking into the stream, listening to it, and making peace with his bruises; he, the guardian of innocence and adventure.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
The growing distance
You and I,
just faces in a picture,
lines from a forgotten song,
stranded in our silence,
we forgot to sing along.
You and I,
ships lost in the fog,
with no dreams to explore,
not sailing but drifting,
to our own desolate shore.
As Time plays hearse,
and love is buried deep,
hearts and faces so cold,
they dare not weep.
We heal our wounds,
with an empty sigh,
both you and I.
just faces in a picture,
lines from a forgotten song,
stranded in our silence,
we forgot to sing along.
You and I,
ships lost in the fog,
with no dreams to explore,
not sailing but drifting,
to our own desolate shore.
As Time plays hearse,
and love is buried deep,
hearts and faces so cold,
they dare not weep.
We heal our wounds,
with an empty sigh,
both you and I.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Sunlight
There are few things as inspiring as sunlight. Sunrise and sunset—sources of beauty that are so close to us, touching us softly but powerfully whenever we care to watch. Over the past one week, I have had the fortune of watching the sun rise over a creek every single day. The crispness and freshness of the morning light never fails to inspire me. The morning rays seem so much purer than everything else they touch, renewing promise and optimism each day. Even more amazing is the number of forms in which they can be seen. Whether filtering in through a glass window, piercing a gap between curtains, or breaking into a room as a sharp beam only to illuminate the chaotic dust particles, morning rays are beautiful. Then, there is the sky; azure sky, especially in the winter, is the perfect background, the perfect prop for sunrise to unveil its act of promise and beauty.
More intoxicating and captivating (personally, at least) than sunrise is sunset. Sunset is so beautiful that I am almost intimidated by its beauty when I try and describe it. If sunrise is inspiring, sunset is moving. There is a richness and depth to the setting sun that cannot be matched. The color of the mighty sphere just before it goes down is breathtaking—like the dance of pure fire in a flux of molten gold. This color calls out to the beauty within each of us that is fighting a losing battle against the inevitability of destruction but appears increasingly beautiful as it tries to prove its worth against a cursed end. And then, there is the sky. Sunset far outdoes sunrise in transforming the drab afternoon canvas into an intoxicating mix of color. An invisible magical paintbrush waltzes over the sky to wash the evening sky with various shades of, what I will call for the lack of any word that can do it justice, sunset color. After the sky, there is the glow. Where sunrise pierces, sunset envelopes. Gently, like children whispering little secrets into each other’s ears, the sunset envelopes our evening with a moaning glow that, for a few moments, seems to change the context of our existence. Finally, there is what sunset does to water—the trail of light from the sunset glistening on the surface of the sea, like a trail of bleeding memories that disappear into an ocean of sorrow. Stand on the seashore, and the trail will trace a path from the horizon to your toes. A graceful, touching, crying, smiling, powerful, and beckoning sunset—suggesting perhaps that the end can be more beautiful than the beginning.
The Earth is indeed a fortunate planet, to receive unconditionally something so pure, especially when its inhabitants make it play host to a world full of corruption, deceit, and compromise.
More intoxicating and captivating (personally, at least) than sunrise is sunset. Sunset is so beautiful that I am almost intimidated by its beauty when I try and describe it. If sunrise is inspiring, sunset is moving. There is a richness and depth to the setting sun that cannot be matched. The color of the mighty sphere just before it goes down is breathtaking—like the dance of pure fire in a flux of molten gold. This color calls out to the beauty within each of us that is fighting a losing battle against the inevitability of destruction but appears increasingly beautiful as it tries to prove its worth against a cursed end. And then, there is the sky. Sunset far outdoes sunrise in transforming the drab afternoon canvas into an intoxicating mix of color. An invisible magical paintbrush waltzes over the sky to wash the evening sky with various shades of, what I will call for the lack of any word that can do it justice, sunset color. After the sky, there is the glow. Where sunrise pierces, sunset envelopes. Gently, like children whispering little secrets into each other’s ears, the sunset envelopes our evening with a moaning glow that, for a few moments, seems to change the context of our existence. Finally, there is what sunset does to water—the trail of light from the sunset glistening on the surface of the sea, like a trail of bleeding memories that disappear into an ocean of sorrow. Stand on the seashore, and the trail will trace a path from the horizon to your toes. A graceful, touching, crying, smiling, powerful, and beckoning sunset—suggesting perhaps that the end can be more beautiful than the beginning.
The Earth is indeed a fortunate planet, to receive unconditionally something so pure, especially when its inhabitants make it play host to a world full of corruption, deceit, and compromise.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Magnidude: The magnitude of dudeness
The Dude can be spotted in a few places. The Dude never falls ill, and neither is The Dude ever in a bad mood. The Dude’s room is in a mess, but The Dude can find everything he needs to. The Dude always looks spiffy, even if he does not wash his clothes; and when The Dude does wash his clothes, he never has a sock missing. The Dude never wakes up early, but The Dude is never late. The Dude never has to rely on public transport, and even if has to, he can catch the train just as it is leaving. The Dude rarely got caught in college; and even if he did, he always managed to avoid major trouble. Nobody dislikes The Dude; and even if they do, they forget about it pretty soon. Everyone laughs at the The Dude’s jokes. The Dude is always noticed at parties, and everyone thinks The Dude can dance well. When The Dude speaks, nobody is bored. The Dude always wins at poker and tennis. The Dude has a way with the ladies. The Dude is so cool that he the laws of thermodynamics do not hold wherever he goes. The Dude always has a retort/answer/witty remark. In fact, The Dude always has the last word or last laugh, or both.
Please report any sighting of The Dude in your neighborhood immediately to the nearest CCC (Coolness Control Center). We need to monitor The Dude and his activities, or else The Dude will strike without warning, leaving you dazed and confused with an infeariority complex (the condition where one feels that he or she is afraid of more things than The Dude is). If spotted, please do not attempt to reason or conduct conversation with The Dude, because he might just disappear after talking you into believing in WMDs (the Ways & Means of Dudeness). Leave the rest to DDD (Director of Dude Disposal). There is no reward for supplying information about The Dude and his movements—it is your responsibility as a citizen of this world to stop The Dude and ensure that things always appear impossibly difficult and complicated.
Save the environment: defeat The Dude.
Please report any sighting of The Dude in your neighborhood immediately to the nearest CCC (Coolness Control Center). We need to monitor The Dude and his activities, or else The Dude will strike without warning, leaving you dazed and confused with an infeariority complex (the condition where one feels that he or she is afraid of more things than The Dude is). If spotted, please do not attempt to reason or conduct conversation with The Dude, because he might just disappear after talking you into believing in WMDs (the Ways & Means of Dudeness). Leave the rest to DDD (Director of Dude Disposal). There is no reward for supplying information about The Dude and his movements—it is your responsibility as a citizen of this world to stop The Dude and ensure that things always appear impossibly difficult and complicated.
Save the environment: defeat The Dude.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Happiness versus Euphoria
Happiness or euphoria? It can be a tricky choice to make. I suspect that the role of this choice in shaping the complex contours of our lives is grossly underestimated. Rarely do Sunday columns or self-help books discuss this choice in detail.
To begin with, how do we define happiness or euphoria? They are states of being. Happiness and euphoria are so hopelessly subjective that it would make no sense to try and describe them here. But I’m sure that in our own way, in our own combination of people, places, objects, and emotions, we can define these things for ourselves.
What is required to make a choice is knowledge of the difference between the two—perhaps subjective as well, but here is my version of it.
Euphoria is more elusive. Happiness is easier to get. Euphoria is a result of something special, something rare and above average. Euphoria has its roots in special talent or sparkling intelligence; like when you listen to a brilliant piece of music or read a few words full of subtle wit. Euphoria is a buzz that goes through your head and tells you that life is worth living after all. Happiness is poor man’s euphoria. It may not be everywhere, but it is relatively cheap. I feel I have made a compromise when I am happy but not euphoric. In a world that seems to be going to pieces, happiness seems to be getting increasingly uncommon. In the end though, happiness feels rather mediocre.
But there is the dark side of the force. Euphoria is dangerous—its addictive—and the lack of euphoria can rightly be held responsible for the sharp sense of depression and futility that I am sure has stabbed each one of us at least once. This is perhaps the reason why more people seem to prefer being happy than chase after euphoria. The pursuit of happiness is a safe goal; the quest for euphoria is a risky proposition.
The choice that people make reflects in everything around us—in music, art, literature, cinema, and in people and their sense of humor. The lack of creativity or intelligence in so many things that we see is a result of people being lured by the low price tag and push-button effort that are characteristic of happiness.
What would happen if more people began to demand euphoria? What would happen if we raised the bar? My guess is we would have more suicides, more people on antidepressant drugs, art with more substance and creativity, and more intelligent humor as opposed to commercial wonders, prime-time television, and social networking.
Ultimately, it’s a choice.
To begin with, how do we define happiness or euphoria? They are states of being. Happiness and euphoria are so hopelessly subjective that it would make no sense to try and describe them here. But I’m sure that in our own way, in our own combination of people, places, objects, and emotions, we can define these things for ourselves.
What is required to make a choice is knowledge of the difference between the two—perhaps subjective as well, but here is my version of it.
Euphoria is more elusive. Happiness is easier to get. Euphoria is a result of something special, something rare and above average. Euphoria has its roots in special talent or sparkling intelligence; like when you listen to a brilliant piece of music or read a few words full of subtle wit. Euphoria is a buzz that goes through your head and tells you that life is worth living after all. Happiness is poor man’s euphoria. It may not be everywhere, but it is relatively cheap. I feel I have made a compromise when I am happy but not euphoric. In a world that seems to be going to pieces, happiness seems to be getting increasingly uncommon. In the end though, happiness feels rather mediocre.
But there is the dark side of the force. Euphoria is dangerous—its addictive—and the lack of euphoria can rightly be held responsible for the sharp sense of depression and futility that I am sure has stabbed each one of us at least once. This is perhaps the reason why more people seem to prefer being happy than chase after euphoria. The pursuit of happiness is a safe goal; the quest for euphoria is a risky proposition.
The choice that people make reflects in everything around us—in music, art, literature, cinema, and in people and their sense of humor. The lack of creativity or intelligence in so many things that we see is a result of people being lured by the low price tag and push-button effort that are characteristic of happiness.
What would happen if more people began to demand euphoria? What would happen if we raised the bar? My guess is we would have more suicides, more people on antidepressant drugs, art with more substance and creativity, and more intelligent humor as opposed to commercial wonders, prime-time television, and social networking.
Ultimately, it’s a choice.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
The love of appreciation
People express themselves in many forms—some write poetry, some make music, some paint pictures; the list is endless. In fact, in daily life, people are always expressing their innermost desires and ambitions in some form or another even without their knowing it.
I have always wondered how much of the motivation for expression or creativity comes from the true love of expression itself and how much from the thirst for appreciation. Many of us would like to believe that the need for appreciation or fame is not the reason why we do what we do. We do what we do because we love doing those things. But there is always that little void, however small, inside us waiting, almost begging, to be filled with a little praise, approval, and perhaps even love. That little void is why musicians perform in front of audiences, why there are art galleries and not art warehouses, why I am writing this article on a blog instead of simply saving a copy of it for myself. It is unfortunate that there is this complex interplay between chemicals and electric impulses in our brain that is responsible for the dreadful currency called emotion; and sometimes, we are held hostage by the uncontrollable greed to make a profit in this currency.
Would we play music if we knew nobody is ever going to listen to us play? Would we paint if we knew nobody is going to look? Would we write if we knew nobody is going to read? Does there have to be an external reward associated with every pursuit?
My suspicion is that we are always on the lookout for some form of positive feedback. I have tried to kick the habit. But I always want to see eyes shine when I look into them, and I want to hear the thrill in the voice that speaks about me. And I am sure I am not the only one. This thirst for appreciation is self-destructive. Self-destructive because what is at the core of appreciation is an opinion, and opinions are quite often biased, skewed, or just plain blind. It seems too risky a proposition to surrender personal happiness to such a fair-weather-friend.
Eventually, we have the right to do what makes us happy and feel like there is a point in staying alive. But perhaps we are better off steering clear of the desire for external rewards.
Now, the hypocrite that I am, I post this on what is perhaps the most widely accessed medium in the world. It seems like there are still mountains to climb.
I have always wondered how much of the motivation for expression or creativity comes from the true love of expression itself and how much from the thirst for appreciation. Many of us would like to believe that the need for appreciation or fame is not the reason why we do what we do. We do what we do because we love doing those things. But there is always that little void, however small, inside us waiting, almost begging, to be filled with a little praise, approval, and perhaps even love. That little void is why musicians perform in front of audiences, why there are art galleries and not art warehouses, why I am writing this article on a blog instead of simply saving a copy of it for myself. It is unfortunate that there is this complex interplay between chemicals and electric impulses in our brain that is responsible for the dreadful currency called emotion; and sometimes, we are held hostage by the uncontrollable greed to make a profit in this currency.
Would we play music if we knew nobody is ever going to listen to us play? Would we paint if we knew nobody is going to look? Would we write if we knew nobody is going to read? Does there have to be an external reward associated with every pursuit?
My suspicion is that we are always on the lookout for some form of positive feedback. I have tried to kick the habit. But I always want to see eyes shine when I look into them, and I want to hear the thrill in the voice that speaks about me. And I am sure I am not the only one. This thirst for appreciation is self-destructive. Self-destructive because what is at the core of appreciation is an opinion, and opinions are quite often biased, skewed, or just plain blind. It seems too risky a proposition to surrender personal happiness to such a fair-weather-friend.
Eventually, we have the right to do what makes us happy and feel like there is a point in staying alive. But perhaps we are better off steering clear of the desire for external rewards.
Now, the hypocrite that I am, I post this on what is perhaps the most widely accessed medium in the world. It seems like there are still mountains to climb.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Memories
Yesterday fell out of a box.
The shadows grew longer,
as I ran to escape them.
The glow from each memory,
lit my lonely heart,
and the pain from yesterday,
refused to depart.
Yesterday passed by my window,
in a slow procession,
as I tried to forget faces.
Each face told its story,
of the man forlorn.
And the stories like them,
went meandering on.
Yesterday stood in my mirror.
The books were settled,
as I tried to lose count.
A tear for each smile,
a scar for each sin,
until the returning stranger,
had to be let in.
Yesterday is the fire,
around which we gather.
The splinters sting us,
and yet we stay,
to forget the cold of today.
The shadows grew longer,
as I ran to escape them.
The glow from each memory,
lit my lonely heart,
and the pain from yesterday,
refused to depart.
Yesterday passed by my window,
in a slow procession,
as I tried to forget faces.
Each face told its story,
of the man forlorn.
And the stories like them,
went meandering on.
Yesterday stood in my mirror.
The books were settled,
as I tried to lose count.
A tear for each smile,
a scar for each sin,
until the returning stranger,
had to be let in.
Yesterday is the fire,
around which we gather.
The splinters sting us,
and yet we stay,
to forget the cold of today.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
The paradox of desire
Before I begin with the main idea of this post, I would like to say that it feels good to be blogging again. I hope that in my second spell I come up with some wholesome, thought-provoking posts—something more than the immature rants and outbursts that I have been spewing on this blog thus far.
Now for the main post: the paradox of desire
High-adrenalin formulas for success usually tell us that if we really, really want something then nothing can stop us from getting that something. I am sure we have all seen our fair share of suited motivational speakers and success stories on railway station bookstands or glossy posters titled “determination” and “goal” (in red block letters) with a mountain peak in the background.
My ideas are somewhat incongruous with mantras like this. Extreme desire seems to be a repellent for the very things that are desired. Life constantly mocks at us—the more we want something, the more impossible it gets for us to have it. Sky high professional ambitions drive us to the point where we turn into a confused heap of anxiety and frustration; complete devotion or infinite affection seldom form the basis of healthy relationships or friendships. I am not against ambition, desire, or setting goals, but it seems that they are not the sole ingredients in realizing our dreams. The one secret ingredient that must be garnished on top of these things is indifference—only a little pinch of indifference, without which the main course of life is incomplete. However much we love something or someone, we must be able to sit down, take a deep breath, and tell ourselves that nothing is such a big deal that we cannot live without it. The success of a Plan A lies in the presence of a Plan B.
Perhaps this idea is absurd. What about all the great sportsmen, musicians, writers, statesmen, and all of us who have moved on to higher things by not letting our circumstances put out the fire of desire that was within us? Would not the pinch of indifference have been but a full stop to our journey?
So, it turns out that I am still confused. On the one hand, a voice inside me—a voice of an annoyed eight-year-old with clenched fists, almost ready to cry because the world seems too twisted to be fair—seems to tell me that feverishly chasing our dreams is like trying to catch butterflies. On the other, a battle-hardened boxer puts his hands on my shoulders and tells me that if we want something for ourselves, we should be ready to give and take one more blow under the chin.
The only answer I can satisfy myself with is this: all humans are not equal. For some, some things are meant to be; for some others, those some things are not. The key is to accurately predict which of our desires should go into the “not meant” column and which ones into the “this is meant to be” column.
But the journey of self-discovery is the hardest one, and it has more dead ends and detours than any other.
Now for the main post: the paradox of desire
High-adrenalin formulas for success usually tell us that if we really, really want something then nothing can stop us from getting that something. I am sure we have all seen our fair share of suited motivational speakers and success stories on railway station bookstands or glossy posters titled “determination” and “goal” (in red block letters) with a mountain peak in the background.
My ideas are somewhat incongruous with mantras like this. Extreme desire seems to be a repellent for the very things that are desired. Life constantly mocks at us—the more we want something, the more impossible it gets for us to have it. Sky high professional ambitions drive us to the point where we turn into a confused heap of anxiety and frustration; complete devotion or infinite affection seldom form the basis of healthy relationships or friendships. I am not against ambition, desire, or setting goals, but it seems that they are not the sole ingredients in realizing our dreams. The one secret ingredient that must be garnished on top of these things is indifference—only a little pinch of indifference, without which the main course of life is incomplete. However much we love something or someone, we must be able to sit down, take a deep breath, and tell ourselves that nothing is such a big deal that we cannot live without it. The success of a Plan A lies in the presence of a Plan B.
Perhaps this idea is absurd. What about all the great sportsmen, musicians, writers, statesmen, and all of us who have moved on to higher things by not letting our circumstances put out the fire of desire that was within us? Would not the pinch of indifference have been but a full stop to our journey?
So, it turns out that I am still confused. On the one hand, a voice inside me—a voice of an annoyed eight-year-old with clenched fists, almost ready to cry because the world seems too twisted to be fair—seems to tell me that feverishly chasing our dreams is like trying to catch butterflies. On the other, a battle-hardened boxer puts his hands on my shoulders and tells me that if we want something for ourselves, we should be ready to give and take one more blow under the chin.
The only answer I can satisfy myself with is this: all humans are not equal. For some, some things are meant to be; for some others, those some things are not. The key is to accurately predict which of our desires should go into the “not meant” column and which ones into the “this is meant to be” column.
But the journey of self-discovery is the hardest one, and it has more dead ends and detours than any other.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Midnight
Midnight,
waiting patiently to pounce on tomorrow.
Midnight,
look to the moon and find your sorrow.
Midnight,
promise by promise a new day you borrow.
Midnight,
Leaves dare a faint rustle.
Midnight,
smell of redemption in a drizzle.
Midnight,
life still seems like a puzzle.
Midnight,
lures me with its mystic cold.
Midnight,
soothing silence makes me bold.
Midnight,
another story goes untold.
Midnight,
leads the resting ones astray.
Midnight,
I watch an angel calmly pray,
Dawn is still a truth away.
waiting patiently to pounce on tomorrow.
Midnight,
look to the moon and find your sorrow.
Midnight,
promise by promise a new day you borrow.
Midnight,
Leaves dare a faint rustle.
Midnight,
smell of redemption in a drizzle.
Midnight,
life still seems like a puzzle.
Midnight,
lures me with its mystic cold.
Midnight,
soothing silence makes me bold.
Midnight,
another story goes untold.
Midnight,
leads the resting ones astray.
Midnight,
I watch an angel calmly pray,
Dawn is still a truth away.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Berry-licious
TUCKED away in a corner of Bombay's Ballard Estate is Britannia- a unique concoction of old-world charm, bursting flavour, and strict adherence to traditional recipes. What does it serve? Primarily parsi food, with a taste that would probably define the word "authentic" when it used in the context of cuisine. Like so many memorable eateries, Britannia is not feverishly advertised (at least not to tourists), but rather seems to be a well-kept community secret among the South Bombay office goers who have relied on it for a little more than an honest lunch over the last seven decades.
A meal at Britannia will remind you that a meal is more than just the food we eat. When I was enthusiastically informed of it's well known berry pulao, I expected a great meal- but what I got was much more- a delightfully bloggable dining experience. I walked into a cool and airy colonial era South Bombay structure that had held it's own against time and weather, and managed to save me from the draining humidity without the aid of air-conditioning. The pleasantly inviting setting was augmented by the owner- an old parsi man with a slight hunch. Though it was difficult to understand what exactly he was saying, the smile and aura of an affectionate grandfather made me feel right at home. The menu followed, and what caught my eye was the footnote: Food shall be served only between 12noon to 4pm, and no snacks or beverages without ordering a proper lunch plate. Call me old-fashioned, but in this fast-food, takeaway generation, it is nice to see an iron hand on the table.
When my berry pulao arrived, I sensed that it would be quite unlike any pulao that I had tasted. Britannia's speciality is apparently the little berries that were glistening like red rubies in the bed of rice and masala. The 1940 recipe that the owner's wife followed when she personally supervised all culinary proceedings is still followed with ritualistic devotion, and these berries are imported from Iran even today. But for a little admonishment that I received from others at the table for the barbaric manner in which I was serving myself, the pulao lived up to my expectations. The highlight had to be little koftas in the pulao, and the little berries exploding in my mouth like flavoured taste-grenades. Perhaps a little more raw spice wouldn't hurt, but all in all, the berry pulao is the most exquisite thing I have eaten in a long time.
Unlike the pulao, I did not expect much when I ordered dessert. Caramel custard is something that is well abused by many restaurants by passing off brown, solidified milky, sugary substances as dessert. However, when the first bit of caramel custard slipped through my senses, it was obvious that the caramel custard was prepared with the same attention to tradition and detail as the berry pulao- right down to the little brown sugar syrup that the custard was floating in.
As we left, the eighty-year old owner responded to our thanks with the time tested entrepreneurial mantra: "If you like it, tell others, and if you don't like it, tell me". And telling others is precisely what I am doing.
A meal at Britannia will remind you that a meal is more than just the food we eat. When I was enthusiastically informed of it's well known berry pulao, I expected a great meal- but what I got was much more- a delightfully bloggable dining experience. I walked into a cool and airy colonial era South Bombay structure that had held it's own against time and weather, and managed to save me from the draining humidity without the aid of air-conditioning. The pleasantly inviting setting was augmented by the owner- an old parsi man with a slight hunch. Though it was difficult to understand what exactly he was saying, the smile and aura of an affectionate grandfather made me feel right at home. The menu followed, and what caught my eye was the footnote: Food shall be served only between 12noon to 4pm, and no snacks or beverages without ordering a proper lunch plate. Call me old-fashioned, but in this fast-food, takeaway generation, it is nice to see an iron hand on the table.
When my berry pulao arrived, I sensed that it would be quite unlike any pulao that I had tasted. Britannia's speciality is apparently the little berries that were glistening like red rubies in the bed of rice and masala. The 1940 recipe that the owner's wife followed when she personally supervised all culinary proceedings is still followed with ritualistic devotion, and these berries are imported from Iran even today. But for a little admonishment that I received from others at the table for the barbaric manner in which I was serving myself, the pulao lived up to my expectations. The highlight had to be little koftas in the pulao, and the little berries exploding in my mouth like flavoured taste-grenades. Perhaps a little more raw spice wouldn't hurt, but all in all, the berry pulao is the most exquisite thing I have eaten in a long time.
Unlike the pulao, I did not expect much when I ordered dessert. Caramel custard is something that is well abused by many restaurants by passing off brown, solidified milky, sugary substances as dessert. However, when the first bit of caramel custard slipped through my senses, it was obvious that the caramel custard was prepared with the same attention to tradition and detail as the berry pulao- right down to the little brown sugar syrup that the custard was floating in.
As we left, the eighty-year old owner responded to our thanks with the time tested entrepreneurial mantra: "If you like it, tell others, and if you don't like it, tell me". And telling others is precisely what I am doing.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Universe
Standing at the edge of reason,
nothing but dark emptiness beyond,
the clock ticks nervously on,
for one last change of season,
for universe to reveal treason.
Ambition flickers hesitant and dim,
Logic twists frustratedly within.
Long since hope had shone a lamp,
now Misery lingers cold and damp.
Silence and then new frustration
cries lost in the hopeless void
shattered clock now overjoyed,
no hurry nor a perturbation,
cynically waits for second creation.
nothing but dark emptiness beyond,
the clock ticks nervously on,
for one last change of season,
for universe to reveal treason.
Ambition flickers hesitant and dim,
Logic twists frustratedly within.
Long since hope had shone a lamp,
now Misery lingers cold and damp.
Silence and then new frustration
cries lost in the hopeless void
shattered clock now overjoyed,
no hurry nor a perturbation,
cynically waits for second creation.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Another helping of hysteria
"Catch them young" is a popular phrase among educators and mentors in many fields who want to give talent the most amount of time to be harnessed. But some people just took it too literally and are catching them too young. There are "model schools" in Andhra Pradesh that now train sixth standard students for the IIT entrance. When I first saw the ad I was too shocked to even be disgusted. This is pure hysteria that is being lumped on an already overbearing system of training and "education". Sadly, we live in a world where economic constraints are making it increasingly harder for a majority of our youth to choose a career according to their greatest strengths and talents. The schooling or high school age is still too unreasonably early to acknowledge this fact and put them through the grind. While art, music and sports may not fetch healthy salaries or financial stability, an educational system that allows this kind of a drill without giving any space for an individuals talent or it's growth is a hopeless failure. It is nothing but an educational holocaust administered by a money-laundering bunch of people who have nothing but a bag of tricks that can be used to pass one examination. What they exploit is the fear within each one of us that if we think rationally and behave differently from the frenzied masses, we will be crushed by the stampede of competition and left without a means to livelihood. I doubt twelve year olds actually understand what it really means to be an engineer, or what IIT and it's true objectives really stand for. If they do, then we do not have any twelve-year olds left. We just have an artificially grown bunch of super humans with a highly distorted view of life.
The coaching industry that been born as a result of the tough competition for the IIT entrance is a growing monster. I would like to think that the IIT stands not only for engineers who can put in fourteen hours of work a day, but for engineers who have a true perspective on how much engineering can contribute to human growth, and are genuinely well rounded intellectuals who have put their talent to use in non-engineering fields as well (I shall refer to them as "true" IIT-ans). I have been fortunate to interact with many such, and some of them even came from these coaching centres. My point is that the true IIT-ans would have made it to the IITs without this coaching, because their intelligence is constantly engaged, and they are always thinking and working on a plethora of technical and non-technical issues. They do not need to be taught tricks or shortcuts. The coaching centres are factories of automated production, where young people (with genuine talent in other fields I am sure) are handed out mindlessly mundane lives just so that they can perform for 12 exam-hours that apparently make their life.
What happens later on to the ones who are somehow pushed over the bar so that they enter IIT is another disturbing story all together.
It does not seem to end. Each year,it only gets bigger and uglier. The justification is that there is no other way to lead a secure or happy life. If this is true, it is a sad reflection of our society. Until we all stop and think about how barbaric we have become, and mend our lifestyle so that we begin to encourage well balanced individuals with an all-round perspective of the world, it will always seem too dangerous to defy the trend. Until then, we are all victims of this self-propagating hysteria.
The coaching industry that been born as a result of the tough competition for the IIT entrance is a growing monster. I would like to think that the IIT stands not only for engineers who can put in fourteen hours of work a day, but for engineers who have a true perspective on how much engineering can contribute to human growth, and are genuinely well rounded intellectuals who have put their talent to use in non-engineering fields as well (I shall refer to them as "true" IIT-ans). I have been fortunate to interact with many such, and some of them even came from these coaching centres. My point is that the true IIT-ans would have made it to the IITs without this coaching, because their intelligence is constantly engaged, and they are always thinking and working on a plethora of technical and non-technical issues. They do not need to be taught tricks or shortcuts. The coaching centres are factories of automated production, where young people (with genuine talent in other fields I am sure) are handed out mindlessly mundane lives just so that they can perform for 12 exam-hours that apparently make their life.
What happens later on to the ones who are somehow pushed over the bar so that they enter IIT is another disturbing story all together.
It does not seem to end. Each year,it only gets bigger and uglier. The justification is that there is no other way to lead a secure or happy life. If this is true, it is a sad reflection of our society. Until we all stop and think about how barbaric we have become, and mend our lifestyle so that we begin to encourage well balanced individuals with an all-round perspective of the world, it will always seem too dangerous to defy the trend. Until then, we are all victims of this self-propagating hysteria.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
The Original Black Sabbath
I worship the early Black Sabbath so strongly, that I am scared to write an article on them. Scared because I feel, and know, that words cannot describe the effect that their sound had on the audience. Pure and strong, deep and heavy, they are arguably the godfathers of the heavy metal genre that we know today. The late sixties and early seventies was a golden age for rock and roll. Musical genius flowed freely and hugely influential bands emerged with alarming regularity. While many of the greats displayed breathtaking skill and contributed to the growth of rock in their own way, for me, nobody invented as distinctive and influential a sound as Sabbath did. Iommi's godly riffs, the rhythmic pulse of geezer's bass and ward's drums, and, the howling insanity of front man Ozzy Osborne, kept some away, but reached deep into the souls of those who cared to listen.
Those introduced to Sabbath will most probably hear their studio albums from the mid seventies or the reunion album of 1997. Not that these albums aren't inspiring enough themselves, but there are a collection of recordings from the 1969-1972 era that are far superior- the true roots of the heavy sound that defined a whole new genre: a concert in 1970 (location still a controversy- some say Paris, some say Belgium), the "basement tapes" (1969 or 1970), and a Blues cover "Warning".
The "Paris" 1970 concert is considered by many Sabbath fans to be their best sound ever. Heavy spine-chilling guitar riffs, strong bass lines, pulsating drums, and Ozzy's voice that was still intact- strong and wailing, oozing over the rest of the music to give the finishing touches (unlike later on, when I think his voice became far weaker due to his own problems). What caught my ear when I heard these recordings first was the drumming. Bring together a basic drum kit and superhuman energy, and Bill Ward's drumming is pure dynamite. What we have in this concert is four raw youngsters who don't give rat salad about anything in this world but their music, lost in the ecstasy of sound.
Which is what Rock'n'Roll is all about.
Another series of recordings called the "Basement Tapes" offer the same sound- these recordings are supposed to be those of the band rehearsing in a London basement, but some claim it was actually from a BBC show. Either way, it represents music that is untouched by the commercialization or interference from record companies.
"Warning" is a fifteen minute masterpiece which sounds closer to heavy blues than anything that the band was to play later on. It is a song that best represents the musical roots of Black Sabbath- taking the blues lines of the time and making the sound heavier and deeper. Geezer's bass rhythm sets a great platform from where Iommi and Ozzy take off. Iommi's work on guitar with the Blues lines is pure brilliance. If you are serious about rock'n'roll, dive deep into "Warning" and lose yourself to the music.
Genius sometimes offers it's best when there is nothing to lose- the early Black Sabbath recordings are creative genius at it's unburdened best.
Those introduced to Sabbath will most probably hear their studio albums from the mid seventies or the reunion album of 1997. Not that these albums aren't inspiring enough themselves, but there are a collection of recordings from the 1969-1972 era that are far superior- the true roots of the heavy sound that defined a whole new genre: a concert in 1970 (location still a controversy- some say Paris, some say Belgium), the "basement tapes" (1969 or 1970), and a Blues cover "Warning".
The "Paris" 1970 concert is considered by many Sabbath fans to be their best sound ever. Heavy spine-chilling guitar riffs, strong bass lines, pulsating drums, and Ozzy's voice that was still intact- strong and wailing, oozing over the rest of the music to give the finishing touches (unlike later on, when I think his voice became far weaker due to his own problems). What caught my ear when I heard these recordings first was the drumming. Bring together a basic drum kit and superhuman energy, and Bill Ward's drumming is pure dynamite. What we have in this concert is four raw youngsters who don't give rat salad about anything in this world but their music, lost in the ecstasy of sound.
Which is what Rock'n'Roll is all about.
Another series of recordings called the "Basement Tapes" offer the same sound- these recordings are supposed to be those of the band rehearsing in a London basement, but some claim it was actually from a BBC show. Either way, it represents music that is untouched by the commercialization or interference from record companies.
"Warning" is a fifteen minute masterpiece which sounds closer to heavy blues than anything that the band was to play later on. It is a song that best represents the musical roots of Black Sabbath- taking the blues lines of the time and making the sound heavier and deeper. Geezer's bass rhythm sets a great platform from where Iommi and Ozzy take off. Iommi's work on guitar with the Blues lines is pure brilliance. If you are serious about rock'n'roll, dive deep into "Warning" and lose yourself to the music.
Genius sometimes offers it's best when there is nothing to lose- the early Black Sabbath recordings are creative genius at it's unburdened best.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Rebel
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.
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.
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
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
The Lawmaker's Trap
AS of July 1, using the cellphone while driving will be illegal in California. I was standing at an intersection last week, and I noticed how many people use cellphones while driving- more than a third, easily. After July 1, these people are just sitting-in-the-driver's-seat ducks for ticket-happy cops. But talking on the cellphone is a hard habit to get rid of...
This is what smart lawmakers do- they give you something that you really want to do, make it legal (in this case using the phone while driving). When you get really used to it, they make it illegal, so they catch everyone who cannot drop the habit. It's a bait, its a trap!
Sneaky, isn't it?
This is what smart lawmakers do- they give you something that you really want to do, make it legal (in this case using the phone while driving). When you get really used to it, they make it illegal, so they catch everyone who cannot drop the habit. It's a bait, its a trap!
Sneaky, isn't it?
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
The Woes of Cleanliness
However disgusting a person's habits may be, every now and then he or she does feel the obligation to clean up and organise his or her surroundings. For a change, not to trip over boxes or books lying on the floor, not to have a landslide after opening a cupboard, and not to sit on clothes that should be in the laundry.
My gift to myself on an unfortunate Tuesday evening was to clean up my room- and I realised how much inconvenience cleanliness actually causes. A mess is a very personalised thing- a mess is not a mess, it is like a resume- it speaks about you, who you are and what you have been doing. A mess is a beautiful thing that has evolved because of your unique personality and your way of living life. Therefore, a mess is actually the most ideal and convenient thing in your room. Things are not where they should be, things are where you want them to be, and this keeps life running smoothly.
Case in point- try searching for something before you clean you room and after. It takes less time to find something when things are in a mess, because your instinct guides you to where it is. When things are organised, you are in an unknown environment, and a search is a lost cause. True, with a mess there is a chance that you might actually lose something forever- just take it as a sign that it was never meant to exist in your life anyway. I was looking for scratch paper about ten minutes after "cleaning up", and I actually had to walk over to the other room to get paper. In my natural state, there would have been plenty of scratch lying on desk.
Moral of the story: never mess with a mess.
My gift to myself on an unfortunate Tuesday evening was to clean up my room- and I realised how much inconvenience cleanliness actually causes. A mess is a very personalised thing- a mess is not a mess, it is like a resume- it speaks about you, who you are and what you have been doing. A mess is a beautiful thing that has evolved because of your unique personality and your way of living life. Therefore, a mess is actually the most ideal and convenient thing in your room. Things are not where they should be, things are where you want them to be, and this keeps life running smoothly.
Case in point- try searching for something before you clean you room and after. It takes less time to find something when things are in a mess, because your instinct guides you to where it is. When things are organised, you are in an unknown environment, and a search is a lost cause. True, with a mess there is a chance that you might actually lose something forever- just take it as a sign that it was never meant to exist in your life anyway. I was looking for scratch paper about ten minutes after "cleaning up", and I actually had to walk over to the other room to get paper. In my natural state, there would have been plenty of scratch lying on desk.
Moral of the story: never mess with a mess.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
The Game
The potter looked at the ground,
some heaps of mud he found.
Eyes lit up, blood rushed through his veins,
a pretty form the mud soon became.
The painter looked at the ground,
pretty forms of mud he found.
Many colours, nimble fingers he used,
Something into the forms he infused.
They were not like mud anymore.
The clouds looked at the ground,
brilliant, reaching forms they found.
But when the last drop had fallen,
the forms were left bare and solemn.
And when the gardener came with his spade,
Into the mud the forms were laid.
They were not like forms anymore.
The emperor looked at them all,
no tear from his eye did fall.
"I played all I wanted to play,
from where you came, you shall stay.
From the dark mud did I make you,
where did your foolishness hope to take you?"
some heaps of mud he found.
Eyes lit up, blood rushed through his veins,
a pretty form the mud soon became.
The painter looked at the ground,
pretty forms of mud he found.
Many colours, nimble fingers he used,
Something into the forms he infused.
They were not like mud anymore.
The clouds looked at the ground,
brilliant, reaching forms they found.
But when the last drop had fallen,
the forms were left bare and solemn.
And when the gardener came with his spade,
Into the mud the forms were laid.
They were not like forms anymore.
The emperor looked at them all,
no tear from his eye did fall.
"I played all I wanted to play,
from where you came, you shall stay.
From the dark mud did I make you,
where did your foolishness hope to take you?"
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