Epic Monologue

blogging redux and the little drummer boy

2012-01-29T05:21:00.001-08:00

So now we have a new way to blog.

With a tablet in hands (a shiny Acer Iconia A500 with a 10.2 inch screen), how difficult should it be to blog every once in a while, right? Well, we shall see.

The big news for the day is that dear Mrityunjay has been introduced to a music school. And drums seem to be his weapon of choice (watch out, Neil Peart), while daddy has decided to try learning guitar, yet again (for the fifth time, no less). So weekends from now on shall be interesting.

I recently read 'The Hunger Games', a delightfully fresh sci-fi by the uber-talented Suzanne Collins. You can tell how impressed I was by the fact that I have picked a whole series- 'The Underland Chronicles', by the lady. Whether we continue to stay impressed, only time shall tell.

Also read the official biography of Steve Jobs, and found it an interesting read. It tries to explain the myth of the man called Steve by laying open all the complex facets. Completely recommended.

By the way, that's Mrityunjay- airdrumming away. For now.

new poems alert

2011-11-16T00:28:00.001-08:00

here

An Open Letter to Nokia India

2011-10-25T11:13:00.001-07:00

Update: Nokia India responded to this letter. Today, my Nokia E7 has returned from the dead, good as new. True, it has costed me Rs. 9000, a little more than 1/3rd of the phone cost, but it's money well spent. Well done, Team Nokia India! I'm in love with your brand all over again.

Dear Mr. Shivakumar. President & CEO, Nokia India

They say a brand is the sum-total of the experiences of its consumers.

I wish to tell you about a recent experience I have had with the brand Nokia in the hope that it would help you improve things at Nokia R&D and especially Nokia Care. I have always admired Nokia and over the years, I have purchased and enjoyed over 10 Nokia products like the fabulous 6600, 6708, E63, E71, C3-00 and many more (including the extremely rare Maemo based Nokia N-900) .

I have even been on the Nokia Nielsen panel for over an year. As a result, I was among the fortunate few who got a chance to receive a complimentary Nokia E7 from Finland in March 2011 immediately after its India launch.

Over the years, Nokia has gained a demigod like status when it comes to hardware expertise. However, after just about 5 months of usage, my E7 came in contact with a few drops of water and stopped functioning. Since the mobile had been shipped straight from Finland, it had no warranty. On Nielsen's advice, on 13th October, 2011, I took the damaged handset to my nearest Nokia Care Center, namely Cellpoint in South City Gurgaon.

I was told that they might have to send it to Nokia Factory to get it repaired and that it may cost up to 9,500/-, which, I said, is little price to resurrect such a beautiful piece of hardware (notice how I avoid saying 'good software').

After 12 days, I have received the phone back. Not only there is NO IMPROVEMENT in the handset's state, it actually has EVIDENCE OF MISHANDLING with several scratches on its body and a tiny piece of plastic missing altogether. As you can gauge from this passionate letter, this has broken my heart.

So I wish to ask you this:

Does the CARE part in Nokia Care mean nothing to its employees. If they can not repair a certain handset, can't they even handle it with care. After all, the device costs only a little less than my swanky new laptop.

Can nothing truly be done to bring this device back to life. Because, if Nokia can not repair it, who else can?

I do sincerely hope you have a solution to my problem and that you'd care enough to retain this Nokia loyalist.

PS: Wish you all the best for the upcoming Windows based device (Mango?). I look forward to Nokia reinventing the mobile space once again.

2011-08-25T05:44:00.000-07:00

Some new poems here

छुट्टी

2011-06-15T21:55:00.001-07:00

पिछले रविवार सारी काएनात मेरे साथ छुट्टी पे थी. मैं वादी की दहलीज पर बैठा एक बादल के साथ चाय पी रहा था. सामने वाली ढलान पे धूप-छाँव पकड़न-पकड़ाई खेल रहे थे. और पुलम, काफल और आडू हिल हिल कर उन्हें जोश दिला रहे थे.

doodling dalton

2011-06-02T05:21:00.001-07:00

new sketches here

2011-05-23T03:10:00.000-07:00

As you die one day at a time, avoiding the very idea of your mortality, as you worry more and more about your thinning and/or graying hair, your expanding midriff and your waning libido, tell me- do your dreams still copulate in the shadows of your sleep?

new poems

2011-04-25T22:48:00.001-07:00

here
and
here

here comes the 1st Indian comic con

2011-02-09T01:23:00.001-08:00

comic lovers rejoice!

2011-02-09T01:17:00.000-08:00

Times, they are-a-changing.

India's first comic con is finally here. And it's right around the corner, barely 11 days from now.

The days are 19-20 Feb and the venue is Dilli Haat. So drop in and show your love for the world's greatest industry that's still taking baby-steps in our country. However, it's just a matter of time. Indians have been game changers. And it's not long before we start revolutioninzing the genre. Kalaakaron ki koi kami hai kya, hain?

Do visit http://www.comicconindia.com/ for more info.

Stay tuned for more news on Comic Con India.

New

2011-01-08T01:07:00.001-08:00

Ghazals are here

a new poem

2010-10-20T23:51:00.001-07:00

It's called Armageddon

hey woman

2010-10-14T23:04:00.001-07:00

8 yrs, less bitter-more sweet, the bitter only making the sweet taste richer, of passion that feeds on time and keeps growing, of ever-expanding selves that include more of each other with each passing year, of burnt offerings of our egos at the altar of harmony, of kids, the wonderful kids, of agreeing, disagreeing and agreeing to disagree, of shared wonders, adventures, discoveries, of sometimes letting each other down then pulling each other up, Here's to you, tender of my heart, keeper of my soul. Happy anniversary!

books

2010-10-10T03:41:00.003-07:00

Now reading:

Just read:
Hannibal: Thomas Harris
I didn't expect it to be this... poetic. A pleasant surprise. The end, as you probably know, is a bit bizarre.

Dune Trilogy: Frank Herbert
The first is still good, but the two sequels didn't do much for me. Sorry, Frank. To be frank, they sucked.

Damnation Alley: Robert Zelazny
An interesting enough read

The Innkeeper's Song: Peter S Beagle

Poetic and enthralling

Tokyo Cancelled:Rana Dasgupta

Masterful, in the tradition of magical realism but with an altogether original twist to it

The Last Unicorn: Peter S Beagle

Deserving children's classic

Lord of Light: Roger Zelazny

Epic in scale and in its knowledge of Hindu and Buddhist mythos

trains

2010-08-20T00:10:00.000-07:00

I like train journeys. The world runs through rectangular window frames like a documentary with cleverly crafted shots. Here- a weather beaten half torn hoarding- an old woman. There- the clothes fluttering on a clothesline like prayer flags. Electricity towers like Dussera effigies awaiting their doom, the trees like monks- their heads bent in devotion, the buildings sitting still like patients in a hospital's waiting area.

metro journey, monsoon, spider

2010-08-18T21:46:00.000-07:00

Its almost surreal. The metro glides through the city on a nameless august morning. The sky is shrouded in gray clouds and the air is saturated with humidity that fuzzies long range vision. Or maybe it is raining, but I can't tell. The world outside must have noise, but in here it is quiet as a tomb. There are people here, strangers, bound by the code of civility to maintain silence in public. I look at their faces and I know there are as many worlds as there are people, that each of these strangers hangs delicately like an acrobatic spider at the centre of its own intricately patterned web.

2010-06-18T05:18:00.000-07:00

The lower branches have blurred to indistinct shadows. But where Mumur sits, leaves are still lit orange by the distant fires of the setting sun. As far back as Mumur can recall, he has had this irrepressible urge to climb the highest point. Once he gets there, he is filled with a sense of expectation, and an inexplicable peace with himself. Today is no different.

goliaths

2010-06-17T22:18:00.000-07:00

They do not sleep. They daydream- of the future, and fantasy. Sometimes it's hard to tell one from the other. A single daydream goes on and on for centuries, for what is time to them. Crouched, their marble and granite bodies are hard to distinguish from mountains. A forest can live and die over their arms and upon the slopes of their ankles in the span of a daydream. And when they rise- taller than skyscrapers, too large, too illogical for human comprehension, they unfold their wings. The day turns to twilight. The sunlight filtered through their feathers pierces the darkness beneath like spears from the sky. You can not tell if they are handsome or ugly, for their sight triggers just one overwhelming emotion. Awe. Behold the Goliaths.

suzanne

2010-06-04T04:31:00.000-07:00

There are songs that make you wonder what the songwriter means, and you have no idea why the song moves you so. Listening to these songs is like a spiritual epiphany, a revelation of sorts. Which is probably why you feel so filial towards people who like the same songs as you do. It's like belonging to the same church congregation. And its not just the words, for if you read them somewhere, it won't be quite the same. It's the words arranged to that particular music that fill your heart with a strange mixture of deepest sadness and rapturous joy. And you feel grateful for the feeling. It's like catching a fleeting glimpse of some higher truth from the corner of your eye.

2010-05-06T12:37:00.000-07:00

An hour past midnight. The laptop glows like a lighthouse over the turbulent foggy seas of thought .

new sorta kinda poems

2010-04-29T23:46:00.000-07:00

Metro and Toxi City

escape, artist

2010-04-29T07:15:00.000-07:00

escape. from the world to the word. from steel and stone to ink and paper. close the door. let the world sprawl outside like an old dog. it won't go anywhere. sadly. close your eyes. open your mind. let it go wandering. forget the things your eyes brought you. let the mushrooms lead you upon the barely visible trail where the grass still grows. let the smoke rings build worlds of smoke. escape, to arrive. you think dreaming is pointless. you are right. well guess what, so is reality. remember, that reality is just one word, one world. fantasy has a million, a billion. all yours to explore, to conquer, to pillage and plunder. awaiting your consent to let go.

Image: Dream of The Endless (from The Sandman by Neil Gaiman)

watching the world go by

2010-04-27T23:00:00.000-07:00

I am a watcher. One of the reasons why I like my home being 20 kms away from office. I watch the world through the glass windows of my car like you would watch your favourite TV Channel. I like to take guesses at the private lives, the little lies playing inside the heads of strangers. And the fact that they have no idea what goes inside mine. It makes me feel like God.

Another thing I do while driving to office is commune with music. I talk to the writers who wrote the songs and musicians who are playing it. I like to imagine what goes in the head of the singer when he or she belts it out. I am a watcher.

And the fact that the lives and lies and stories I imagine may not be true does not matter, not one bit. For a far more intriguing possibility to me is- what if they are.

What if my watching makes the things as they are. Heisenberg's principle and all that.

A watcher. That's who I am.

Image: Uatu, the watcher

an excerpt by John Ruskin

2010-04-01T01:52:00.001-07:00

We have certain work to do for our bread, and that is to be done strenuously; other work to do for our delight, and that is to be done heartily: neither is to be done in halves and shifts, but with a will; and what is not worth this effort is not to be done at all. Perhaps all that we have to do is meant for nothing more than an exercise of the heart and of the will, and is useless in itself; but, at all events, the little use it has may well be spared if it is not worth putting our hands and our strength to. It does not become our immortality to take an ease inconsistent with its authority, nor to suffer any instruments with which it can dispense, to come between it and the things it rules: and he who would form the creations of his own mind by any other instrument than his own hand, would also, if he might, give grinding organs to Heaven’s angels, to make their music easier. There is dreaming enough, and earthiness enough, and sensuality enough in human existence, without our turning the few glowing moments of it into mechanism; and since our life must at the best be but a vapour that appears for a little time and then vanishes away, let it at least appear as a cloud in the height of Heaven, not as the thick darkness that broods over the blast of the Furnace, and the rolling of the wheel.

got no cure for blues

2010-03-08T10:47:00.000-08:00

I got paycheck every seventh
Got a woman who's so true
I got a house in a metro suburb
But I got no cure for blues

I got whiskey on the table
I got rum and vodka too
Got a cupboard filled with fancy pills
But there ain't one made for blues

I got books by the dozen
Movies I could view
I got video games and plastic planes
And still I've got the blues

Got good ole Zeps on my ipod
I got Russell on Youtube
I got a thousand ways to kill my time
But I still can't kill the blues

2010-03-05T22:31:00.001-08:00

ये ज़िन्दगी तो खुद का नाम ले गुज़ार दी
गर मैं खुदा होता तो अब ज़न्नतशुदा होता

2010-02-23T21:28:00.001-08:00

हवा-ए-नीमसर्द में घुले फूलों के अतर
लो सर्दियाँ चली दे कर बसंत का तोहफ़ा

2010-02-21T23:55:00.000-08:00

लफ़्ज़ों के पत्थरों पे जमा-जमा के पैर
हम कर ही लेंगें पार ये दरिया जो है दुनिया

2010-02-19T22:36:00.000-08:00

अलसाये से बैठे हैं, हल्का सा है खुमार,
यूँ भंग की डली सा चढ़ जाए शनिवार.

2010-02-16T20:26:00.001-08:00

बच्चों को जब रोज़ सुबह स्कूल भेजता हूँ;
माँ, मैं मन ही मन तुझ को वाहवाही देता हूँ.

the ballad of novel workshop

2009-11-27T23:25:00.001-08:00

At the beginning of November, I had the good opportunity of attending a 3 day writer's workshop by Kavita Bhanot (soft spoken, bright, good looking, articulate, and the first British NRI I had seen who was trying to suppress her accent for desis) and Amrita Lila Kumar (intelligent, experienced, charming, a hint of sternness tempered with sharp wit). It was a novel (pun intended) experience. And while everyone else churned out Booker worthy serious stuff, this is what yours truly came up with. I blame it on Lewis Carroll and Rowling.

Edited version

Raghav had been watching the telly on mute for over 3 hours now. By now he had seen an animated reporter exposing a tantric, the artist formerly known as Baby Khushbu dancing it out with Vijaykanth, a rather vampirish East European guy with a scar for a mouth chatting up a waif of a woman, some Japanese cartoon- a Pokemon, Doremon or some other mon, and a series of equally random and utterly forgettable images. It was like tapping into the dream of some electronic sentient being.

He took out the pillow from under his arm. It stank. No matter. He should be getting some sleep if he wanted to bag that assignment the next day. 4000 for a 6 hour job wasn’t that bad. And who knew some hotshot director might notice him on an underwear pack. Sure, anything could happen.

Raghav checked the wallclock, a quaint oval thing with fat golden hands and tiny roman numerals. It was almost 2.30 in the morning. Sadiq and Sumant had retired to their beds at 11 like the good boys they were.

Raghav got up and smoothed the pillow. He stretched like an overgrown but underfed cat, ran fingers through his unkempt hair (which didn’t do much for the hair) and got out into the cramped little balcony that overlooked the Bangladeshi jhuggi on the other side of the road. Carefully planting his elbows on the cold railing, he joined the tips of his fingers like some Sicilian crimelord surveying his ghetto kingdom. Scorcese would have approved.

Had it been drizzling? Raghav hadn’t noticed. The street shone like Rexine as it reflected the streetlights. Raghav loved the street in the night, silent and familiar like an old friend. A rogue car would streak through it every now and then and disturb its tranquil vigil. Delhi had a fair number of insomniacs like him. One day he would found a Secret Brotherhood of Insomniacs, he decided.

His chain of thoughts was rattled by a sudden movement in the least lit portion of the street. Was it a dog? No, a cat. A rather large cat. The movement he had noticed was the cat’s tail twitching like a fat grub. Raghav didn’t know strays could get this huge.

*

The cat stared at Raghav in an unblinking catty way, its raggedy coat a hodgepodge of red, brown, rust and all the other shades of red, and maybe a tinge of blue, depending on the light. Its large round eyes glittered like tiny flames in the poor light. Raghav didn’t know it yet, but the cat came from another world- an overworld wrapped over our world; a world that managed to stay hidden in plain sight not because it meant to, but simply because human minds were ill-equipped to process its chaotic nature. Human minds, you see, were these puny boxes filled, well mostly with self-importance, but also with boring stuff they liked to call facts, driven by a compulsion to fit everything rather neatly within their tiny little boxiness. Anything that didn’t fit in was simply ignored or forgotten. It was unbelievable really, a bit like magic in the cat’s world. The cat’s world, on the other hand, was bigger and if you tried looking at it like a human (now why would you), much stranger. The darkness there, for instance, was darker. The evil- fouler. But there was also wonder. In fact, it was wonder that weaved everything together in the cat’s world, a bit like what boredom did for this world. And Raghav was about to take a small harmless trip to the cat’s world, whether he liked it or not.

Unedited version
Raghav had been watching the telly on mute for over 3 hours now. By now he had seen an animated reporter exposing a tantric (in a rather flattering way, he thought), the artist formerly known as Baby Khushbu dancing and bouncing it out with Vijaykanth like a woman possessed (man, she must be having caffeine for breakfast, lunch, dinner AND midnight snacks); a rather vampirish East European guy with a scar for a mouth chatting up a waif of a woman (would it lead to a steamy encounter, he must check in a while), some Japanese cartoon- a Pokemon or Doremon or some other mon (no doubt a little pest of a kid somewhere wanted to own the special edition plastic dolls of all its characters with movable joints and secret plastic weapons and cute little pets that transformed into still-cute-but-not-so-little-now monsters when threatened by other not-so-cute-and-not-so-little monsters) and a series of equally random and utterly forgettable images. It was like tapping into the dream of some electronic sentient being, perhaps an advance scout for an invading army from the planet of the tellies.

He took out the pillow (folded twice over) from under his arm. It stank. No matter. He should be getting some sleep if he wanted to bag that assignment tomorrow. 4000 for a 6 hour job wasn’t that bad. And who knew some hotshot director might notice him on an underwear pack. Sure, anything could happen.
Raghav checked the wallclock, a quaint oval thing the colour of dry grass with fat golden hands and tiny roman numerals, also golden. The clock was an esteemed member of his small but growing club of quaint objects populated by several odd (and cheap and often extraordinarily ugly) thingthangs that he liked to adopt from time to time. It was almost 2.30 in the morning. Sadiq and Sumant had retired to their beds at 11 like the good boys they were.

Raghav got up and smoothed the pillow. He stretched like an overgrown but underfed cat, ran three fingers through his unkempt hair (which didn’t do much for the hair) and got out into the cramped little balcony that offered a view of the vehicles parked between his building and the compound wall, the 12 feet wide road outside the wall and the jhuggis on the other side that were home to mostly Bangladeshi immigrants. Carefully planting his elbows on the cold railing, he joined the tips of his fingers like some Sicilian crimelord surveying his kingdom in a ghetto in New York or Chicago. Scorcese would have approved.

Had it been drizzling? Raghav hadn’t noticed, but it must have. The street was shiny black, like Rexene, reflecting the white streetlight from the electric poles placed 20 steps apart (he had counted). A rogue car would streak through the otherwise desolate street every now and then, and disturb its tranquil vigil. Delhi had a fair number of fellow insomniacs. One day he would found a Secret Brotherhood of Insomniacs, or Insomniacs Anonymous, or something. He liked the still street in the night. Like an old friend you could hang out with and just read or play a video game. No pressure to talk or share a bawdy joke or be clever all the time or find an activity to do together (nothing dirty, mind you). Just sit in silence and read.

His chain of thought was rattled by a sudden movement in the least lit portion of the street (the exact midpoint between two adjacent poles, 10 steps from each of them). Was it a dog? No, a cat. A rather large cat. The movement he had noticed was the cat’s tail twitching and twisting like a slow fat grub. Raghav didn’t know strays could get this huge, almost as big as one of them boxer dogs.

*

The cat stared at Raghav in an unblinking catty way, its raggedy coat a hodgepodge of red, brown, rust and all the other shades of red, and maybe a tinge of blue, depending on the light. Its large round eyes glittered in the poor light, like rubies, or tiny flames. Raghav didn’t know it yet, but the cat came from another world. An overworld of sorts, wrapped over the world Raghav knew where being realistic and practical was considered a compliment. The cat’s world managed to stay hidden in plain sight, not because it meant to do so, but simply for the fact that human minds cannot process chaos too well. Now human minds were these puny little boxes filled, well mostly with self-importance, but also with loads of boring stuff they liked to call facts, driven by a compulsion to fit everything rather neatly within their tiny little boxiness. Anything that didn’t fit was simply ignored or discarded or forgotten. It was unbelievable, a bit like magic in the world the cat belonged to. The cat’s world, on the other hand, was bigger and if you tried looking at it like a human (now why would you), much stranger. The darkness there, for instance, was darker. The evil- fouler. But there was also wonder. In fact, it was wonder that weaved everything together in the cat’s world. (A bit like what boredom did for this world). And Raghav was about to take a small harmless trip to the cat’s world, whether he liked it or not.

log

2009-11-24T10:16:00.001-08:00

Read:
1. First four parts of 'Homecoming Saga' by Orson Scott Card

2. Stephen King 'On Writing'

the problem of gratitude

2009-11-08T23:44:00.000-08:00

Gratitude. The biggest problem with being an atheist is what to do with it, whom to direct it at. But I feel it all the same. And acknowledge it.

is she cool or what

2009-10-26T00:28:00.000-07:00

(Seen at the reception of Base Hospital, Delhi Cantt.)

2009-10-21T23:12:00.000-07:00

एक छोटी सी कविता आद्या के लिए

blogging life

2009-10-20T20:11:00.000-07:00

So I'm back to reading China Mievelle, the perpetrator of weird fiction. I had read 'Perdido Street Station' and it was a rewarding read by the end. 'Iron Council', now, is supposed to have heavy political undertones. It is also a cross between science fiction and cowboy western. Having said that, the book does have a tough skin that's hard to sink teeth in. Reading it on mobile doesn't make the task any easier.

Also reading 'The Castle of Crossed Destinies' by Italo Calvino. But that's for another post.

The hectic affair of getting the child delivered, the to and fro hospital trips, the long vigils by Himani's bed, all that's over. Both Himani and Aadyayani (आद्यायानी)are back home. Of course, it will take her at least another month to leave bed and resume normalcy. But that girl o' mine has always been a tough one.

Oh, and a proper post after such a long time does deserve a mention of Miyazaki, this wonderful and much celebrated Japanese animator that I've discovered only recently. In fact, he deserves a separate post as well. However, if you have been seeking extraordinary storytellers, you must check him out. And the perfect starting point to capture the magnitude of his talent would be 'Spirited Away'. However, each of his works stands on its own, dealing with subjects as varied as coming of age, war, ecology, childhood and fantastic flying machines. (Oh, and that's Yubaba in the picture below, my favouritest witch in the whole wide world, probably a nod to Baba Yaga of the Russian fables by Miyazaki)

And if I manage to post this, it would be a first, my first post from a mobile device.

So I guess I will see you later. And if this mobile posting works, perhaps sooner.

the teensy weensy goddess

2009-10-20T05:01:00.000-07:00

Born on the 14th of October '09, her name is Aadyayani(आद्यायानी). It's an extension of Aadya (meaning the ancient one), one of the many names of Shakti, the feminine deity, the mother Goddess. I had to go through several Sahasranamas (Collections of a thousand names of Gods and Goddesses) of Durga, Parvati, Saraswati, Lakshmi to arrive at this one. Even then it had to be a truce between my choice (Katyayani) and Himani's pick (Adya).

She looks delicate and fragile, her wails are almost melodious, and her temper is prodigal. I do believe I'm gonna spoil her silly.

2009-08-25T08:06:00.000-07:00

अपनी नाक के छोर का पीछा करते एक और दिन बीता। ठीक ही था। अब घर जाना है। बच्चा सवाल करने लगा है- पापा, देर क्यों करते हो रोज़?

2009-08-24T08:29:00.001-07:00

new hindi poem alert

river, me

2009-08-16T23:45:00.000-07:00

New Poem alert

life in a snapshot

2009-08-07T23:14:00.001-07:00

Currently reading: 'A Woman of the Iron People' by Eleanor Arnason. It belongs to a genre (that I did not know about) called anthropological science fiction. The story narrates the first account of a space traveller called Lixia (a woman) from near future making contact with a new sentient race on an alien planet. The new race is intelligent, humanoid, furred and somewhat primitive. Lixia studies and narrates the customs and lifestyle of this race through a woman called Nia who's her companion on a journey they have to undertake. I haven't finished yet, so more later.

Currently listening to: A Heavy Metal band called 'Lamb Of God' that belongs to the New Wave of American Heavy Metal. Their style is Metalcore/Grindcore with elements of progressive metal. The songs are frantic-paced and aggressive, with post-grunge growling vocals that characterise so many new bands. It's a first for me, and I'm enjoying it.

Currently thinking of: An offsite for my team. Inspired by this visioning exercise that I recetly attended for a client, I think I'm gonna hold something similar for August.

currently reading...

2009-08-03T02:08:00.001-07:00

'Man Plus' by Frederik Pohl, and am once again struck by the ingenuity of sci-fi writers' imagination and thoroughness of their detailing. Perhaps, its closer to forecasting rather than mere story writing. 'Man Plus', a 1976 Nebula winner, is the story of an astronaut who is engineered into a cyborg for the purpose of living on Mars. It also reminds me of 'Spin', yet another story that deals with Mars (terraforming, different time zones, good shit).

ode to leela

2009-07-28T23:30:00.000-07:00

I was only 12 when I fell in love with her. Such was the power of her performance in Anuradha. Even in a Black and White film, (the much revered) Leela Naidu could express every shade of gray through her portrayal of this very real, timeless woman. And her beauty was ethereal, her grace- divine. No wonder I was smitten. And now she's gone. May she rest in peace.

bombs and people

2009-06-21T12:16:00.000-07:00

In a world without windows, only walls, I tick like a timebomb, waiting for the counter to stop counting. Waiting to explode, words like splinters at supersonic speeds, ripping the dream reality apart. Shards that shred illusions. And then? Silence. Peace perhaps.

पोएम alert

2009-06-05T09:46:00.001-07:00

एक नयी कविता

on a train

2009-05-31T20:18:00.000-07:00

Trains have a way of poking memories like a rake pokes the ashes in a cold fireplace. Eddie fills his earphones with slow conteplative music. A semi barren landscape rushes by the windows.

cool like jack

2009-05-22T21:22:00.001-07:00

The portrait's by Ron Wood, that Rolling Stone.

Ain't no one cooler than Jack.

blatant shameless plagiarisation? or uncanny coincidence? you decide.

2009-05-17T02:08:00.000-07:00

This is what we presented to icontrol (an iptv product), a JV between MTNL/BSNL and Aksh Optifibres some time in October 2008:

This is what was released in today's newspaper for a similar product from MTNL/BSNL.

So , are you thinking what we are thinking?

Cross-posted on our official blog.

o the joy of getting published aka blow your own trumpet

2009-05-17T01:11:00.000-07:00

2009-05-15T01:50:00.001-07:00

हिन्दी कविता alert

2009-05-04T23:04:00.000-07:00

To be with one's parents and child is to be like a tree whole, with roots and fruits.

कुछ लिखते हैं

2009-05-01T00:24:00.000-07:00

चलो आज अपना बचपन याद करते हैं. घडी की सुई उल्टी घुमाते हैं. कुछ लिखते हैं. लैपटॉप को ताक पे रख के डायरी पेन उठाते हैं. कुछ लिखते हैं. कुछ नया महसूस करते हैं. सुन्न पड़ी यादों को तड़का लगाते हैं. कुछ लिखते हैं.

हाय गरमी

2009-04-29T02:21:00.000-07:00

सूरज गुस्से में है। आसमान उबल रहा है। सड़क जूतों पर चिपकने लगी हैं। अगर चिल्लायें तो आवाज पिघल कर टपक जाए। गहरी साँस लें तो नाक के भीतर के रोयें झुलस जाएँ । सुनते थे क्रिस्तानी नर्क में बहुत गरमी है। कहीं वो नर्क पाताल से उठ कर जमीन पर तो नहीं आ गया है।

new hindi poem alert

2009-04-28T22:28:00.000-07:00

here and here and here

for a friend

2009-04-28T22:20:00.000-07:00

My friend Shonee has been a victim of the misuse of IPC 498A, the dowry law. While the law has its merits, it has often been abused and misused . In the coming elections, Shonee is supporting a candidate who is sympathetic towards the said cause. This is his plea:

Hi Friends,

I would start this mail by quoting Disraeli. He famously said, the only way to achieve progress is that "we must educate the masters", that in our present context means that at this election time the duty is cast upon us to disseminate information, ideas and right figures to the public at large. Because only then, the small voice of reasoning would be heard by the masters who control our fate by sitting in the August house of Parliament of India.
It is estimated that man started roaming on earth around twenty lakh year before and most of our actions at that time were guided by the animalistic instincts of fear, hatred, possessiveness and narrow loyalities. The advancement of human brain brought reasoning some 10,000 year ago only. So, no wonder that at times of turbulance and test, we go back to our herd mentality and count ourselves on regional and communal loyalities, caste considerations, or even if I may say class considerations in big cities.
However, if we continue doing the same, election after election, that would be anti-evolution. We evolved, because we could put rest to these fears and considerations for the betterment of complete human race, thus at this point of time, it is our duty to not only vote but vote carefully and wisely. Guided purely by the reasoning, so that we do vote for the best man and only by doing so, we can "educate our masters".
The reason, as is seen in abundance today, is that the voice of small minority, if it is loud and vociferous is mistaken as the voice of majority. And when the bang is so loud, the small voice of reason is not heard. And as long as, we, who consider themselves as thinking men, will not take pain of expressing ourselves, educating one person at a time, we can't even think of doing what we see as restoration of basic human freedoms.
If we ask anyone today, what does majority of our legislators personify, the response invariably would be - arrogance of power. The class lines after every elections are divided only in two. The rulers and the ruled. The rulers think they can bend everything to satiate their narrow agendas and we ruled bear their incompetence and uncrupulousness. Which is a dangerous blend.
In my short journey in standing upto the wickedness of people, I have often seen that the laws drafted by these incompetent people are plain wicked and insane.
Thus we a small minority voice of reason, which include Save Indian Family, Save Family Foundation, My Nation, CRISP, MASI etc. have lent our voice of sanity to Sudhir Kumar from New Delhi constituency.
Sudhir Kumar amongst other things stands for the following:
Equality for All
Domestic Harmony
Judicial and Legal Reforms
Stop the Misuse of Dowry Law
Urban Rebuilding
Rebuiding the Bond with Indians Abroad
Freedom of Media and Private Radio
If you like the agenda, he is fighting for, please come out and vote for Sudhir Kumar. If you know someone in Delhi, please encourage him to vote for Sudhir Kumar. And if you can inform others about the agenda by way of newsletter, email forwards, blogging, sms, please do so. As there is no other way to educate the masters except by breaking that impregnable wall of party and caste based politics in which the demons feel safe.
And, yes, to the cynics who ask, how far would we go with one candidate. My answer is simple - The journey of a thousand miles begin with just one step. And Sudhir had the courage to take that first step. Your support is vital
Regards,
Shonee Kapoor
PS: I would urge all of you to vote for the best man in your respective constituency, irrespective of other considerations. Afterall, a right man or woman in wrong party is better than a wrong man or woman in right party. And, please do VOTE.
PPS: My above post is not copyright protected. Anyone is free to blog it/ forward it/ amend it.

--
Shonee Kapoor
Email: harassed.by.498a@gmail.com

Blog: http://ipc498a.wordpress.com/
Forum: http://forum.498a.org/
Website: http://www.498a.org/
______________________________
___________________

Sirf Hangama khada karna mera maqsad nahi,
Saari Koshish hai ki ye surat badalni chahiye.

Mere seene mein nahi to tere seene mein sahi,
Ho Kahin bhi aag, lekin aag jalni chahiye.

safety in delhi

2009-03-26T02:44:00.000-07:00

When you have a child, fun and frustration walk hand in hand. Every day brings a new dilemma to the fore.

Today, the school was taking my child and his class to Children's Park in Delhi. Now, I am of the opinion that the child should be exposed to as much experience (especially social interaction with his new peers and teachers) as possible, in a secure environment of course .

However, incidents like Jigeesha Murder Case fill my wife's heart with dread (and I dare not call it irrational). It sure makes us wonder if there's wisdom in just keeping our children safe at home, as long as it isn't absolutely necessary to let them out.

back

2009-03-24T21:56:00.000-07:00

The silence, ever so often, makes such a clamour, wouldn't you agree?

And, so we are back. What's been keeping us? Well, there's family for one. Jay has started going to school (Nursery, Apeejay Saket). So much change for a mere child- change of city, change of school, change of house, change of people he's used to. Yet, like always, he is taking it all in his stride with the poise of a little grown-up man.

Moms (his, and mine) are here too. Soon, we'd shift to a new (bigger) house, and life would be that much closer to regular family life (whatever that is).

This week also saw an old old friend Manish Tanwar (a.k.a. Tudu) visiting Delhi. He's married, and happily. That feels good.

And I've been possessed by the Ender's saga (Spurred on by the comic above). Seven books down, one book and one story to go. Orson Scott Card is good. Make that real good. (Although I'm a little surprised at his blatant homophobia, not in the book, but in general. Must be the Mormon indoctrination.)

Did I tell you about 'Little Big', a book that's hard to put in a particular genre? Post modern fantasy, they call it, I think. But it's one book you should read, even if it's not written in a coherent, linear fashion. It's poetry in prose, and just like the fairies, the central (or is it peripheral) subject of this book, the meaning also remains elusive and yet visible from the corner of our eyes at all time. It would probably remind you of an Alice in Wonderland for grown-ups.

What else?

Ah, Watchmen. The movie didn't disappoint, and that's a lot to say, for to capture the complexity of the book was a nigh impossible task. Let me put in a gentle (but firm) word of caution for those who haven't read the classic graphic novel by that eccentric and brilliant man Alan Moore. You might have a hard time getting the movie. Go read the book first. You won't regret it, I promise.

More later.

25 random things about me ('cos I was tagged. twice. in a single day)

2009-02-17T22:46:00.000-08:00

1. I feel like a lost boy, sometimes. At 34.

2. That includes still fantasising about being in a rock band.

3. It takes me 3 years (give or take 3 months) to get bored of whatever I'm doing, quit and start afresh. I have done it thrice in the last 10 years. It's brave and immensely stupid at the same time. Or just stupid.

4. I could spend all my life away doing nothing (but reading, listening to music, drinking) if I could afford to.

5. Having the woman I have seems like an undeserved miracle, even after 7 years of marriage.

6. It was an arranged marriage. Ha!

7. I have been planning to write a book (many books) for 6 years now. Plans that come close to a naught or half a page of scribbled lines, as Roger Waters would say.

8. I think it's primarily a chronic case of laziness that keeps me from it.

9. Sex and food are stowed in the same region of my brain, and I have the same sort of lusty feelings for both. Is that weird?

10. Which reminds me, I am prone to excesses.

11. I smoked cigarettes for 9 years before quitting them altogether almost 5 years ago. I also turned a vegetarian. I was about to become a father at the time.

12. I am a nice guy, all things considered. I guess that makes me boring company.

13. Well, at least, I am aware of that. So there.

14. I used to have encyclopedic knowledge of music. Now, its comics. A master of subjects that have no practical use I know of (besides geeky conversations).

15. why is it so hard to think up 25 random facts about my life?

16. I hate the army. I love my wife who is in the army.

17. In my heart of hearts, I feel like a bum. A gypsy of sorts. No possessions.

18. I find it hard to understand people. I am more at ease with concepts and abstractions.

19. I don't believe in God. I don't even believe in any supernatural agency governing the world. I think we make all this up cos we, as a race, are so full of ourselves, and shit.

20. I have seen enough to understand the need for God and belief in supernatural though. I know how a single blow can turn any man into a raving fanatic, me included.

21. I feel ancient, sometimes. Am I contradicting myself now?

22. I like sportswear. I do not like sports.

23. I do not have any answers to questions like- "Where do you see yourself 5 years from now?"

24. Strangely enough, I like technology. Told you I am a geek.

25. I know I will start having doubts about this note as soon as I hit publish.

and so it goes

2009-02-05T09:35:00.001-08:00

Nights? An ordeal. Mornings bleary eyed and reluctant. Days are alright. Every day, a little before noon, an hour after the appointed hour, he steps upon the precipice of his work, takes a deep breath (and a cup of tea) and dives, deep, only to emerge long past dusk. Days glide by like a pebble hops over a lake, each hop stealing its momentum from the last one, and lending it to the next. And so it goes.

Every day he dreams. He daydreams of a secret and fantastic destiny, that doesn't always constitute money, but always always constitutes purpose and meaning, and creation. And so it goes.

story of his life

2009-01-28T21:46:00.000-08:00

Found this on facebook. It's dead accurate till 35, for that's as far as I can tell.

let's write

2008-12-28T02:12:00.000-08:00

You and I, let's write a little dark-tangy-viscous-pungent something, you and me.
You take the verse, I hold the prose, let's spar like snake and mongoose in the clearing, upon the dried tesu leaves, you and I.
You flutter like fire, dance, an orange blue flame, I thrash wave upon wave of vengeful vitality upon your hypnotic visage, you and I.
You reel and rant and revolve in spiraling circles of rage, I cover you in the calm of cold quiet comatose centuries, till you are me, you and I.

wrote a poem

2008-12-10T11:02:00.000-08:00

It's here.

what they hate about mumbai - suketu mehta

2008-11-30T22:48:00.000-08:00

MY bleeding city. My poor great bleeding heart of a city. Why do they go after Mumbai? There’s something about this island-state that appalls religious extremists, Hindus and Muslims alike. Perhaps because Mumbai stands for lucre, profane dreams and an indiscriminate openness.

Mumbai is all about dhandha, or transaction. From the street food vendor squatting on a sidewalk, fiercely guarding his little business, to the tycoons and their dreams of acquiring Hollywood, this city understands money and has no guilt about the getting and spending of it. I once asked a Muslim man living in a shack without indoor plumbing what kept him in the city. “Mumbai is a golden songbird,” he said. It flies quick and sly, and you’ll have to work hard to catch it, but if you do, a fabulous fortune will open up for you. The executives who congregated in the Taj Mahal hotel were chasing this golden songbird. The terrorists want to kill the songbird.

Just as cinema is a mass dream of the audience, Mumbai is a mass dream of the peoples of South Asia. Bollywood movies are the most popular form of entertainment across the subcontinent. Through them, every Pakistani and Bangladeshi is familiar with the wedding-cake architecture of the Taj and the arc of the Gateway of India, symbols of the city that gives the industry its name. It is no wonder that one of the first things the Taliban did upon entering Kabul was to shut down the Bollywood video rental stores. The Taliban also banned, wouldn’t you know it, the keeping of songbirds.

Bollywood dream-makers are shaken. “I am ashamed to say this,” Amitabh Bachchan, superstar of a hundred action movies, wrote on his blog. “As the events of the terror attack unfolded in front of me, I did something for the first time and one that I had hoped never ever to be in a situation to do. Before retiring for the night, I pulled out my licensed .32 revolver, loaded it and put it under my pillow.”

Mumbai is a “soft target,” the terrorism analysts say. Anybody can walk into the hotels, the hospitals, the train stations, and start spraying with a machine gun. Where are the metal detectors, the random bag checks? In Mumbai, it’s impossible to control the crowd. In other cities, if there’s an explosion, people run away from it. In Mumbai, people run toward it — to help. Greater Mumbai takes in a million new residents a year. This is the problem, say the nativists. The city is just too hospitable. You let them in, and they break your heart.

In the Bombay I grew up in, your religion was a personal eccentricity, like a hairstyle. In my school, you were denominated by which cricketer or Bollywood star you worshiped, not which prophet. In today’s Mumbai, things have changed. Hindu and Muslim demagogues want the mobs to come out again in the streets, and slaughter one another in the name of God. They want India and Pakistan to go to war. They want Indian Muslims to be expelled. They want India to get out of Kashmir. They want mosques torn down. They want temples bombed.

And now it looks as if the latest terrorists were our neighbors, young men dressed not in Afghan tunics but in blue jeans and designer T-shirts. Being South Asian, they would have grown up watching the painted lady that is Mumbai in the movies: a city of flashy cars and flashier women. A pleasure-loving city, a sensual city. Everything that preachers of every religion thunder against. It is, as a monk of the pacifist Jain religion explained to me, “paap-ni-bhoomi”: the sinful land.

In 1993, Hindu mobs burned people alive in the streets — for the crime of being Muslim in Mumbai. Now these young Muslim men murdered people in front of their families — for the crime of visiting Mumbai. They attacked the luxury businessmen’s hotels. They attacked the open-air Cafe Leopold, where backpackers of the world refresh themselves with cheap beer out of three-foot-high towers before heading out into India. Their drunken revelry, their shameless flirting, must have offended the righteous believers in the jihad. They attacked the train station everyone calls V.T., the terminus for runaways and dreamers from all across India. And in the attack on the Chabad house, for the first time ever, it became dangerous to be Jewish in India.

The terrorists’ message was clear: Stay away from Mumbai or you will get killed. Cricket matches with visiting English and Australian teams have been shelved. Japanese and Western companies have closed their Mumbai offices and prohibited their employees from visiting the city. Tour groups are canceling long-planned trips.

But the best answer to the terrorists is to dream bigger, make even more money, and visit Mumbai more than ever. Dream of making a good home for all Mumbaikars, not just the denizens of $500-a-night hotel rooms. Dream not just of Bollywood stars like Aishwarya Rai or Shah Rukh Khan, but of clean running water, humane mass transit, better toilets, a responsive government. Make a killing not in God’s name but in the stock market, and then turn up the forbidden music and dance; work hard and party harder.

If the rest of the world wants to help, it should run toward the explosion. It should fly to Mumbai, and spend money. Where else are you going to be safe? New York? London? Madrid?

So I’m booking flights to Mumbai. I’m going to go get a beer at the Leopold, stroll over to the Taj for samosas at the Sea Lounge, and watch a Bollywood movie at the Metro. Stimulus doesn’t have to be just economic.

Suketu Mehta, a professor of journalism at New York University, is the author of “Maximum City: Bombay Lost and Found.” You can find the above article here.

Please also read this article by a Mumbaite.

mind

2008-11-18T22:44:00.000-08:00

Like a fat gray caterpillar, the thoughts crawl slowly across the floor of my mind. Must be the beer.

At last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed Alice in a languid, sleepy voice.

‘Who are you?’ said the Caterpillar.

new poem alert

2008-11-08T05:13:00.000-08:00

here

wind in the city

2008-10-22T08:32:00.000-07:00

A winter-drunk wind sweeps the town. Besides the usual tomfoolery, the messing-up-hair, the blowing-off-skirts, the shoving-handfuls-of-dust-in-eyes, it changes the season with every gush, whoosh and flutter, handing body-aches and fever with the generosity of a mother. Does one need a quilt yet?- lament the befuddled nights as the winters peek patiently from behind the illuminated curtains of the coming festival.

a poem

2008-09-02T05:43:00.000-07:00

called A Poem on my poetry blog, here

dämonprinz / engelsbraut

2008-08-25T05:43:00.000-07:00

In his sky, the clouds were never far. Sometimes they would be kind, and allow a handful of sunbeams through. Most days however, they would continue to mirror the dark swirling undertows of his mind. The Dämonprinz would often spend these days playing hide and seek with the dancing shadows under his feet. Zoom out, and the earth would look like a leper's skin. In the world of Dämonprinz, the laws of physics were fickle. They were never on the side of makers. Things would break down, fall apart, crumble to dust at the hint of a reason, sometimes without one. Ironically, final endings were rare here. This was the world of unwanted immortality. Decaying things would take forever to die. They would linger at the precipice for ages. That's why his world was full of old rickety things. The sea was a murky green. The trees were barely alive, out of sheer stubbornness. The creatures were old, slow and feral and hideous. The Dämonprinz knew that somewhere on the dayside, a bit towards north, was the home of his Engelsbraut. But salvation, in the form of her companionship, would come to him in little pints. It would never be a bellyful, never quite enough. But he was grateful for whatever sunshine he could muster. Deep down he knew that 'enough' was not his thing. He was built for dissatisfaction and longing. Perhaps he needed this darkness, this thirst, to keep alive. He could hardly call it a curse, because it was the very essence that defined him. It was the theme of his existence. It was his dance, his show, his... opus.

3 new poems

2008-08-18T10:30:00.001-07:00

on Random Creatures, here

another poem

2008-08-11T23:18:00.000-07:00

Talking Rum on my poetry blog

check out

2008-08-03T05:07:00.000-07:00

Two new poems on my poetry blog, Random Creatures, here and here

consider this

2008-07-28T06:05:00.000-07:00

A mote caught in a beam of light, illuminated for one brief moment- that's your life. And mine, and of everyone else that you and I will ever know.

For every lethal poison ever discovered in the history of mankind, there must be at least one death responsible for the discovery.

Why do we end up like we do if we don't like it? What's the deal with being helpless about the only thing we have any control over- our own life?

nasty clowns and time to walk

2008-07-11T01:27:00.000-07:00

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, fucking tock

Despite evidence to the contrary, the time refused to move. It wouldn't buzz, no. But the clowns had spoken. They were hopping now, hopping mad. Death nasty clowns, one should add. Still, there was glue beneath his feet. He looked up and felt the world turn slowly. He heard the sea whistling its tuneless song all along this little eternity. Walk now, he told himself, it is time.

Without ever flapping their wings or fluttering their eyelashes, the two third birds circled way up high, like an upside down eddy in the sky. The long dark knight of the down below flinched for a moment, then walked on.

that buzzz

2008-06-24T06:36:00.000-07:00

For some, it's coffee. For others, its exercise, or love, or even a life threatening situation.

In my case, it's sleep deprivation. It gets me buzzing like a chainsaw, with adrenaline rushing through my blood, making me feel like I could paint a wall or recite an epic or wrestle a hurricane.

What's your favourite kick, then?

epiphanies

2008-06-22T23:16:00.000-07:00

When you are young, every experience is the profoundest, the most amazing, the best experience of your life so far. When you get old, however, you’ve always seen better or worse. Everything is good enough or not too bad or could have been better or worse. So many points of reference that promise to show you the way but blind you instead.

I believe in magic. I believe that we touch little moments of magic at the most unexpected of times, a glimpse into the world beyond shapes and sounds and smells, the world of pure concepts .

showera of the powera

2008-06-20T07:50:00.000-07:00

His strength and power

Are his force to shower

Merciful heart he possess

And is truthful to access (sic)

He is...

...

...

...

Bhavani

I swear I did not make them up. These are the actual supers from a trailer for the movie 'Bhavani', I kid you not.

heeeere's johnny

2008-05-19T01:12:00.000-07:00

What an utterly glorious mindfuck! And Jack is undoubtedly the greatest evil sonnovabitch to have acted. Ever. No one else could have played the demented, menacing Jack Torrence any better. Over the top? Sure. Loud? You bet. But the way he does it, no one else can. And I mean NO ONE.

remembrance

2008-05-19T00:57:00.000-07:00

You were 29 and a half then. You would have been 37 today. Happy birthday, wherever you are.

आज सुबह

2008-05-13T21:22:00.000-07:00

आज सुबह तडके ही आँख खुल गयी. बाहर अभी गौरैया भी नहीं जागी थी. अँधेरा चहुँ ओर नंगा पसरा पडा था, हवा सांस रोके लेटी थी और रोशनी ने पहली अंगडाई भी नहीं ली थी. खामोशी सड़कों पर दबे पाँव चल रही थी, इतने दबे पाँव की कागज सी हल्की नींद वाले कुत्तों को भी खबर ना लगे. इस साफ खामोशी में मानों समय के टांके भी ढीले हो रखे थे. शायद इसी खामोशी में जिन्दगी धीमे से उठ जाती है, और मुंह अँधेरे घर के सारे काम निपटा देती है, मेरी माँ की तरह.

translated

2008-05-02T01:34:00.000-07:00

my last hindi poem, here.

new entry in the book of inanity

2008-05-01T00:26:00.000-07:00

The SPAM you may not know of
(Especially, if you are an Indian, and a vegetarian)

SPAM luncheon meat is a canned precooked meat product made by the Hormel Foods Corporation. The product has become part of many jokes and urban legends about mystery meat, which has made it part of pop culture and folklore. Introduced on July 5, 1937, the name "Spam" was chosen in the 1930s when the product, whose original name was far less memorable (Hormel Spiced Ham), began to lose market share. The name was chosen from multiple entries in a naming contest. A Hormel official once stated that the original meaning of the name Spam was "Shoulder of Pork And haM".

Spam was one of the few meat products included in the British food rationing that began in World War II (and continued for a number of years after the war), and the British grew heartily tired of it.The Monty Python comedy troupe used this as the context for their "Spam" sketch, in which the menu at a greasy spoon cafe consists entirely of dishes containing one or more portions of Spam.

Now, the spam you do know of
(Presuming you hold an email account and check it frequently too. Notice the use of small letters, unlike the capital letters in the brand name, as prescribed by the law.)

The repetitious nature of the Monty Python sketch, in which the customer becomes more and more exasperated by the appearances of "Spam" in every menu item, gave rise to the term Spam as the common term for unsolicited bulk electronic messages. Earlier, the term was used as a verb to describe widespread dissemination of derogatory (and often untrue) postings and messages about a person ("She was getting spammed all over the Internet.").

Hormel does not object to the term, but insists that it be spelled in lower case so as to distinguish it from its capitalized SPAM trademark. Hormel objects to Spam's "product identity" (for example, images of Spam cans) being used in relation to spamming, and has filed lawsuits against companies which have attempted to trademark words containing "Spam".

In 1998, the New Oxford Dictionary of English, which had previously only defined "Spam" in relation to the trademarked food product, added a second definition to its entry: "Irrelevant or inappropriate messages sent on the Internet to a large number of newsgroups or users."

(Edited from a wikipedia article)

ruminating over murakami

2008-04-28T23:32:00.000-07:00

I'm reading Murakami.

I like him. Murakami takes you places. The most remarkable thing about his style is that even though its surreal and whimsical, utterly unbounded by the common laws of everyday reality, it is not loose. In spite of its unlikely characters, uncanny events and unbelievable plot devices, it is a real page turner. The best name to call it is, perhaps, a surreal thriller. As an allegory, I would call it a magic show with the magician producing rabbits and what-nots at a stupendous rate. You follow with a keen eye, trying to catch a sleight of hand here, a slip there, but he's always a step ahead of you.

Murakami is not like Marquez. Even with his Magical Realism, Marquez is firmly rooted in reality. The surreality in Marquez's prose is a tool to peel off the blinds of cause and effect and bring you closer to the true nature of the story, somehow making it more real, more believable. Marquez bounds surreality within the laws of the story, lending it a logic, dream logic even. But Murakami gets away with being illogical, and how.

Murakami is not like Kafka either, someone he's been often compared to, perhaps only because he chose to name a book after him. Now I haven't read much of Kafka, but the little that I have, makes me think of him as a grim, self-absorbed, even tortured storyteller. Murakami is fun, thoroughly enjoyable (maybe forgettable too, as far as the details go) in a pulp-fiction sort of way, and I say it with the best of intentions.

One thing is for sure, though. Murakami has a unique style, all of his own. His work may not serve as a filling, all-rounded meal. But it's delicious. And I, for one, don't mind second helpings.

sermon

2008-04-28T00:05:00.000-07:00

(Image from here)

How do you tell a story?

Remember, how they told you all stories were autobiographical? First, you erase that off your book of notions. You don't tell a story all by yourself. You agree to tell a story that chooses to be told by you. You got that? Next, you pick the story. Carefully. Reverently. And you wring yourself out of it. Rinse it completely dry of you. Not a trace of you in there. For a true story is unlike entertainment, or gossip, or masturbation. It is utterly unlike an entente cordiale of mutual indulgence between the writer and the audience that you come across every other day. A true story is something you find, like a perfectly formed pebble sleeping quietly at the bottom of a noisy rapid stream. It is like those unlikely creatures that lurk in the dark echoing depths of the ocean. Alien to your limited understanding, but familiar to their environment. You are a flake, a fluke flake. They are real. You are ephemeral. They are eternal, ruling in their depths for an eternity. "You are 90% metaphor with a leanness of meaning approaching hyperdistillation" as per Ani Difranco. You are a metaphor, for them, stories. So there. Now you have a story. It is not your story, mind it. You merely found it. It is not a story that you own. Although the story may very well own you, in a manner. You are just a narrator, at best. A folk singer. A medium. It is crucial to understand that. And if you can understand that, there you are, among an elite family of story-tellers across the ages.

(Image: The Storyteller by Howard Terpning)

a swarm of moths

2008-04-22T07:53:00.000-07:00

So it's you against me again, Dusk. Or you with me, as the case may be. I eye you, with your obsessive punctuality, alight from the sky like a quiet swarm of gray moths, and smear yourself thick over my already grayed city.

(Photograph by Jill Greenberg)

I watch the monkeys in the market-place, and children. Monkeys and children. Fair, almost albino, children. I watch the men watch women. Not so much out of lust perhaps, but out of sheer habit borne of boredom. I look away.

I start narrating the tale, and it begins to take. It begins to take shape like a magical conjuring, an ectoplasmic effusion in a virtual seance, mostly in our heads- yours and mine, but sometimes in real time and place. And sometimes, ever so often, the tale tails reality.

(Painting by Jason Randolph Burrell)

Like this particular tale laments in resonance with the soft sobs of our mother, the land, buried alive under this monstro-city- a dead heavy coagulation of asphalt, concrete, iron. Choked to death by vaporised metal. Nailed to her coffin of dead trees in a shallow grave flattened immaculate by monster machines.

hillgrims

2008-04-19T08:26:00.000-07:00

(Painting by Alexander Ivanov)

We wake well before the sun, even though we had stayed up late last night. I try to kiss her, wondering if my morning breath would bother her. She had never complained before. I am observing a fast, she says, dodging me. It’s the day we are visiting her ancestral deity in the Garhwal hills. As we get in the car, our 3 year old is bursting with excitement. And here we thought he would be cranky, having been woken unceremoniously this early.

On the road, a cool breeze welcomes us. The tarmac is a patchwork quilt of moist and dry spots. It must have rained last night. Grey sky peaks from irregular windows of darkness and everything is covered in the dark hue of olden oil paintings.

Soon, the sun comes up. The hills are already looming ahead like giant sleeping bears. Our car zooms past Rishikesh (Ascetic's Tresses) and into the hills, running alongside a thin rushing stream of infantile Ganga in the valley on our right. On its pristine white sandy shores are mushroom farms of colourful river rafting camps with weekend tourists from big cities.

This Ganga is newly born at Devprayag further up on our journey by the union of Alaknanda and Bhagirathi tributaries. After Devprayag, we journey with Alaknanda (daughter of the heavens), now on our left.

The journey through the hills is fairly monotonous, uneventful and a little tough on the car. It's good that we hired a taxi. The lower Garhwal hills are covered with scabs of calcified sedimentary rocks, so parched that most of them look like vast piles of rubble. Instead of waterfalls, there's more loose rubble streaming down on the roads at places.

It takes us 5 hours to cross Srinagar and reach Devalgarh by 10am, home to the ancient temple of Sri Raj Rajeshwari, my wife’s clan Goddess. We ring the priest on his mobile phone to inform of our arrival. I carry my son on my shoulders upon the steep climb to the temple, while the priest’s middle-aged wife, much tougher than soft city-folks like me, helps with the heavy baggage. The kid is still as excited as he was when we had started. I have to caution him to be careful upon the treacherous terrain.

A long puja later, we have our lunch, rice and daal cooked upon open fire, and start our descent (They do have a gas stove but there’s an ongoing scarcity of gas cylinders, we're told). Half way down the hillock is the Gauri temple, another ancient temple established by one of the Nath kings of Garhwal, a government heritage site, no less. We pay a quick visit, for there’s yet another mother deity to be visited on the way back. Legend has it that Dhari Devi is the sister of Raj Rajeshwari and it is customary to visit both the Goddess sisters on a single visit. Her temple is by the Ganga stream in the valley. My wife, son and I climb down the steps. After the puja, I contemplate bathing in the icy cold river, but decide against it when I see some visitors washing their clothes in the stream. The uphill climb is tedious and tiring, especially with the kid on my shoulder. I have to stop several times to catch my breath. A young native girl with a heavy baggage on her back trots past, reminding me of how unfit I am.

Our journey home is punctuated by two brief tea-snack-leak breaks. This time, the car rushes through sun and shade as the night slowly mounts the dying day, and we run as if being chased by the legendary man-eaters of Garhwal. We take a quick stoppage at Rishikesh to fill our jerry cans with holy (and icy) Ganga water. By now, the soft beds back home are luring us with their siren songs of providing rest to our creaking bones.

Images from this public album by Dr. Anurag Ayachit

the journey

2008-04-19T05:43:00.000-07:00

The train crawls forth like a metal millipede.

I watch the darkness ascend from the bowels of earth and cover the sky, one heavy brush stroke at a time starting with the horizons, and the birds and beasts muted by distance.

I think of writing, how the strange mysterious process becomes a life form, how words froth out of paper, oozing from the hidden cracks in our thoughts.

There are all kinds of people around me- cheerful and morose, talkative and reticent, strangers befriending strangers. I watch my reflection distorting the texture of their reality; and I step into a dream.

I dream of another journey. Another journey is what I need to pump blood back into the hardening tissue of my skin and brain. A journey stripped bare of purpose, uncaring of its destination or the lack of one. A journey oblivious of the past and future, blinded breathless by the colours and scents of its now.

I remember to remember the little fractured snaps that make the collage of me- the matchboxes with playing card motifs and imaginary houses with slanted roofs, old books with yellowing paper, rough peeling cement alternating with mesmerising brick patterns over our boxy living quarters, the unreasonable everyday anxiety, the friendly school buses and sweets on republic days with the grease oozing out of their brown paper bags, hawkers with knickknacks, the orange ice candies, the wide brimming river, the angry river, the dried river, the trees, them trees- that bargad, that simbal, those tesus on the way to school and beyond the hockey field.

I think of a lot of things. My thoughts jump from strand to strand upon strands that tie these different things into a complex criss cross thatchwork. Some patterns are obvious, while others are cryptic.

The dreaming eventually bleeds into sleep with its own dream-patterns that the conscious me doesn't recall upon waking.

And I'm home.

Photograph: Malaysian Train Journey by Carol Etheridge

little ditty

2008-04-04T01:39:00.000-07:00

There are so many different worlds
And in the middle, an indifferent me
And when I look into the mirror
I find so many different me

the thing about metaphors

2008-04-01T02:47:00.000-07:00

Metaphors have a way of holding the most truth in the least space.

Orson Scott Card

paradox

2008-04-01T02:44:00.000-07:00

And here's the clincher- You have to start before you are ready, so that you are ready when you have to get started.

brother

2008-04-01T02:28:00.000-07:00

Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born.
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.

Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.

William Blake
(Auguries of Innocence)

I think you were among the latter. And I hope wandering shards of light did penetrate the long night here and there, now and then. And I pray that the final night took you in like a lost babe. Rest in peace.

the way it is

2008-03-06T11:14:00.000-08:00

Why, you ask, must I bother you with ill-written rants that have no significance whatsoever in the big picture or the long run? Damned if I knew.

new hindi poem

2008-02-16T03:30:00.000-08:00

A new hindi poem on my poem blog: Random Creatures

what am I upto?

2008-01-20T21:36:00.000-08:00

Wandering through the nightmare laden labyrinthine streets of China Mieville's New Crobuzon; bound for Perdido Street Station where the climactic showdown between Isaac, aided by Derkhan, Weaver and the Construct Council; and the fearsome dream eating Slake Moths is scheduled

Watching The Golden Compass (Frankly, the book by Philip Pullman was way better.)

Battling the writer's block that hasn't allowed me to write anything worthwhile, at work or in my own time, for a long while

Getting ready for my younger brother's marriage

day-o

2008-01-18T00:06:00.000-08:00

You wake up to find sitting by your pillow, staring you in the face, a fat gruff mustachioed sun.

Another day has begun.

Image Credit: www.remarc.com/craig

plea

2008-01-11T04:46:00.000-08:00

O words… why hast thou forsaken me?

skywards

2007-12-03T00:45:00.000-08:00

Faithless, godless, and maybe, even soulless, if I decree myself an atheist from today, wouldst Thou smite me down in your wrath.

blitzkreig

2007-12-02T23:09:00.000-08:00

A bout of fear every now then is only human. After all we live in a universe of uncertainties. And what may destroy us always outweighs whatever sustains us.

the saga of beowulf

2007-11-23T23:16:00.000-08:00

Flanked by 13 warriors
He rode the stormy sea
Atop the hull of his galleon
The wolf banner blowing free

Slayer of Leviathans
And giant serpents of the sea
Beowulf! Beowulf! Beowulf!

To rid the fabled mead hall
Of the bravest Danish King
Of the monster of the marshlands
The terror they called Grendel

Scourge of mighty dragons
And the eater of their hearts
Beowulf! Beowulf! Beowulf!

Came seeking eternal glory
And the love of their fair queen
He told them of his great feats
Across the stormy seas

Killer of the monsters
And shredder of their limbs
Beowulf! Beowulf! Beowulf!

He fought the monstrous Grendel
Without his sword and shield
In a gruesome bare hand battle
He tore off Grendel's limb

The last of old world heroes
The prince of Nordic seas
Beowulf! Beowulf! Beowulf!

Along came Grendel's mother
Perhaps a Valkyrie
She slaughtered all his warriors
And called him to her lake

The butcher of the giants
And the raider of their gold
Beowulf! Beowulf! Beowulf!

He rode down to the misty lake
The lair of Grendel's mother
He returned with Grendel's head
Claiming the mother's dead

The ruler of the Icelands
The bravest of the warriors
Beowulf! Beowulf! Beowulf!

He ruled for 50 long years
Till the flight of golden dragon
He slew the mighty dragon
And died a hero still

The vanquisher of three monsters
Grendel, Grendel's mother and the dragon
He died there of his battle wounds
But his song is still immortal
Beowulf! Beowulf! Beowulf!

list for a genie

2007-11-23T08:23:00.000-08:00

Things I would like to do/not do in/with my life:

Do:
Write (and draw)a book
Make a rock band (and play in a stadium)
Write songs (for movies and albums)
Bagpack through Europe (and Australia and Newzealand while I'm at it)
Talk to Gulzar
Talk to Roger Waters
Be among old friends in my old age
Read all I want
Listen to all the music I want
Watch all the movies I want

Never do:
Have to earn for a living

(to be updated later)

think i'd blog this

2007-11-21T10:14:00.000-08:00

Job satisfaction is not a company perk; it comes from doing quality work.

(From a Microsoft recruitment ad)