Myndspace

Travelogue - Satara

2011-06-26T20:27:00.001+05:30

Waking Up

2010-12-04T20:45:00.000+05:30

After romancing the dark, falling in love with it, living it to reminiscing it, it just doesn't go away. Flipping between going back and waking up, it is truly awesome. And then paper weight. Nice. Feels grounded. Nice.

The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas

2010-09-12T22:04:00.000+05:30

Brilliant Short Story I read on the flight the other day. Thanks 19C.

With a clamor of bells that set the swallows soaring, the Festival of
Summer came to the city Omelas, bright-towered by the sea. The ringing
of the boats in harbor sparkled with flags. In the streets between
houses with red roofs and painted walls, between old moss-grown
gardens and under avenues of trees, past great parks and public
buildings, processions

moved. Some were decorous: old people in long stiff robes of mauve and
gray, grave master workmen, quiet, merry women carrying their babies
and chatting as they walked. In other streets the music beat faster, a
shimmering of gong and tambourine, and the people went dancing, the
procession was a dance. Children dodged in and out, their high calls
rising like the swallows' crossing flights over the music and the
singing. All the processions wound towards the north side of the city,
where on the great water-meadow called the Green Fields boys and
girls, naked in the bright air, with mud-stained feet and ankles and
long, lithe arms,exercised their restive horses before the race. The
horses wore no gear at all but a halter without bit. Their manes were
braided with streamers of silver, gold, and green. They flared their
nostrils and pranced and boasted to one another; they were vastly
excited, the horse being the only animal who has adopted our
ceremonies as his own. Far off to the north and west the mountains
stood up half encircling Omelas on her bay. The air of morning was so
clear that the snow still crowning the Eighteen Peaks burned
withwhite-gold fire across the miles of sunlit air, under the dark
blue of the sky. There was just enough wind to make the banners that
marked the racecourse snap and flutter now and then. In the silence of
the broad green meadows one could hear the music winding throughout the
city streets, farther and nearer and ever approaching, a cheerful
faint sweetness of the air from time to time trembled and gathered
together and broke out into the great joyous clanging of the bells.

Joyous! How is one to tell about joy? How describe the citizens of
Omelas?

They were not simple folk, you see, though they were happy. But we do
not say the words of cheer much any more. All smiles have become
archaic. Given a description such as this one tends to make certain
assumptions. Given a description such as this one tends to look next
for the King, mounted on a splendid stallion and surrounded by his
noble knights, or perhaps in a golden litter borne by great-muscled
slaves. But there was no king. They did not use swords, or keep
slaves. They were not barbarians, I do not know the rules and laws of
their society, but I suspect that they were singularly few. As they
did without monarchy and slavery, so they also got on without the
stock exchange, the advertisement, the secret police, and the
bomb. Yet I repeat that these were not simple folk, not dulcet
shepherds, noble savages, bland utopians. There were not less complex
than us.

The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and
sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather
stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the
treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the
terrible boredom of pain. If you can't lick 'em, join 'em. If it
hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to
embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else. We have almost
lost hold; we can no longer describe happy man, nor make any
celebration of joy. How can I tell you about the people of Omelas?
They were not naive and happy children--though their children were, in
fact, happy. They were mature, intelligent, passionate adults whose
lives were not wretched. O miracle! But I wish I could describe it
better. I wish I could convince you. Omelas sounds in my words like a
city in a fairy tale, long ago and far away, once upon a time. Perhaps
it would be best if you imagined it as your own fancy bids, assuming
it will rise to the occasion, for certainly I cannot suit you all. For
instance, how about technology? I think that there would be no cars or
helicopters in and above the streets; this follows from the fact that
the people of Omelas are happy people. Happiness is based on a just
discrimination of what is necessary, what is neither necessary nor
destructive, and what is destructive. In the middle category,
however--that of the unnecessary but undestructive, that of
comfort, luxury, exuberance, etc.--they could perfectly well have
central heating, subway trains, washing machines, and all kinds of
marvelous devices not yet invented here, floating light-sources,
fuelless power, a cure for the common cold. Or they could have none of
that: it doesn't matter. As you like it. I incline to think that
people from towns up and down the coast have been coming to to Omelas
during the last days before the Festival on very fast little trains
and double-decked trams, and that the trains station of Omelas is
actually the handsomest building in town, though plainer than the
magnificent Farmers' Market. But even granted trains, I fear that
Omelas so far strikes some of you as goody-goody. Smiles, bells,
parades, horses, bleh. If so, please add an orgy. If an orgy would
help, don't hesitate. Let us not, however, have temples from which
issue beautiful nude priests and priestesses already half in ecstasy
and ready to copulate with any man or woman, lover or stranger, who
desires union with the deep godhead of the blood, although that was my
first idea. But really it would be better not to have any temples in
Omelas--at least, not manned temples. Religion yes, clergy no. Surely
the beautiful nudes can just wander about, offering themselves like
divine souffles to the hunger of the needy and the rapture of the
flesh. Let them join the processions. Let tambourines be struck above
the copulations, and the gory of desire be proclaimed
upon the gongs, and (a not unimportant point) let the offspring of
these delightful rituals be beloved and looked after by all. One thing
I know there is none of in Omelas is guilt. But what else should there
be? I thought at first there were no drugs, but that is
puritanical. For those who like it, the faint insistent sweetness of
drooz may perfume the ways of the city, drooz which first brings a
great lightness and brilliance to the mind and limbs, and then after
some hours a dreamy languor, and wonderful visions at last of the very
arcane and inmost secrets of the Universe, as well as exciting the
pleasure of sex beyond all belief; and it is not habit-forming. For
more modest tastes I think there ought to be beer. What else, what
else belongs in the joyous city? The sense of victory, surely, the
celebration of courage. But as we did without clergy, let us do
without soldiers. The joy built upon successful slaughter is not the
right kind of joy; it will not do; it is fearful and it is trivial. A
boundless and generous contentment, a magnanimous triumph felt not
against some outer enemy but in communion with the finest and fairest
in the souls of all men everywhere and the splendor of the world's
summer: This is what swells the hearts of the people of Omelas, and the
victory they celebrate is that of life. I don't think many of them
need to take drooz.

Most of the processions have reached the Green Fields by now. A
marvelous smell of cooking goes forth from the red and blue tents of
the provisioners. The faces of small children are amiably sticky; in
the benign gray beard of a man a couple of crumbs of rich pastry are
entangled. The youths and girls have mounted their horses and are
beginning to group around the starting line of the course. An old
woman, small, fat, and laughing, is passing out flowers from a basket,
and tall young men wear her flowers in their shining hair. A child of
nine or ten sits at the edge of the crowd alone, playing on a wooden
flute.

People pause to listen, and they smile, but they do not speak to him,
for he never ceases playing and never sees them, his dark eyes wholly
rapt in the sweet, thing magic of the tune.

He finishes, and slowly lowers his hands holding the wooden flute.

As if that little private silence were the signal, all at once a
trumpet sounds from the pavilion near the starting line: imperious,
melancholy, piercing. The horses rear on their slender legs, and some
of them neigh in answer. Sober-faced, the young riders stroke the
horses' necks and soothe them, whispering. "Quiet, quiet, there my
beauty, my hope..." They begin to form in rank along the starting
line. The crowds along the racecourse are like a field of grass and
flowers in the wind. The Festival of Summer has begun.

Do you believe? Do you accept the festival, the city, the joy? No?
Then let me describe one more thing.

In a basement under one of the beautiful public buildings of Omelas,
or perhaps in the cellar of one of its spacious private homes, there
is a room. It has one locked door, and no window. A little light seeps
in dustily between cracks in the boards, secondhand from a cobwebbed
window somewhere across the cellar. In one corner of the little room a
couple of mops, with stiff, clotted, foul-smelling heads, stand near a
rusty bucket. The floor is dirt, a little damp to the touch, as cellar
dirt usually is.

The room is about three paces long and two wide: a mere broom closet
or disused tool room. In the room, a child is sitting. It could be a
boy or a girl. It looks about six, but actually is nearly ten. It is
feeble-minded. Perhaps it was born defective, or perhaps it has become
imbecile through fear, malnutrition, and neglect. It picks its nose
and occasionally fumbles vaguely with its toes or genitals, as it sits
hunched in the corner farthest from the bucket and the two mops. It is
afraid of the mops. It finds them horrible. It shuts its eyes, but it
knows the mops are still standing there; and the door is locked; and
nobody will come. The door is always locked; and nobody ever comes,
except that sometimes--the child has no understanding of time or
interval--sometimes the door rattles terribly and opens, and a person,
or several people, are there. One of them may come in and kick the
child to make it stand up. The others never come close, but peer in at
it with frightened, disgusted eyes. The food bowl and the water jug
are hastily filled, the door is locked; the eyes disappear. The people
at the door never say anything, but the child, who has not always
lived in the tool room, and can remember sunlight and its mother's
voice, sometimes speaks. "I will be good, " it says. "Please let me
out. I will be good!" They never answer. The child used to scream for
help at night, and cry a good deal, but now it only makes a kind of
whining, "eh-haa, eh-haa," and it speaks less and less often. It is so
thin there are no calves to its legs; its belly protrudes; it lives on
a half-bowl of corn meal and grease a day. It is naked. Its buttocks
and thighs are a mass of festered sores, as it sits in its own
excrement continually.

They all know it is there, all the people of Omelas. Some of them have
come to see it, others are content merely to know it is there. They
all know that it has to be there. Some of them understand why, and
some do not, but they all understand that their happiness, the beauty
of their city, the tenderness of their friendships, the health of
their children, the wisdom of their scholars, the skill of their
makers, even the abundance of their harvest and the kindly weathers of
their skies, depend wholly on this child's abominable misery.

This is usually explained to children when they are between eight and
twelve, whenever they seem capable of understanding; and most of those
who come to see the child are young people, though often enough an
adult comes, or comes back, to see the child. No matter how well the
matter has been explained to them, these young spectators are always
shocked and sickened at the sight. They feel disgust, which they had
thought themselves superior to. They feel anger, outrage, impotence,
despite all the explanations. They would like to do something for the
child. But there is nothing they can do. If the child were brought up
into the sunlight out of that vile place, if it were cleaned and fed
and comforted, that would be a good thing, indeed; but if it were
done, in that day and hour all the prosperity and beauty and delight
of Omelas would wither and be destroyed. Those are the terms. To
exchange all the goodness and grace of every life in Omelas for that
single, small improvement: to throw away the happiness of thousands
for the chance of happiness of one: that would be to let guilt within
the walls indeed.

The terms are strict and absolute; there may not even be a kind word
spoken to the child.

Often the young people go home in tears, or in a tearless rage, when
they have seen the child and faced this terrible paradox. They may
brood over it for weeks or years. But as time goes on they begin to
realize that even if the child could be released, it would not get
much good of its freedom: a little vague pleasure of warmth and food,
no real doubt, but little more. It is too degraded and imbecile to
know any real joy. It has been afraid too long ever to be free of
fear. Its habits are too uncouth for it to respond to humane
treatment. Indeed, after so long it would probably be wretched without
walls about it to protect it, and darkness for its eyes, and its own
excrement to sit in. Their tears at the bitter injustice dry when they
begin to perceive the terrible justice of reality, and to accept
it. Yet it is their tears and anger, the trying of their generosity
and the acceptance of their helplessness, which are perhaps the true
source of the splendor of their lives. Theirs is no vapid,
irresponsible happiness. They know that they, like the child, are not
free. They know compassion. It is the existence of the child, and
their knowledge of its existence, that makes possible the nobility of
their architecture, the poignancy of their music, the profundity of
their science. It is because of the child that they are so gentle with
children. They know that if the wretched one were not there sniveling
in the dark, the other one, the flute-player, could make no joyful
music as the young riders line up in their beauty for the race in the
sunlight of the first morning of summer.

Now do you believe them? Are they not more credible? But there is one
more thing to tell, and this is quite incredible.

At times one of the adolescent girls or boys who go see the child does
not go home to weep or rage, does not, in fact, go home at
all. Sometimes also a man or a woman much older falls silent for a day
or two, then leaves home. These people go out into the street, and
walk down the street alone. They keep walking, and walk straight out
of the city of Omelas, through the beautiful gates. They keep walking
across the farmlands of Omelas. Each one goes alone, youth or girl,
man or woman.

Night falls; the traveler must pass down village streets, between the
houses with yellow- lit windows, and on out into the darkness of the
fields. Each alone, they go west or north, towards the mountains. They
go on. They leave Omelas, they walk ahead into the darkness, and they
do not come back. The place they go towards is a place even less
imaginable to most of us than the city of happiness. I cannot describe
it at all. It is possible that it does not exist. But they seem to
know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.

IDK

2010-08-24T17:46:00.002+05:30

It has been drilled into our conscience that life is all about making the right choices. What defines right has been passed on through the ages. And about 200 years ago, I wouldn't have been writing this. I wouldn't even mind it. But times are a changing. And our ideologiesare stuck in a time warp. So you have to tread cautiously at every step. Collateral Damage is not permissible. Internally you can die. The futility of the whole thing is overwhelming. The obligatory nature of every dysfunctional family is worse than the guilty solace of a broken one.

So every passing day is an existence. A mere passage into the next, where most likely the drab and mundane will face you. And the exhilaration of solitude suddenly seems pointless too. When that was all you had in the first place.

2010-06-08T23:46:00.000+05:30

Thank god for the smell of wet earth.

Where are thou Jack

2010-03-21T22:57:00.000+05:30

Life pauses for a little while, letting the air seep in
mending the pain, the weariness and the nerves that were frayed thin
For too long a while tremors were a constant
Waking up in the morning was as much a task as making coal fragrant

The sullen look, the motley grin, the frowning at a whim
The caustic remarks intended to fray the nerves thin
A long break was in the offing, it arrived and vanished
Vanished without a trace and now it leaves me famished
Famished for a little care and a little love
I wish Jack sparrow was here, he'd share his bloody trove

2010-02-26T17:05:00.001+05:30

I stumbled today. Not a nice feeling.

2010-02-25T00:49:00.001+05:30

TENDULKAR !!! WE SALUTE YOU

The next generation

2010-02-04T22:48:00.000+05:30

My boss said that there is a life before the blackberry and one after. Thank God I had 25 years :-)

2010-01-26T10:26:00.002+05:30

where did the time go ?

2010-01-20T22:11:00.001+05:30

After AGES, I have laughed my heart out. Ze and Leo, you rock.

2010-01-20T09:02:00.000+05:30

Clarity is not always a good thing. As a matter of fact, sometimes, it's the worst possible thing that can happen to you. That blurred vision, however unsettling, is far more acceptable than the pain that follows when the clouds clear.

2010-01-12T11:21:00.001+05:30

Life sucks and how ...

2010-01-05T12:19:00.002+05:30

Perhaps our biggest problems in life can be attributed to our inability to let go.

funny

2009-12-28T14:07:00.000+05:30

Its funny how things turn out sometimes, you see stuff staring at you in the face, but you choose to turn away. The last person who tried it died in a road accident. A semi was staring him in the face. So then its better to look at stuff in the face, even death. Its funny how these things work out sometimes.

Trying all our lives to do things that keep us alive, make us feel alive, but actually dying a slow death doing it. What hurts even more is knowing that it is, and watching it set it in. And then that light at the end turns into a train and you're glad. Maybe it will take you somewhere, but f*ck, no, its just heading straight for you, but you've already blissfully turned away.

So then what. I dont know. I dont f**king care. But I do.

The constancy of figuring out, living it. I hope the train is a fast one. It'll be over quick. Real Quick. Either Way.

-- The Author is not suicidal, he just thinks he's figured out stuff and that it should be written, cos its too good to remain in his head, cos there's too much there, and this is the good stuff. And good writers are not appreciated, cos there are better people to appreciate, like those genome mapping scientists. F*ck them. I did all this research by myself. Didn't get paid, and fucking nearly died in the process. And f*ck no, I'm not suicidal.

Expectations

2009-12-28T13:44:00.002+05:30

Several years from now, I will look back at my life and wish that many things had not happened. Worse still I would curse myself for doing a lot of those things, uninstigated. Having built a cocoon for myself that allowed me my little joys, having broken that down to let me enjoy others', having painfully reconstructed it to ensure solace, all ploys that have thusfar yielded miserable results.

And when the burden of expectations lifts, ever so lightly, you are fooled into believing that everything is all right. But then wham, it hits you in the face and you're miserable all over again. Telling myself that the pain I feel now is the happiness I had before, is what keeps me sane. But this kind of sanity is far from the tranquility I so badly desire.

And yet, there is no sense of despair that I am normally used to. Its just a prolonged state of indifference that I see in the offing. A hugely prolonged state of indifference as I keep stepping from one blow to another. There are times when I long to get out of this state. There are times when I have been sucessful. But at the end of the day, the only thing that lets me get into bed and fall into a blissful slumber is that indifference.

Heath Ledger

2009-12-26T12:00:00.003+05:30

I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair.

I hate the way you drive my car.

I hate it when you stare.

I hate your big dumb combat boots, and the way you read my mind.

I hate you so much it makes me sick; it even makes me rhyme.

I hate it, I hate the way you're always right.

I hate it when you lie.

I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry.

I hate it that you're not around, and the fact that you didn't call.

But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you.

Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.

--Ten Things I Hate About You"

Not a highly recommended movie, but heath's there. he's there

R.I.P

2009-12-24T15:43:00.001+05:30

...

SJVN

2009-12-18T16:59:00.002+05:30

A small victory of sorts today. A seemingly futile avenue has thrown up a good opportunity. Feels good.

2009-12-10T01:29:00.002+05:30

In the abyss of happiness

the joy had disappeared

but it has returned

Light up the Darkness

2009-11-29T23:58:00.003+05:30

In the midst of his nuptials, the trademark "you fucker" aka "Incestuous Expletives" look

Iktara

2009-11-21T14:11:00.001+05:30

Breakfast at Leopold

Catching up with buddies

Iktara

Work

Nice evening planned

Merci Beacoup Dieu :)

Prayer

2009-11-20T14:47:00.003+05:30

A bright light on the horizon beckons, pity I was oblivious to it for a long time. Better late than never.

NMIMS

2009-11-16T09:36:00.003+05:30

For an institution that claims to have had a wondrous past and foresees an equally bright future, there's a lot of ill will on blogosphere that it has managed to generate. And while I was not a part of the brigade that was bashing it, one meeting with a friend who was marred by the same institute propelled me to blog about it. I hate it. The amount of grief that it has filled my life with is unfathomable. And the after effects of being in this place was neutralised by the fact that my current organisation can whop the bejesus out of that institution with its capacity to inflict pain.

2009-11-12T23:16:00.002+05:30

hahahahahaha

2009-11-12T23:08:00.000+05:30

“The good times of today, are the sad thoughts of tomorrow.”

The Fall

2009-11-12T23:00:00.002+05:30

And while some of us rest peacefully,

There are others who fight

And for those of us who fight,

A lot of us give up

And for those of us who give up

There are a few that don't

And for those few that don't

I salute you.

I embrace you.

I wish there were more of you

I wish ...

2009-11-12T22:57:00.001+05:30

"The people, who were trying to make this world worse... are not taking a day off. How can I?

Light up the darkness."

Finally ...

2009-11-09T00:31:00.001+05:30

Opel Corsa - It had an epiphany to die in my arms

2009-11-04T08:12:00.003+05:30

This was in reply to my email :

Dear Sir,

I would like to place on record my sincere gratitude to you. After watching Catch Me If You Can, I thought it had pretty much covered the gamut of making money by all means possible, but it seems they forgot GM. Let me place on record my (horrible) ownership experience with an Opel Corsa that unfortunately is my first car.

I bought a used Opel Corsa 1.6 Gsi that had about 58,000 km on the speedo. The pride of ownership however was soon lost because my car never made it home the first day. The fuel tank had a leak. I consoled myself, paid a hefty 1k to the towing vehicle and got it to National Garage on Peddar Road, Mumbai. I must say you have trained them well. For a car that cost me 80k to buy, the very first day had me spending 32k on a long list of replacements that promised to make the car better. Only it did not. The amount of labour they charged me could be used to four lane the highways in Russia.

In fact so busy were they in trying to ensure that a prized catch like yours truly (read moron) should not be let go, that they managed to forget to tighten the bolts on the driver’s side. They prob hoped I’d crash and not write this email. But no such luck I’m afraid. They also managed to @*#% up the electrical system by putting in the wrong fuses. So when I drove home that night, up to my building, the car started smoking from under the bonnet. They had forgotten to put the fuse for the engine fan. The ECU light also showed up. Probably it’s way of showing that even if the ECU doesn’t function properly at least the b$oo#y light does.

They replaced the head lamps, bulbs, and charged me an astronomical sum for it. Pity it worked only in outer space. I had to get it done again. You see I reside on earth.

I then spent varying sums of money to replace the clutch plate, the fuel pump, the flywheel, brake pads, master cylinder and not to mention getting the fuel injectors cleaned (which National Garage claimed to have done). I tried my best to salvage the car (and my pride).

But you see the car now sits in my parking spot, refusing to start because the alternator seems to have given up. I then begin to wonder whatever the $*%# did I pay that much money for. But then I give up. You see I’m too small a person to make you pee your pants. You can do anything you want. And get away with it. I hope the 32k pads that bottom line of yours well.

Funny thing is I just realised that I’ve been GMed. In India that’s not a nice thing.

Regards,

Subodh Mallya

6(k) feet under

2009-11-01T11:42:00.001+05:30

An unlikely place to see your death being played out. Of course no ugly facial expressions. Not a soul to bid you goodbye. Just the sea beckoning you, the chains on the feet clinking as though in protest for the extremity of the act about to follow.

And then it all ends. A serene calm descends, as the pressure of the sea makes you relive your life. And as soon as you're done, it takes it away. And you sink, noiselessly, to the bottom of the ocean. Your final resting place.

Funny how things turn out then.

Home Sweet Home

2009-10-24T23:31:00.002+05:30

2009-10-17T11:06:00.000+05:30

Victory comes to those who want it the most ... and the longest

This

2009-10-04T13:58:00.000+05:30

is life

For the Non Believers

2009-10-04T13:41:00.001+05:30

A man needth the right tool to display his potential

Lonvala ...

2009-09-27T22:24:00.007+05:30

Highly recommended for the mind fucked

Its all there

Hot as hell ... but god damn its beautiful

My eight year old car navigating the roads ... by itself ... is true

Still works .... :D

Second highlight of my trip

Something in me has changed. Thanks PS ...

Another wasted day

2009-09-26T11:22:00.003+05:30

I love my job. But its days like these that really piss me off. Lonavala, a long drive and relaxation is all I craved for, and after 30 days of working without single day's rest, I think I deserved it. instead I'm waiting in the lobby of a dilapidated organisation, playing to the whims of some old man who holds the highest office. SUCKS.

Sign of things to come :)

2009-09-22T17:03:00.000+05:30

August Rush

2009-09-13T22:35:00.000+05:30

"The music is all around us, all you have to do is listen"

2009-09-09T16:27:00.002+05:30

The bond that got created with ease, went through rough patches, but as a wise one said, let things be and the residual is what one should be happy with. I'm finally at peace.

WTF

2009-09-03T23:01:00.001+05:30

For people with lots of money and no Taste : Mercedes Swarovski

Faith is a funny thing

2009-08-29T11:29:00.001+05:30

Funny thing fate ...

2009-08-27T10:23:00.003+05:30

In about 50 years you're going to do some thinking, and you're going to appreciate that there are two certainties in life; one - don't do that. and the second is that you spend all your time protecting your back side that you'll never know where you're going and wham, 7504 has a punctured bonnet, not to mention a wounded ego :D

2009-08-23T23:48:00.000+05:30

And sometimes serendipity will find you salvation.

How I miss them

2009-08-22T09:38:00.003+05:30

2009-08-22T09:36:00.000+05:30

"One day your life is going to flash before your eyes. Make sure its a good show"

Obscuring

2009-08-19T23:23:00.006+05:30

Losses in life don't always give you the miss

The void they leave feels like a dementor's kiss

And for the moment that the soul leaves the body

You stand back, feel that outer body experience and realise your life's a parody

So you laugh at life itself

Afterall a bit of humor is always forthcoming, especially off the shelf

Poetry was never my forte

But somehow rhyming has now become my repartee

Not that I'm good at it or any such fancy notion

Sometimes all I long for is a swig of polyjuice potion

Afterall you'd like to be someone you're not

Just to sit in the mirror and look at what you forgot

Hope

2009-08-19T14:07:00.004+05:30

People come and go, they bring a plethora of emotions with them. And they take them away. Like a soothing zephyr momentarily makes you forget your sorrows, you soul too finds their presence uplifting. But then they move on. You're shattered, yet something reminds you that there are places in the world that were made of stone. There are places that should be built of stone. They're built to protect what is inside. What is yours. They are they to make sure that the hope that keeps floating doesn't manifest into something that you can't handle. But like most things in life, the structures we build to protect ourselves are not cohesive. Because we build them out of things that life keeps throwing at us. And at the first signs of cracks, they yield to the pressure and break. And you suddenly feel light headed and happy. You taste freedom. You enjoy the hope that was floating around come and hit you. You absorb it. You love it.

But there is only so much that is around. And soon its over. Before you know it your lungs are over worked trying to breathe in as much as possible. And slowly but surely the system gives way. So you're lying face down washed up on a shore, the beauty of the scene is mocking your condition. But then so has everything else. And this degeneration into a mere caricature of your self is an ugly sight. You're so accustomed by now that you are waiting for that hope to fill your lungs, but what life throws at you is brickbats. And you get your cue. You start picking up the pieces and building that feeble defence around you again, with the hope that this time, the structure stands up longer than it did the last time around. And that's where the fault lies. Because you're hoping that it will stand up. And we all know what hope does.

Free Will

2009-08-08T19:29:00.004+05:30

And while most of our battles are fought within, the best ones are fought with the agents of free will. Namely god himself. Doesn't take too long to figure that you've picked the losing side. And while you're tottering on the edge of sanity, he stands there, in all his splendor, mocking your lame efforts at trying to mend and fence again and again. In fact there is a part of him that likes watching free will play itself out. But in the end, he does come around. And the peace is restored.

2009-08-02T18:41:00.002+05:30

The clouds are clearing, but there's no wind behind the sails
The wait has been long, but I guess there's always something in the mail
From the maker it has taken its leave
To the seeker it shall provide relief
But the wait has made the seeker meek
So much so, that it felt like swimming up sh*t's creek

...

2009-07-26T20:59:00.004+05:30

The start is always the most beautiful. The security, strength and power that you draw from your loved ones is unparalleled. You want to reach out and protect them, care for them, so that they never need to care for themselves. But somehow, over time, things start falling apart. You start drifting away, and it doesn't feel right, so you start flapping around like a fish out of water.

And the more you thrash about, the more ripples you create. And the further away you drift. And your heart aches at the loss. But you pull yourself together. Walk out of the water dry yourself and sit on the banks. The sun is setting and maybe there's more meaning to these things that we take for granted. Who knows.

Alone is probably still the best.

Time-Space Continuum

2009-07-21T23:44:00.004+05:30

If you look at it really, it's pretty evident. The deepest of gashes heal with time. The strongest emotions mellow with space. Its a wonder then, why people keep fighting this. (Yes I know what's coming my way).

But like euclid said, the best healer is the time space continuum.

Cheers to life.

Despair

2009-07-21T10:32:00.001+05:30

The sense of relief that accompanies the falling of a pretence is so overwhelming that it takes an entire sentence to express that joy, when a yay would have sufficed.

The road to perdition is surprisingly short. But then the human mind is so inflammed with suffering that perdition seems to be a better option than alleviating it. And the despair that the effort of eternal damnation brings is much akin to that what suffering brings. One is thus left wondering whether the fall to the depths and dwelling there is better than burning the insides hollow. And much of the despair lies in the fact that our journey here has been short. What awaits us is much longer. The end always seems near, but its long drawn out, and hell its not even funny.

And that journey I have taken, to the brink and back, and have survived to tell the tale. And this piece, which should have been condemned, now finds its way into the mind of another. Where ponder the reader shall, why indeed has this not been condemned.

There is hardly any joy left, except those that are short lived. Going away is an option. Coming back, I really dont know. Going away from what, and going away to what. 2 things that keeps me firmly planted. I know that over time, everything fades away into insignificance, how soon and how much are pretty much a function of how we choose to conduct ourselves that point forward.

And I know that this conflict that should have gone away, reflects somewhere on my balding countenance. It has found a friend in sarcasm. Perhaps a reflection of the traquility that is missing.

Irunny

2009-07-21T10:21:00.003+05:30

Such is the tragedy of life that the closer you get, the further everything seems. Looks like god designed this life like a treadmill, always keeping you moving, sometimes faster, sometimes slow, your heartbeat always up, you're always on the edge of exhaustion, but the sight of the target keeps you going. But you never get there. and you tire. tire beyond what you can endure.

Then you hope that either the treadmill changes direction so that you cant see where you're going, or it just stops.

But it doesn't, and by now, your legs have grown strong, you can run faster, stronger without tiring, but you're still rooted to where you are. And the futility of the whole thing is beginning to wear your nerves thin. And you realise that hey, I'm old. And there's nothing you can do about that either. And you see this happening to the next generation. But you don't warn them. You think that this is good exercise. What for ? Whatever the hell for ?

Irony, the closer you get, the further away you seem.

The curse of intelligence

2009-07-20T17:18:00.001+05:30

For a lot of us, our intelligence is the only thing we have going for us. To keep us out of trouble, to make sure that we don't do things that we don't expect of ourselves. But brief periods of insanity are bound to hit rational thinking. And when that does happen, the collateral damage that ensues is not funny.

But thank god for those rudders. Mighty useful when you haven't got a grip on things yourself.

Simple Pleasures

2009-07-19T00:34:00.005+05:30

Getting up late

Feeling rested and lazy

Firecrack Chicken

Not taking a bath, Reading in bed

A cup of Hot Coffee

Dark Knight Donut

Drinking out of the juice carton

Super soft superman boxers

Cold Shower at 12.30

My Pa's saracasm

Knowing that I can most of this on most days

Covenant

2009-07-08T09:56:00.002+05:30

No one acts more foolishly than a wise man in love
The joy that washes over seems like sparrow found his trove
But bereft of that simple pleasure
Man is but a vagabond searching for treasure

So steeply entwined in his misery he gets begotten
The pleasures of life are best forgotten
For eve shall be my aid in this pome
She bit that forbidden apple
And burdended forever was this dome

What escapes bounded rationality
Is that this pome is penned in humility
What shudders the protagonist
Is that love he's not in, and that is alarmist

With God he had made a pact a while ago
And God had promised not to meddle with his ego
But God went back on his promise
Ergo God shall repair the covenant and return the solace

Love and such

2009-07-07T12:17:00.003+05:30

Silence is a beautiful language,
there so much to say, but this provides assuage
there are times when things are best left unsaid
even though the heart feels heavy like lead

And the ensuing calm that descends is temporary
but the storm that brews within seems legendary
Surface it cannot, and I know it
for once it shows, nothing remains legit
after all there are laws that guide us
so what if it fucks our head like a sinus

And that love fills up the heart like ivy,
slowly growing in the confines of privity
but said one soul in great wisdom
if it cannot be shown, it might lessen,
for love is not flubber or as lissome

But the heart hopes and waits
It thinks that I'm probably just late
I look hard and try and figure
and the more I look, the more I ponder

And so I saw myself as a sorry young chap
sitting in his room alone enjoying a night cap
And down my cup I saw frowning,
why the hell was the sorrow not drowning,
And it was then that it hit me
All I was drinking was coffee ;)

My window

2009-07-06T16:18:00.006+05:30

The scenic beauty fades
Deep into the recess of the eerie silence
The rumbling above indicates none within
Reason dims into insignificance

The draw of water and the mist
remain unparalleled to all on the list
as it parches the thirst of the earth
the insomniac revels beneath

Sleep is afterall a fickle fiend
Here one day, then gone for a week
But awakeness never looked better before
After all there never was such beauty and splendor

That hallowed space

2009-06-28T17:12:00.000+05:30

I woke up that day, and to god I prayed

I start a journey today,

Please be with me, and with me you should stay

But God was busy, and he laughed playfully,

After years you remember, and pray.

But unlike you, I do not forget so go on, work and play.

And with that I entered this hallowed space

And never looked up, at his beauty and grace

For I was consumed in the melee

And everything was lost in the pace.

Then one day I remembered of thee,

so I looked up in sorrow.

He smiled back at me

Dont grapple with misery said he.

So I listened once again to him

he is afterall the power within

and then I realised that my running was futile

He had made my path a circular file

But then he finally let me be

Let me choose what I wanted to see

And showed me he did some great things in glee

it was I who chose to get lost in the melee.

Rains...

2009-06-22T09:47:00.000+05:30

The weather is as close to bliss as I wanted
But there is something amiss and I cant put my finger on it
Its out there somewhere, somewhere closeby, I can feel it
But then that feeling goes and the bliss becomes an abyss

The lights are too bright, it needs toning down
I want to move from here, but its too close to town
Contemplating, procrastinating, the inevitable has dawned
But dawn too nice a word, and dusk is too profound

This is not a rhyme, neither is it a rant,
its that feeling inside of me, and its making me pant
I dont know why it feels this way,
Cozy, nice almost making me sway
Then I wake up, my heads hurts, but what the fuck, its a new day