Ignorance is Bliss

I hate the times when you're made to think
Scary thoughts. Ah! they make you shrink
Worms in your head, they come alive
You wanna climb a cliff and take a dive

Pictures of things you wish you did
memories of the time when you were a kid
The girl you never told, you loved her
the gift you brought, never gave her

Logic fighting for conviction
looking in dungeons for benediction
there's so much in your head, but nothing to say
you wake up in the morning and regret it's day

the more you think the worse it gets
greens, blues and nasty reds
wish i could stop it with another drink
Alas! I'm cursed to think

It is one of those nights

It is one of those nights

When you want to, but you won't sleep
When you want to, but you can't weep
When you want to, but you won't drink
When you want to, but you can't think

It is one of those nights

When you want a hug, but you can't get it
When sleep can cure you, but you won't let it
When you want a smoke, but you can't get it
When the pristine wind can revive you, but you won't let it

It is one of those nights

When it is too dark to see, but you see the red
When it is uncomfortably silent, but you hear what she said
When your hands tremble, but you write your epitaph
When the memory-axe is blunt, but it cuts you into half

It is one of those nights

When you want the night to freeze,
An aethist, you pray to god: please
When the armies of emotion have driven you to a rout
When everything you see, think, do, is owt

It is one of those nights

When you want to jump, but you can't
When you can let go, but you won't
When you want to shout, but you can't
When you can break your illusion, but you won't

It is one of those nights

Judging books by their covers

If i had a penny for every visit to Hussain's bookshop, i'd be a crorepati by now ( with the falling rupee and all, even an arabpati) I know more about the books that are in his shop than he does. Generally i browse through my favorite sections and then sit at the counter and count how many people brought a Chetan Bhagat book. But this sunday, when that number became large enough to make me sick, i went around looking at the other sections i do not usually frequent. The self help section, the management book section and the bestseller section.

Now since i had no intention of even reading a blurb on one of these books, i thought i'll try guessing the content of these books by their covers. And here i have invented a whole new form of entertainment.

Honestly, what would you expect in a book called 'Where's my Ketchup?'. Breakfast table conversations? Anyway, what is this whole thing about losing foodstuffs. There's this one called 'Who moved my cheese?'. Duh! just look into your FRIDGE you moron!
And even if your food is lost, you really have to have a lot of free time on your hand to write a whole book about it.

Okay, how about this one ' Who love, die well!'. Well thank you for clearing that up. The rest of the populace devoid of this beautiful emotion turn up on the discovery channel serial killer program as the victims, right?
The honesty is still laudable. The writer does truthfully uses the words love and death in the same sentence. But i'm still not sure as to what the book is really about; those who died well or those who did not love.

This one was a bit more practical, but still bowled me over. 'How to have creative ideas?'. The title was very honestly telling me what was inside the book, but then the thinking part in my head says: ' if there's a process for getting creative ideas; well that defeats the whole concept of "creative ideas", right!!" A highly creative idea, probably an outcome of the processes mentioned therein.

And then there was 'Chicken soup for a shopaholics soul'. Do they also need comforting??That's rich. Never thought how many of them were vegetarian? It'll probably have to be a vegetable soup for the shopaholics soul then.

There are other writers who think they can fool their readers into buying books whose titles sounded famous. I repeat, 'sounded famous' . So there are books like 'in the DARK of the NIGHT', 'the return of THE GODFATHER' and 'The RINGS for the LORDS'. Do they think that people who are going to buy these books cannot read?? ( a bit too presumptuous maybe)

Nonetheless these titles are better than seeing people buy five point someone.

Readers Meet: Indore

What goes in your head after reading a novel, a short story, a poem? If your answer is ‘a lot’, I’m sure you’ll like to spill that lot. We feel the same way. Thoughts are just that: thoughts; it is only when they are vocalized do they become ideas.

We had been brewing up this read meet for quite some time now, hoping to meet other misfits, who read more than just bestsellers and want to yak about them too. But as I said, thoughts are no use till they remain in our heads. So here is the first (of a series, I hope) read meet in Indore. The basic idea is to get together a group people who pride themselves in doing more than just reading a book. It is not a come one come all invitation.

We’d like you to send us a 250 word write-up about why you’d like to come for a read meet and your expectations from it. Also include the titles of some books you have read and the genre that interests you. The meet is planned on the coming Sunday (27th of April) so send those write-ups fast. We’ll get back to all of you with the agenda as soon as your write-up has been received. Please direct all your correspondence to: indorereaders@gmail.com

Two poems

This is the first time i was asked to write poems. My first commission( Ha Ha Ha). I did a good job of it ( or so i would like to believe). Here they are, two of them:

The Normal Guy

Gyan follows all the trendz
Gyan has girlfriendz

He thinks, he thinks,
he eats, sleeps and drinks

Gyan does not believe in pretensions
Gyan never asks any questions

He does what his elders say
he believes in the righteous way

Gyan says philosophy is all gas
in the college band, he plays bass

He is normal, no aberration
another figment of god's perverted imagination.



Wrong


I tried to laugh, I tried to cry
I stood in the rain and came out dry

I tried to dance, I sung
I gulped gallons and never got drunk

I tried to buy, I tried to sell
I dug deep, money never filled my well

I tried to live, I died
'What did I do wrong', I cried,

Wrong!!
You were looking for yourself
in a place you did not belong!

Remembering the Sentinel

I am an avid reader of science fiction stories। And one of the very first ‘science fiction’ stories I read was titled ‘Hide and Seek’ by Sir Arthur Charles Clarke. It is about an astronaut marooned on an asteroid, trying to escape from a search party in orbit. The story goes on to tell how he escaped his pursuers by circumnavigating the asteroid.

What I vividly remember about the story is the feeling it had put in my head; about the sheer size of space and the complete insignificance of the size of one human being in comparison। The mere fact that an asteroid is bigger than an intergalactic space ship was a revelation. I almost got giddy thinking about all those galaxies and their stars with their own systems and peculiar instances of spatial phenomenon. Interestingly, the immensity of the feeling attracted me towards reading science fiction instead of pushing me away, as it does to a lot of people.

Science fiction is not a much loved genre. I’ve heard a lot of people speak with disdain about science fiction, which they tag as ‘complete fantasy’, ‘chronicles about things that are not’ and even ‘geeky fiction’. I choose a different definition, ‘Science fiction is a possible history of the future’, which is in agreement with Sir Clarke’s view. He very actively promoted the thought that science fiction should provide ideas to real researchers. He had always written hard science fiction that was based on solid scientific facts and theories. This made almost all his writing seem real and not too far away in the future. Being a futurist (which comes with being a SF writer), he is credited with thinking up the use of geo-stationary satellites for communication. But it is his other prediction that caught my imagination when I first read it; the space elevator। It is something that I’d love to see in my lifetime.

Everyone has probably heard of Asimov’s three laws. Clarke too had three laws, they have nothing to with robots but are true reflections of the person Clarke was. I paste them here, read them to understand the person he was, intelligent and humorous at the same time. Here are his three laws of prediction:

1. When a distinguished but elderly scientist states that something is possible, he is almost certainly right। When he states that something is impossible, he is very probably wrong।


2. The only way of discovering the limits of the possible is to venture a little way past them into the impossible.
   


3. Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic।

Among many versions of ‘first contact’, one of the most possible has been written by Sir Clarke in Childhood’s end, another very readable book। Some of his stories took science fiction writing to completely new levels; The Sentinel, is one of them. It is the story that is the inspiration for Stanley Kubrik’s magnum opus ‘2001: A space Odyssey’, and also perhaps Clarke’s most famous story. Among his other writings, the Rama series (with Gentry Lee) is worth mentioning, for the immensity of its sweep of the universe and the intensity of its storyline.

I intended this piece to be a sort of obituary of Sir Clarke, but I guess I ended up writing about what I felt about what he wrote, and things he thought about. Nonetheless, if you want to know about his life, you can always wiki।

I had hoped his ashes will follow Gene Roddenberry’s to space. But he lies buried in Sri Lanka, dreaming eternally. The world is sure to remember him when the first extra terrestrials land, till then; our ( all science fiction fans) remembrance will have to suffice.
I thought up an epitaph for his gravestone:

It is only a matter of a couple of billion years till his true realm of stars comes to claim him, till then, here he lies; In Transit.

Jashn

( google transliteration software के लिए maafi chahata हूँ, पर kcuhh शब्दों को ये translate ही नही कर रहा hai। Nukte और आधे अक्षरों मे भी pareshaani है, फिर भी कविता आप समझ सकते है ऐसे aasha करता हूँ)

हार के इस घने जंगल मे
खुशी-धूप बिरले ही आती है
अंधेरे की पड़ी आदत मुझे
हवा करुण गीत गाती है

क्यों उस छुपे सूरज को खोजूँ
क्यों अंधेरे से पार पाऊँ
अब तो यहीं थाम लूँ कदम
और दुःख का जशन मनाऊ

चल चल कर थक गया
अब तो खीज बहुत आती है
हर सड़क नाप आया
मंजिल एक ही आती है

क्यों उस मृग-मुकाम को खोजूँ
क्यों ज़िंदगी बे-सार banaoon
अब तो यहीं थाम लूँ कदम
और दुःख का जशन मनाऊ

मध्यम stariya हो गया हूँ
कभी mujhme भी aag थी
हार से haara हुआ हूँ
इस ज्वाला मे भी ताप थी

kyon ख़ुद को bhatti मे jhokoon
क्यों जीत की आस lagaoon
अब तो यहीं थाम लूँ कदम
और दुःख का जशन मनाऊ

duniya को dikhaane की खातिर
जाने क्या क्या jatan किया
जब andhera ghira आख़िर
सोचा! ख़ुद के लिया कब जिया?

kyonkar कुछ बन के dikhaoon
क्यों सबसे muhar lagwaaon
अब तो यहीं थाम लूँ कदम
और दुःख का जशन मनाऊ

हार के majnoo यहाँ बहुत सारे है
जशन manate ये, ख़ुद से हारे है
थोड़ा निराश हूँ बस, पर mujh निराश को खाने बैठे
यहाँ bhediye बहुत सारे है

क्यों tham कर gir jaaon
क्यों keechad मे sang इनके , mauji shokar बन jaaon

ladkhadaye ज़रूर, न thamenge ये कदम
अब तो मंजिल पाकर ही होगा जीत का जशन

Growing up

“You’re a grown up now! Behave like one” My mother chastised me over yet another small fumble up I had done.

So, I’m a grown up now. I need to understand the responsibilities that come with this post of an ‘adult’ I have been conferred with, without my express permission. I now should behave responsibly, keeping in mind that my actions reflect not only my own personality ( which ought to be good enough by numerous standards), but my family name as well. I am now ‘on display’, for people to see how well my parents have brought me up.

I was wondering ‘when did I grow up?’

Was it when I turned 18? I guess not, I never saw myself being treated as an adult then! When was it then? When did I grow up??

Was it when I had my permanent liscense made? When I had my passport made? When I had my PAN card made? When I had my voters identity card made?

I think this growing up has got something more than getting documentary proof of adulthood!

Was it when I woke up one morning and felt too lazy to shave? Something that used to be very exciting when I first started shaving at the age of 17.

Or was it when I went to a theatre running an A movie, and the ticket checker never asked for my age proof?

Or was it that day when I realized the complete gravity of what a marriage means and thus started dreading going to one?

Or was it that day when I asked my father for a couple of hundred rupees and he never asked what for?

Or was it that day when I got placed in a company? When some people interviewed me and placed a tag on my worth? 3.5 lakh rupees per annum?

Was it when I went to college and felt, soon it’ll all be over. That the dream run called education is over and that I’ll have to go and earn money of my own?

Or was it that day when the desperate urge to pursue higher studies gripped me. A last chance to have another couple of years of education before being thrown out into the big bad world, which now actually looked as scary as it sounded.

Or was it when I called my mother up and said, “I won’t be coming home tonight, we’re partying at a friends place” and she agreed!

Or was it that day when I saw an accident on the road? I ran to pick up that injured child and took him to the hospital; paying for the emergency procedures before his parents arrived?

Or was it that day when I was talking on my phone at 2 am and mummy saw me! She never asked me about it!

Or was it when I realized watching cartoons is so much fun!

Or was it that day when I escorted my brother to another city where he had taken admission, with the responsibility of ensuring all arrangements about his admission and hostel etc.?

Or was it that day when my father sat me in front of him and asked, “ So, what are your career plans?”

Or is it today, when I consciously sit down to analyze my long gone childhood and my recently acquired adulthood?

Bombay Chronicles 1: Churchgate

I got down at Churchgate station; from the fast western local I had boarded with some difficulty at Dadar, to a warm if not thunderous applause. It took me by surprise; who was clapping? And why? The second question I answered thus “probably they are applauding my heroic travel in the western line local”. Clack-clack the sound filled the station, but seeing no real people clapping, I concluded that my endeavor was not as heroic as it seemed to me; the source of the sound still remained a mystery. It was random enough to rule out mechanical origins, and loud enough to rule out a number of sources I attribute noise at railway stations to. Pondering I started walking to the central area of the station. It was there the sound was coming from, echoing in the high ceiling hall.

As I crossed the gate that separated the huge hall from the platforms, what I saw surprised me. I was greeted by an army of boot-polish soldiers, sitting in neat files, each one of them hitting their small wooden shoeboxes with shoeshine brushes. It was this war cry that I had thought to be applause.

There are numerous instances in movies where the actor stands still, alone, in a sea of people who scurry around him, like ants, rushing to unknown destinations. The place is generally the seventh ave on Times Square. I felt like that actor, as I stood there in a perpetual stream of people who alighted from locals that thundered into the station and scurried away to unknown destinations. Scenes from movies about Bombay flashed inside my head, as I stood staring at these busy-bees all of them rushing to get honey (money).

I’ve heard a lot of people comment about Bombay “ the one thing I hate about Bombay is the crowd”. Standing there, I was fast realizing “ the one thing I love about Bombay is the crowd”. I walked on, glancing jealously at people who were standing reading papers as the men at their feet busily added shine to their shoes, as if they were being given some royal treatment. I cursed my infernal sports shoes, as they had denied me the pleasure of observing an art, that movies like ‘boot polish’ had led me to associate characteristically to Bombay. I made a mental note to wear leather shoes next time, and moved on.

As I stepped out from the station gate, I was again greeted by a sight I’m not accustomed to seeing (except in movies): a road overflowing with ceaseless traffic. These overwhelming sights, the sheer volume of movement was making me feel that I belonged to a small little town, which in fact is not true; or so I thought till now.

I think it was my large backpack that gave me away; a gentleman stopped beside me and said, “There is a walk-bridge to your right”. Snapping out of my reverie, I gave the straps of my backpack a heave and started walking.

“ Which way to the Gateway?” I asked a passerby. “ Go straight, a ten minute walk”.

It took me five hours to get there. I’m not implying that the directions were wrong, or the time estimate was very very erroneous. The road that led to the gateway was littered with colonial buildings, posh and flea markets and a large number of people, justification enough for spending three hours exploring these sights( and missing my camera more than ever) than staring at a stone gate that you’ve already seen enough times in photographs and movies, and read about in books, to last you ten lifetimes.

Just across the road from the station lies an oval ground, emerald green in a sea of stone, aptly named ‘The Oval’. There were quite a few people walking through the park, on a road that was the minor axis of the ellipse. I went inside and stood at the geometric center of the park, feeling once again like the actor in the sea of people I mentioned earlier (a feeling that became almost permanent as the day progressed). This time the ants were wearing black coats as well. Black Coats!! Well, to my left was the high court building standing in it’s neo-gothic splendor. To my right were art-deco apartments, christened ‘court view’. The plaque in front of me informed me that the buildings around me were built in the period between 1890 to 1930.

As I stood there marveling at the silent splendor of these works of art, an interesting thought struck me ‘ The British consciously knew they were building history here’. I tried to imagine the state of the mind of the architects who had landed on the coast of Bombay. Coming from London, and other European cities, which were at the peak of their prosperity at that time, this place would have seemed to them like a blank canvas. The labor was free, the lords of the land rich and idle, and no critics from Paris to poke you about your expression of art. And looking at what they had done, I almost smiled as I thought ‘they must have had had the time of their lives here’.

I know nothing of architecture, so I cannot comment on that, but I sure know how to appreciate beauty. That is what I did for the next two hours. One road led to another, and each one offered newer buildings and fresh sights.

There were many places I had heard of before, like the Army and the navy building, the Prince of Wales museum, Flora Fountain and the Jehangir art gallery. But it was not the standard tourist attractions that interested me. I’d rather be inside a colonial building that was now the headquarters of LIC, marveling at the intricate stonework, partially obscured by notices, than staring at paintings in the Indian gallery of modern art.

I was surprised at how commonplace all this seemed to people who worked there. Most of them did not know, or did not want to know what these buildings were before the paan spitting babus occupied them. “Ghar ki murgi daal barabar” I guess.

Books are a weakness I have. Thus when I entered the library of Mumbai University that sported an ancient clock tower, I felt dizzy. The central hall is an oak paneled reading room, with grand heavy doors leading to stacks and stacks of books.

As I was walking around the library (a grade I heritage building), glassy eyed and almost in a trance, burning with jealousy against the people who were sitting there, studying; a loud growl from my stomach broke the heavenly silence. I realized I had been roaming around for almost three hours. I decided it was time to eat, and headed to the Causeway market; searching for a restaurant called Leopold!

Check your weight

You climb on to the 1ft by 1ft metal platform. A coin poised ready in your hand. The white-red disc rotates. You wait, because the instructions painted in calligraphic hindi read

“ लाल-सफ़ेद चक्कर का घूमना बंद होने के बाद ही सिक्का डालें”

You look at the bright LEDs, shining in crazy spirals and concentric circles. Red-blue-green. The disc has stopped rotating. You insert the coin in the slot, an audible clunk registers into your auditory senses. The machine comes alive. A shaft moves to extract a small 1in by 3in cardboard ticket from a stack in front of you, behind the glass. The LEDs explode in a flurry of colors. Switching on and off, making crazy lit up circles; as if driven into a furious frenzy to hypnotize you. The printing head comes down with a thud and the ticket falls in the cup below the light storm.

There is not one chance that the coin might have been returned as well, but you still run your fingers through the coin return cup, nursing a mad hope of getting the coin and the ticket as well. Disappointment meets you. The dejection is replaced by curiosity as you pick up the ticket. It is as if it holds the answer to ‘life the universe and everything’.

My ticket read 84, that’s twice the expected answer (42 that is).

But it is not just the weight figure that is important about the ticket. With childish curiosity you turn the ticket around, to face a smiling Priety Zinta embossed in a 50*50 pixel resolution and below the marvel of printing is your predicted future “Friends will rescue you from the financial perils you face”. A smile spreads across your face, as if this scrap of cardboard is your destiny. And you hop off the platform, giving way to the next person in line who’ll go through similar motions.

India is clearly a country of weight conscious individuals. Machines similar to the one I mentioned above can be found on all (I do not say almost all, I state with conviction all) bus stands and railway stations. I do not know how much revenue these machines contribute to the annual railway budget, but I bet it’s substantial. I can even go as far as thinking that the recent turnaround of the railways can be attributed to Mr. Prasad’s decision to service all the existing weight machines, install newer machines and provide an inverter to each machine in case of power failure.( and obviously the chai in clay cups)

We are a country that does not have an obesity grant in it’s national budget; the average number of overweight people is much less than developed countries and McDonald’s is not scattered as densely as the paan shops. But if I ask why people are so anxious about their weight, I am faced by expressions that read, “It is the most closely guarded cosmic secret (after the answer to the question of ‘life the universe and everything’, obviously)”

I cannot let you in to the secret ( I found it out by traveling to the Vogon colony that runs the super computer which has answered and harbored all the cosmic secrets), but I can make you think, the next time you stand on one of these machines and see the lights.

Walk This Way: Photo Diary

I and three of my friends went to college walking one fine winter morning. An odd 14 kilometers crossing two villages and the lush countryside, the walk was an exhilirating experience; more so because I had a digital camera. Obviously I clicked a lot.

Following are the snaps I really liked. I have not captioned them because i want my pictures to speak for themselves. Most of the photographs i've put up made me think, about country life in general and about our country and life in particular.

Yahoo needs a copywriter

There are times when gaffes are staring at you in the face and you do not see them at all. I stumbled across one of them. It's Yahoo this time.

Oh, I forgot the sentence should have been ' It's Yahoo ! this time'.( pay attention to the exclamation mark). I have often mulled about the wisdom of using an exclamation mark in the brand logo? I mean, you're using it right in the middle of a sentence, and as all good english readers read a pause after an exclamation mark, there is a pause where there should'nt have been any. Even mentally i'd read the sentence as " It's Yahoo ! [...pause...] this time". Uncanny. More so when we mentally append the meaning of the word yahoo to the sentence.

Getting back to the gaffe. Right in the middle of the mail login page is the link ' forget your ID or Password'. Duh!! Why would I want to forget my ID or password?




Where does the link lead to? A brainwashing software where I'll be offered options like ' Forget your ID only', 'Forget your password only'. forget both your ID and password' and ' If you cannot read the above please click here!' ?? And when i do click on one of the options, i'll come up to a screen that'll say " please enter the ID you want to forget' and 're-enter the ID to confirm'.

And after the faulty Yahoo ! functionalities would manage to work, you'll encounter a message:

" CONGRATULATIONS; you have now forgotten your ID and/or Password" ' For further help click on contact us and please please send the Yahoo ! support a mail. After gmail took over we've been desperately looking for job satisfaction.

By the way, if Yahoo ! is looking for a copywriter, i can offer my services. I know the difference between forgot and forget.

The lameness of expression

We’re at my flat. Talking about what we generally talk about when we’re not having discussions, or telling each other how bad college is. She laughs, throwing her head back;
I notice how beautiful she looks. Her kohl lined eyes laughing at me, her hair framing her sharp face in a delightful portrait. I take in the image of her sitting in front of me on the lazy boy, one leg folded under her, the other, marble smooth, thrown on the armrest. My ears are warm and I have butterflies in my stomach. Though I’m making normal conversation I have a feeling that I’m drunk, dizzy; and I think, as I have thousands of times in the brief period that I have known her ‘why does she have this effect on me?’

We had met a week ago, at a mutual friends’ place. She had been introduced to me as Naina; I was immediately stuck by her gorgeous eyes and the aptness of her name. It was evident that she was as bored with the people around as I was. All I remember of the party now is that we had a long conversation about almost everything. I asked her for her number which she gave me without hesitation; I offered her a lift home, that she politely declined.

I have known her over two cups of coffee and some ten hours of telephone conversation. And here she sits in front of me, talking, laughing as if we’ve known each other for years. I get up, possessed, and walk to her. Her laugh sputters to a stop. Looking into her dreamy eyes, I flick away a strand of hair from her face. It is the first time I have touched her. The next moment she is in my embrace and I feel her breath on my face as our lips meet. I feel as if I have been electrocuted. A spasm moves through her as she hugs me tighter. I do the same, holding her in a crushing hug. Her lips are tender; feeling like honey on my own as they move exploring the contours of my mouth.
I smell her, and it does not feel like a perfume she’s wearing; rather it is her smell. Her breasts press hard against me. I feel her chest heave as she breaths hard. My hand moves along her spine and I hold her head, my fingers caressing her hair. And then it happens, our tongues meet, like lances of champions in a joust. Fireworks explode inside my head. I’m not sure if I am sitting or standing, and I realize how it feels to lose sense of space and time. Sensations explode inside me; sensations I have never felt before; I feel fire and I feel ice. A current flows through me, sparking at my ends. My ears are hot and my heart is thumping with audible intensity. Her hands move over my neck, touching my ears; as if soothing them, and then caressing my hair they suddenly press my head towards her in a furious, almost animate movement. Our tongues are fighting a furious battle for one moment and in the next both surrender, as if a truce has been reached.
My grip on her loosens, as our tongues retreat. I let out a heave of breath and open my eyes to meet hers. There are sparks there, as they laugh, almost mockingly at me. Her lips leave mine, a heavenly taste lingers. She looks like a fairy; I drink in the angelic face. She licks her lips in a mischievous movement and smiles etching in my brain an image that I’d never forget.

A first kiss, they call it. A very lame expression, bound by language I’ll say.