Sidlines

Sinbad the Sailor

2008-07-20T22:38:00.000-07:00

He could choose to groom for the women
But he chose the wind which lived in his hair
He could choose to hide from the sun
But he decided to answer his own prayer

He would swim to the floundering ship at the horizon
He would secretly dance to his hum, furtively smile
A lone cloud, he could bring rain standing alone
A migratory bird, he would forget the miles flown

Everyday he would follow his love, never tell
He would compose songs for her, which he would sell
Those who bought, bought a part of his heart
He would later reclaim these parts from every tart

Che Guevara on his t-shirt, he could bemuse
He could gamble and loose, smile and refuse
He could ravage and plunder, and blunder
Make love to a flower, tear a cliff asunder

He would wipe his brow with his sleeve
He would kneel to the cross and grieve
However he never let go of his bottle of gin
And he would savor every kiss of its sin

He was a sailor of the high seas, when he was afloat
He would curse the gale which rocked his boat
But he would make amends by ginger ale
Inebriated, then Sinbad would blow at his sail

Napolean.

2008-06-05T02:09:00.000-07:00

As long as it is the talk of life, talk is fine
I don’t intend to stay long for I am next in line
She waits with the last flowers at the door
If I have to smile I’ll reserve it for her implore

As long as you don’t blink, I’ll stare in your eyes
For I know it will keep you from hiding the surprise
But I will be honest, as long as you are strong
For I don’t know when you will be wrong

If she is smiling, it is for a reason known to none
She knows more than I do, as she has always done
Even on deathbed, I am the fool
I hate her, she makes me drool

You are my only hope, for you are inane
I know you mean your words and your wisdom is plain
You will be a toy all your petty life
As I have been all mine

But I have to face her one last time
At least this time all I can do is pantomime
For I never won a battle even in my heyday
She was my napoleon every single day

Clemency.

2008-05-19T01:57:00.000-07:00

These are those times which were never meant to transpire. The fact that I jumped from a plane without a parachute was sufficient for it to rain. You can't call that unfortunate can you? But now as I am falling through a rarified ambience towards something I have come to hate, I don't know my probationary powers. All I know is that I have fellowship in thousands of drops which fall with me, none of them have chutes. Such indulgence would certainly call for reprimand, but I know I won't enjoy it, for it would put me back where I don't want to be. I am hoping to miss the ground with all my vengeance acting as a fillip to the parabolic drag.

I am reaching out to the iridescent diamonds; I am filling my imagination with their beguiled experiments with light. I know my eyes would never see this again, I know it won't be the same again. I am a flickering tort pursued by dampness, but it can't fall faster than me. I am a maladroit parachute in vacuum; I cannot feel what I can see. I am a deflated ego, following a Brownian trajectory, creating a perfect round halo. I never had a problem with striped shirts; I would look the same if I was wet.

I am flagrant for once, there were times when you could not unleash adjectives which defined the following paragraph, but we don't live in those times. I love killing the suspense. I love killing. Be it humour, fantasy, ego or rage, I know I have killed it all and thoroughly loved it. Never has pleasure for me assumed such hackneyed proportions, it is as if I would never be sad. I needed an infliction, so I decided to take the plunge. I am suffering now, the journey is the only respite.

Bitterness hits back with a rejoinder, and I rewording it. I swallowed something I cannot discern. Clemency was never a show queen, and never slept with me. I hate her. I love the bitterness of black coffee, I relish its cream. Under a leaking roof all I can feel is the rain. Everything else is a passing vagary, all mundane mildness.

Back to life.

2008-05-18T01:40:00.000-07:00

I come across as a dispensable sketch by Picasso
Trying to leash my rebel shadow with a lasso
I am not running from the sun anymore
For I have given it all that I wore

Every motion seems like a hot pursuit
The air hugs me like water flowing through a conduit
I am watching the sunset in the rear view
I am giving up all the love I could ever chew

I am walking away from the wreck of the day
I am giving the stars a name, showing them the way
I am holding diamonds in my hands
I am running in search of unnecessary errands

I feel you in my veins, you are like winter
I feel like releasing you, search for a splinter
I still hang on the old oak in the field
My arms still stretched and the body still peeled

When you gave me that second glance
I knew I did after all stand a chance
So I sold my citadel, and I am free to jump
I am poor again, picking on the garbage dump

Lighthouse.

2008-05-07T02:44:00.000-07:00

Two silhouettes block the sun, they look into the ocean
A ship smokes on the horizon, offloading its emotion
A man on the ship looks back, curses the shore
The couple at the shore is smug, they let the waves roar

The kiss when it comes, is hard and long
The light hides all that could go wrong
Hand in hand they accost me, etch me with chalks
I am a memorial for all those whom love stalks

They say the waves shout, as I stand in their way
They say the ships sink because I didn’t show them the way
I never ever felt the need of arms around me
And, yesterday a girl stole my dream to be free

Yet I stand, and shine for ships and couples alike
I am a their confidant, I am their secret dyke
I am their witness, to their promises to change
And, I watch over their past, till it is out of range

Sculpturing ice...

2008-05-02T07:10:00.000-07:00

Here I am, setting alight a dark room where I play
A match ensconced between my fingers is here to stay
Icy crimes stare at me, repugnance in their eyes
I was just being myself, my naïve innocence cries

A table sits, in the center of the room
She sits on it, hallucinating amongst the fume
She has the cigarette she stole from the ‘liar’
She can’t find the light so I set myself on fire

I see her curl like the smoke, my breath tastes her
She tastes like early rain, she douses my slur
I could grab her at this moment, but I stare
She wants me to chisel her to memory, I dare

The blue flames, they dance to her travesty
She ain’t blaming me for lack of modesty
I am her potter, she relishes the my flames
I am telling her this won’t qualify for winter games

Tell me...

2008-04-05T00:40:00.000-07:00

It’s what you did to me, that brings me here
It’s what you forgot to tell which ain’t fair
I still have with me the last words you spoke
Tell me you can’t feel me pulling at our ‘yoke’

Promises, they hold their secrets from me
Moments, mundane they were left to be
I don’t believe them, they never have to lie
Tell me you never wished I would die

I am here in a canopy, floating in thin air
I can see you, close enough to dare
But you have the sun in your eyes
Tell me you didn’t feign the surprise

You see me now; I still live in your insouciance
You can’t reach me in my moment of valiance
You yearn for me, you are tender again
Tell me I didn’t warn you about the pain

She Answers...

2008-03-29T09:22:00.000-07:00

There he is, he would buy the flowers today
There he is, he was a hero in his hey day
There he is, he know they would mark his wake
Epigone rakes eye him for his immaculate fake

He walks this path, like a lion in his cage
They worship his spirit, belittle his wage
He forgets soon, that they remember each day
He is undertaking a walk he does everyday

The urchin is already excited, here come her flowers
For she is his favorite, on the street of ivory towers
Some say he found a treasure, some say he just unwound
Others say he discovered that the world was round

Daffodils under his arm he walks up to the child
Expectation is strong, jealousy runs wild
‘Why her’ ask the ploughing minds and eyes
She is one who answers my cries, he replies

Coward...

2008-03-12T12:35:00.000-07:00

The guns fire in my ears, I bleed away to glory
The recliner carries me, while ‘they’ write my story
I am already a hero; though I would have to die first
Alive I still was, harassed by an unquenched thirst

The sun is no longer for me; I see the last of light
I breathe in the sea, it douses my lonely fight
The winter in my heart yearns for a warm lamp
The wolves are aroused, as death charms the camp

I am the cynosure, I feel ploughed by eyes
They carry me in fleet, the return is the surmise
I am prepared to be dumped, I believe its time
The chasm is near, liberation seems like a crime

The theatre is alive; the sun stages an encore
Faith has melted, tenacity plays the fixated whore
I draw my strength from the bodies around, parasite I am
Rise if I do, I’d run into a bullet, opaque as I am

So I lie, relishing within me the miracle of life
They dump more bodies, cadavers are rife
Suddenly I wonder how many like me fake and don’t speak
How many of us in the 'lake' are blessed by life, but death we seek

Emancipated City...

2008-03-09T10:40:00.000-07:00

They wanted to harass me today. I am usually a mundane slug, unmotivated by the passing time. But there are occasional bursts of energy, more from guilt than passion. You don’t see them coming and you wish they wouldn’t ask permission to leave. They harassed me today. I call them spikes.

My mind is a brat. It won’t learn from my mistakes. It is a stubborn brat. And here I am nursing it, away from family in Bombay. Yeah Bombay, but I am somewhere apprehensive, for its going to be time to bid farewell, soon.

You know how the most compelling dramas evolve not from observation but by the discovery of ignorance. Living in a microcosm where clichés prevail and subvert adventure, we often find ourselves staring into a parochial sphere which has no corners. Such perfection usually clouds our vision restricts it to what we see rather than what we can.

Two years in a city like Bombay make you more sensitive to paradoxes. But you need commendable gumption to reach out and explore a protean culture like Bombay. I should probably digress to describe my uncanny willingness to absorb passing vagaries and make them my pursuits. No. I am kidding. This post is about Bombay, a city that caught and still dominates my imagination. It can be hard to relate to if u suffer from the ignorance of the north specially Delhi, but the unending night outs, incessant local trains take no time to drench you with the Mumbai spirit. Another notable feature is the dressing sense which prevails in our female counterparts, truly worth appreciating, a welcome change from the flab in Delhi. But the people in Bombay are only half the story for the other half is the Bombay in the people. Those eternal times spent observing people outside nightclubs, outside restaurants, outside Bade Miyan, outside Cooper’s, outside Leopold, Churchill and Mondegar, weren’t spent alone for there were always early however late you were. It is never late in Bombay, never early; your time is a good time. These first experiences put forth on my platter a lot to explore and savour, the music had set me rolling.

What was to follow stemmed from the acceptance of the superfluous, for it was always about challenging the limit of adventure of satiation.

Near the top of Marine Drive is the H2O Water Sports Complex, you can take a boat out to Suzie Wong's, floating in the middle of Back Bay, a funky pink, purple, red and gold drinking den. Down in Colaba, ultra trendy Indigo all low tables and flickering candles – is the perfect place to sip a Bombay Sapphire and tonic. For a cold beer in hot surroundings, but with views on to the bustling street outside, we had Leopold and Modegar.

The fascinating east – west divide and the lesser publicized north – south divide, holds the charm of visitors in Bombay. It is like wherever you have been you must see something better. The congestion, filth, the houses below the sea level perpetually in water, the dwelling of cardboards surrounding the high rises – well Bombay has most of everything.

Whether it is the negros and the Israelis on the streets of Colaba, trying to sell you dope, or the messages on your mobile which say - "For meeting broadminded male / females in your area, Call Poonam now @ 982.....”, or the late nights at JVPD, eyeing ‘out of work’ beer bar dancers. You could see hope in there eyes.

This would sound more like the script of clockwork orange, if we were people of action, people who could shoulder responsibility of notoriety. But alas as I had mentioned I am just a mundane slug.

Incite...

2008-03-02T22:42:00.000-08:00

Six trees in a row, and the haziness in between
The sun embarrassed by clouds lined with sheen
The air needs whiskey, for the spring has run dry
Either that or I have an urge to cry

A cloud hangs from the sky; I catch it in my eye
And rain it does, every drop steals a lasting sigh
The trees sway wanton, wind plays the whore
The gaze is emancipated, souls implore

I sit on the wall, and I see both sides
I see a car in the lake, gracefully it glides
I see an airplane crash on purpose
Must have been suicide I suppose

Six Negros stand in a row, and I stand in between
They have the soccer ball, and I have the preen
The sweat breaks on me, the ball is set to roll
Either that or my pride can’t afford the toll

I am the resurrection, I look for company
My words are useless, intellect is loony
They give me a pass, for a petty bribe
I score with delight, win their ascribe

I sit on a wall, I see inside
The car survives the glide
I see airplane has run out of air
But once on land it doesn’t seem to care

presumption...

2008-02-27T03:01:00.000-08:00

The sun sets across a straw field, an eagle soars to soak the remnants of the day
The camera refuses to shut shop, leaves under my feet rustle in a boisterous fray
The serene landscape stretches before me, my eyes sensitive to any vagary
None was to come though, for the placid setting rested in gratifying slavery

I was curious what the seagull could see, would it notice me in the shallows
I was curious what the ocean could hear, would it listen over its bellows
The misty air reeked of personality, a personality that secure and smug
I was curious if I was a part of it, or apart as an over zealous passing slug

I trade secrets with the rocks, while the sea punishes them for their resilience
The beach smiles, the dimples trap in the water; exciting the sea, instigating its belligerence
I walk, I can see the surfeit sand adjoining a ravaging ocean, and I am caught in between
Time wages this war, humbles me by its omnipresence; demolishes the hidden preen

Imperative it would be for every particle here to travel, claim its fate
As I have come from over the mountains to share my story and wait
But the charm holds all of them; the water renders them heavy with errand
And my sermons fall to deaf ears, for none moves to take my hand

A thousand suns shine on me; my imagination has never been so bright
A thousand friends await me, my travels have never been so fulfilling
Yet I fascinate the lonely beach, 'everyone' here seeks redemption
And I sit here on a thousand dreams, thinking it is only a presumption

Gumption...the celebrity!

2008-02-23T11:19:00.000-08:00

She waits; her lips await the arrival of desire
It’s those moments before a kiss, a sinking quagmire
A drop hangs from a leaf, searching for gravity
The eye yields a tear, for dearth of levity

The final lunge of the tiger, the deer weakens in the legs
The beggar smiles like everyday, adversity begs
Virgin waves escape their platitude, a surfer delights
The gaping valley stares as the jumping ego alights

Eleven fifty nine on a new years eve, each second a new bout
A poet collects the images; words wait for the final rout
The poise is perfect; the painter’s brush hesitates in the hand
The rumour spreads, truth waits for the discovery of the errand

The smile is imperative; the lady is set to win the heart
The memory strikes déjà vu, the shooter releases the dart
They say ‘statue’, the kissing couple freeze
Gumption is rude; it never learnt to say please

zilch of vacuum...

2008-02-08T08:01:00.000-08:00

Find me when I am alone, find me in a crowd
Find me in love, sharing, caring, find me in war
Sing with me tonight, let’s whistle a tune aloud
Find me in your faith; find me when home is far

Begin the day with glycerin, rob yourself of the friction
End the night in a trance, appreciate the dream’s diction
Bury yourself under your imagination, relish the resurge
Find me over the universe, hold my hand on the verge

Don’t let the days go by, be in them, feel
Don’t wait for your turn, perform a steal
Orchestrate a romance, punish yourself…yield
Find me by the tree in the strawberry field

Walk on water, float on sand
Find yourself, walk hand in hand
Take a bullet if you have to, be a target for once
Challenge the church, fantasize about the nuns

Pluck a rose sometime, tumble down a slope
Strum a guitar; compose a rhythm for a tope
Clap for the children on the street, find me between your hands
When I impose on you, breathe to make amends

Li'v'beral..

2008-02-02T09:44:00.001-08:00

Closed for inventory! That’s how a liberal mind reacts to insurgency of thoughts. The mind manufactures and orchestrates a vivid romance of thoughts, a thespian performance of loosely connected incidents. However the paradox is evident, a liberal mind isn’t exactly a minefield of disconnected gaffes, and it is a concerted reminder of rational. Blasé thoughts are the prerogative of a liberal mind, though you cannot rule out bohemian interference. However, the scrutiny of thought is the most important and consequential feature of a cultured and liberal mind.

What are butterflies to do in an iron maiden show, they flutter from the beat, aspire for fame. What are poster girls for; they adorn the walls of Moscow, never ever aspiring for a place in the heart. Vodka does better. Let’s say poster girls are for the desperate times. They say desperate times last till they stay on your walls. There are men who are all over, and then there are men who over all. Never do dreams matter until they are the dreamy ones, they sleep when you need them.

I am fascinated by abstract stories which converge in the end, as if the circle of life is evident, as if every fucking happenstance is a reminder of that, as if everyone knows the end, but then everyone does. I don’t know maybe sometimes the greatest insight can be drawn by refuting oneself. Is that the basis of hope, hope that I will change for the better maybe. Well they say go get a girlfriend, she’ll find enough mistakes in you to reduce you into an introspective mule, I say nothing better than her to compliment my sexual pursuits, to dress them as pursuit of love, you even get a flower, a kiss as absolves.

But we are talking about the mind here aren’t we, liberal minds, open mind, minds left open to be fed upon, minds which don’t mind. I have no idea, if you have an open mind, whether you have been able to retain your brains from falling out, there is a tendency to sympathize, I advise you to refrain for you would be the only person feeling bad. I like music for its detachment, the fact that once produced one doesn’t own it; it belongs to the whims of its admirers, who attach themselves to it. It is the same with life, you it begins and ends with detachment, while everything between those extremes is the exact opposite. So a liberal mind, does it attach or detach? I say the liberal mind aches, that’s all it does, instigates a rebel thought and nurtures the pain till it find more minds to share the pain.
I hate to philosophize. FUCK. PEACE.

swallowed by a whirlpool...

2008-02-01T06:11:00.000-08:00

A white sheet of paper stares at a bare faced liar
Quenched is the evening, united stand the choir
The song rusted in blood penetrates a soul so hard
Inkling overlooks desire, he opens his last card

A visage glows by the candle; the soot darkens around the eyes
Desperation plays its beats; the dancers wait to vandalize
In his eyes is her reason; in her eyes is his shame
The iridescent butterflies flutter, as they seek fame

Sex, how much of it is in the anticipation
Love, how much of it is in the fornication
She says you can’t do much without a plane
He says you can’t do much without air

The sparks they fly, seek the gleam in the eye
The shadows accumulate in an orgy, for skin they vie
Her brother died, she knew she had lied, she’d better hide
She would fight, kill, play, fuck but never confide

The card is an ace; her smile has no trace
Visions of her seduce me, as she walks out of her lace
By the wall, tepid beer has made them a pool
They sink together tonight, swallowed by the whirlpool

the beach out of reach...

2008-01-13T07:31:00.000-08:00

Recover, whispered the waves as they capsized
Rise, demanded the sun as it beamed in my eyes
The sand coalesced under me to efface my depressions
While I carried my spirit, the zephyr lifted my expressions

Cocooned, I lay absorbing the hymns of liberty
Marooned, I lay performing the rescue act
Extinguished, I lay burning candles on the sand
Alone, I lay connecting the stars which shined for me

The moon, the maria, the hysteria of the tide
The nakedness which knew no disgrace
A soul on a beach who felt everything
A soul on a beach who didn’t feel a thing

Humbled by the infinity I stood, my pride stood next to me
The oscillating waters burgeoned, yearned to be free
I denied them the touché, to preserve the feigned elusiveness
Only to surrender to their mercy, being tossed about in effusiveness

Horizons converged or so they seemed, a celebrated liberation
Diffusion of illusion, a perfect allusion, an imperfect ejaculation
I sat in and stared out, sat out and stared in
All I could see is the hollowness I lived in

broken to peace...

2008-01-06T07:18:00.001-08:00

For days now, I have been searching for a cause, an elusive cause, a teaser to my cerebral powers, a humbling experience. Alas having found it the journey doesn’t impress me in the hindsight, but I am resolute in subjecting myself to these journeys again. I am also resolute to subjecting you to the journey as I would not have you take pride in my discovery without accompanying me through it.
The one who forgets they say is destined to remember; only they call it déjà vu. The fall is as evident as the rise, seldom are they separated by time, often are they separated by envy. A clairvoyant mother protects her son from the battle, only to lose him to society. A blind man burns all his matches in the morning so that he would feel the sun. Exclusivity of a decision defeats the purpose of decision doesn’t it?
I see a line in a crowd and I think I see civilization, I look behind and I see another line and I feel proud. Then I realize, in a crowd everywhere is a line. I stare at the clock and I see time, all I know is I was born and I will die. I let the ocean waves hit me, I know they will keep coming back; I will not wear them down. My memory never exhausts, but neither do new experiences. I can’t take a decision which affects only me. I am not mine. I am not in control.
If loss of virginity is exclusive to those involved, why is one branded? Am I the one or am I one too many. Do I make a difference, or am I the difference. I don’t use game theory to calculate my dating prospects, but if you are one of those who do, you ought to know that the principle assumption is that the players are ‘rational’ and ‘intelligent’ and more importantly each player knows this about the other one. Now you know why smart guys fall for dumb girls and vice versa. Anyway it’s the decision process which interests me, for winning and losing are perceptions of an empty mind. So can you win and lose at the same time without calling it perspective?
It is clear we haven’t reached anywhere; we could either stop our search or call it introspection. Or we could wait for the cause to stumble upon us by luck. Did I say luck? How many of us have divided themselves further into more basic entities, how many of us believe we could do better if our cells worked independent of us. How many of can say that we love with our hearts alone (I know it would be hard for the guys). What are we without ‘indivisibility’? I am not sure…I cannot think! I figure I will be damned…all alone like I began. I am not broke…I am never broken. Save dope for the good times, hope for the bad ones. Mostly we’ll have them together. Peace.

I simplified...

2007-12-21T00:41:00.000-08:00

In the boisterous mirth, I find my smile again
In the screeching halt, I find my flux again
I stare at the sun, into the blinding light
To find the dark spot, where the darkness is bright

In the conversations of the nuns, I find pleasure
In the jungle, the discipline is evident
On the railway track, I stage a rendezvous
I hide the stars, to see the galaxy

In the consequences I find reason
I find a conclusion in the prelude
My words are never mine for I utter none
They look into my eyes and steal the context

In the gale I find the zephyr
I find love on a minefield
Plough it for the buried hatred
I discover the invention, admire the intention

In torture, I find resilience
In inebriety, I find freedom
In poetry I find form
In me, I find the world

The fall...

2007-12-05T10:01:00.000-08:00

She stands before me, absorbing my sedate achievement
Her feet buried in gravity, eyes inflicted with bereavement
On the edge she stood, desperate to join her departed soul
Would she…wouldn’t she, I wonder how much is her dole

I kick a rock down the abyss, her ears follow the fall
She looks at me; she is serendipity, a windfall
I stand expressionless, incapable to console her, I join her
And we stand overlooking the contemplative hole

A gust of wind hits us from behind; I loose her eyes for once
I ballet on my toes, my hypnosis swivels inside me
She turns around, and takes my hand
I reached out to unravel her hair, to find my eyes in hers

She sinks in me, the profundity amazes me
For her flourish nourishes my discrimination
The fall is evident, for I have fallen for her eyes
The valley below calls, at least we fly for once

Encounter...

2007-11-25T12:30:00.000-08:00

There she is, a red spot on a moor of grey
I see her through the blood stained glass
The city lies in ruins, innocence fails its prey
Stones are hurled; some even kiss the cherubic lass

There he is, a rocket scientist in communist Russia
Never has he smelled the rose, never would he
For a bullet was to pierce his eye, replace it
The romantic moment was to escape him like always

The snow flakes wait; anticipation carries them
Cold feet, hard hearts; they walk towards each other
The trees convoke to whisper a secret
The eyes; they have no sympathy, they blush with admiration

My hands are numb; my soul lacks its opinion
I guess there is nothing to choose among 'them'
A few moments and 'they' fly across the universe, if they dare
My ears ache for the gunshot, eyes envisage the release

Window...

2007-11-25T01:22:00.000-08:00

What could I pay for your innocence; you repudiate pride
What could I write, you’ll burn my letters
What could I play, you’ve forgotten the hymns
What could I give, you’ve savoured the world

Into the sun I look, I know you look back
I throw pebbles at you; at least I can touch you
Every face talks, as if you speak to me
Every flower blooms as if you reach out

I sing to you, my echo resonates
I scream to you, and you thunder
You allow the rain on me to hide my tears
I have a friend I believe, who doesn’t say much

Every morning, you are my diamond
You are my liaison, my hope at night
You are my cinema, my airplane
You are the window in my prison cell

Winexistentialism...

2007-10-02T00:41:00.000-07:00

Existentialism and wine do not have much in common except that they complement each other. For both are head turners in their own exquisite ways, both are prized collections of those who harbor them. An existentialist on a dinner table can bestow the finesse and taste of excellent wine, while wine can enamor existentialist sentiment without provocation. Wine and existentialism, though both are exceptional representations of intellectual sensibility of long and distinguished pedigree, it was only in post–World War II France that existentialism transcended philosophical and literary circles to become a full-blown cultural movement appended by the winemaking which burgeoned into an art.

The reason for this phenomenon is not difficult to discern. During the Nazi occupation of France, which was facilitated by the collaboration of many of France’s leading citizens, even the most seemingly innocuous actions could have life-and-death consequences. Under these highly pressurized conditions, France became a kind of social laboratory within which, it seemed, the basic structures underlying human existence—crudely, what Heidegger called “existentials”—were more starkly revealed in everyday life.

The public mood that these conditions fostered, moreover, did not dissipate in the war’s aftermath, but was reinforced by virtue of a painful national self-examination, the use of the atomic bomb, and the burgeoning cold war. Existential themes—even though grasped only intuitively by many who spent a fair bit of their time at the cafe´ talking about “the meaning of life”—were the cultural fare of the day.

It was in this context, appropriately enough, that the term “existentialism” itself was first coined by Jean- Paul Sartre, who was, nevertheless, leery of it. And although, in addition to Sartre, such French thinkers as Gabriel Marcel, Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Simone de Beauvoir, and Albert Camus were also deemed existentialists, all of them sought, in varying degrees, to distance themselves from the label. Still, because all of these thinkers were motivated by a concern for the individual’s plight in the modern age, which is the conventional hallmark of the longstanding intellectual sensibility to which the term “existentialism” came to refer, it is not unreasonable to speak of them as existentialists.

And, because the distinctive intellectual commitments that they shared were motivated by the particulars of both the French philosophical tradition and the socio-historical conditions through which they were living, it is not unreasonable to speak of French existentialism as a unique philosophical phenomenon.

A bottle of wine is actually alive. It's constantly evolving and gaining complexity, until it peaks and begins its steady, inevitable decline. And it tastes so fucking good. And all it cares about is people who can afford it. Existentialist to the core, a proponent to the theory – I am, therefore people drink.
While winemaking preserves its reputation as a coveted art and delicate skill, existentialism as a cult has fulfilled impoverished minds and souls. So while the bottle on the table that standeth aloof waiting for deserving hands to caress its cork, the existentialist in his nonchalance smiles as he waits for the desperation to creep in.

Meteor Shower...

2007-09-23T12:36:00.000-07:00

It dented my roof, it dented my picture frame
It shone in my eyes, shimmering as it came
Vanguard, they were the brightest, eager to vary
Slowly the lights crashed, shunning off the soiree

I looked out from over the sill, my eyes inebriated in the dark
The rain had never been so bright, night never seen the lark
She touched me on the shoulder, or was it déjà vu
Amidst the eruption, I froze like the morning dew

When the lights came back, my champagne was smoking
The house danced amidst the raze, my girlfriend was choking
I felt distant; resurgent in me is a third person, a piece of mind
The flames buy the alcohol; I keep some for me behind

For she comes knockin’ again, this time with her entourage
It’s impressive, her attempts, the tempts and her beckoning barge
I am kindled, the tattoo shines from the heat; my lips anticipate the dower
Encumbered, I fall dazed, caught in her meteor shower

Shoes i fish...shoes i wish

2007-09-17T11:32:00.000-07:00

The rose smells of her, the thorns draw my blood
The rain falls gently, the drizzle smears the mud
I sit by the pond, an odd trout leaps in the air
My fists clinch the earth, her memories are rare

I wait for her to speak, wait for the temper to peak
The fish hook pierces the skin, poignant memories reek
My search for earthworms makes me dig more
My wrist carries tattoos from my misplaced yore

She doesn’t speak to me, her anxiety elusive as the fish
The ripples in the water give me hope, float my wish
I see them become water again, I feel the as if she knows
Then, I feel the wind on my cheeks, feel as if she blows

The line pulls at me; I am tempted to pull too
I hesitate; I twitch, for I might catch another shoe
I recall the moments when we rendered ourselves bare
She always happened to lose the colourful shoes she would wear

Peccadelhi....

2007-09-02T08:53:00.000-07:00

I have spent the last hour listening to Avril Lavigne(yeah i fall into those moods too), wondering about why I don't feel like flying back to Mumbai tomorrow. What makes Delhi such a indulging peccadillo, such as elbow nudging your girlfriends', picking your nose, stepping on every crunchy leaf on the ground.

Besides the obvious nostalgia because of loving parents(I see it as a priveledge), Delhi offers a unique warmth, charm...enamour(yes, this too).

Be it the waitor at a posh restaurant who promises to get you beer in your car for 10 extra bucks, or the bus conductor who excuses you a ticket because he's on his plush looking gold skinned mobile phone, delhi still believes in exchange of smiles.

Midnights are still lonely, and the fine for drunken driving is still rupees 50, all you need to do is say papa is a government officer. Pubs are still flooded with guys, girls rest at home, a lot more of them are taking the metro though, most of them with shades.

I am making metro trips too, damn often, positioning myself(with a lot of attitude, and no shades) such that my nonchalance gets noticed. Though you cannot tell, one approach and you get slapped or kicked(they do you in groups these days)....girl power(nice, where were you all when I was 18).

The malls are exceptionally busy too, baggy clothes hang loose...
Family visits are in...a lot of girls with long oiled hair playing ringa ringa roses...amusing
And they want to know why Bose is so cheap...

The cults still on the roads of vasant vihar, saket, south ex and punjabi bagh. A lot of foreigners, in open jeeps...cool
India Habitat center rocks too, so does NSD and ofcourse who can forget Khan chahcha and his mouthwatering kebabs, and Bengali Market...awsum

People are committing too fast....or maybe its time....best friends dont have time for you anymore...so you ruin there party...gatecrash...delhi rocks

Cheers

Sympathy...

2007-08-30T04:33:00.000-07:00

Through the bloody boulevard she walks, with broken glass under her feet
The smoking weapons watch enraptured, as her naked body sweats with deceit
The children run behind her, her grace ignites in their eyes
Temptation is strong, the guns go wet and dead souls arise

The blackness, breached by the white of her skin
Now holds the candle as she kisses her kin
A tear rolls down her cheek, for they do not smile
Hugged by storm, she exposes her the veiled vile

I can see her offer her breast, enticing the child
Terror, grips me, for I realize we need to abide
The men weak from the blow, loose their heads
She wants them to submit, allow entrance to their beds

I don’t want your bread; I don’t want your breast
I don’t want your love; I don’t want your debt
I would probably fuck you for the sake of ‘glory’
And forget your face, for the sake of history

I see her smiling; she knows we shall give in to her charm
How weak could we be, why do we resort to harm
I stand alone, in a crowd of refugees, resisting empathy
I watch helpless, as they yield to Sympathy

Declaration of Pregnancy...

2007-08-26T07:53:00.000-07:00

She affects a pose; her thin fingers strum a guitar
The music caged in her eyes, flows; two souls stand ajar
Dexterity is evident, both in the hands and the eyes
They know the games they play, wise against the vice

Her legs have a secret admirer, among the lurid glares
The sinking ship carries sinking people, and unlighted flares
Pregnant with hope, the admiring eyes absorb the quandary
He had met love, on a sinking boat, with flares still in the chandlery

The ‘innocent’ men reveled in false delight, the women opened to bitter hands
All he could lose was everything; he dug out his memories from under the sands
She would not look at him, maybe absorbed in her own memories of them
He could let desire sully his will, or he could shine in the mayhem

In the store, the flares were wet, waiting to be discovered
On the deck, misdeeds danced naked in the moonlight, waiting to be covered
Within him, love burned, so did his desires, his skin red from rashes
Within her tranquility reigned, she follows him collecting his ‘ashes’

She is resolute; she would not burn, though she does not shudder
For she carries the reason, his reason, their reason in her
The diamond ring on her navel shines in the light of the fire
She admires the prevarication of the diamond; her ‘Love’ was an equally good liar

Parallel Stripes

2007-08-12T02:42:00.002-07:00

The stripes run parallel, the moustache rides the lip
His hair shine in neon, the eye lashes the whip
The man surveys the atmosphere, absorbing the gaze
The poise yields to a smile, as he graces the haze

Twenty years ago, his soft hands had delighted many
The spirits had run wild, libido alighted in outrageoud felony
The girls lost hope and the icecubes their shape
Back then they could hear virginity plan its escape

Those times still mirrored in his eyes
Images trapped, revels of the past, burnt cries
He would cry fowl, howl in desperate longing
Today he would sacrifice all for a sense of belonging

The photogragh on the wall, it is the only truth he knows
He wipes the Time with his coat sleeve, to revive the Memories he blows
He then remembers the first time they had met
Don't fall in love with me, the only condition she had set

Cafe' Tart...

2007-07-22T15:58:00.000-07:00

Four o’ clock in a jazz bar, the coffee is served
A stiff upper lip; a strand behind the ear is curled
She sits in nonchalance, her legs are crossed
Cigarettes burn the vengeance, the music notes get tossed

The images flash in the corner, volume is turned down
The atmosphere is benumbing, conversations float, sugar cubes drown
Her floral dress delights in the wind it catches from the door
She feels teased, as the lecherous eyes crave for more

The music finally finds a rhythm, discarding the discord
The eastern rider on the wall, unleashes the sword
The sword gleams as her eyes do
They tell stories, both of them, of the people they have cut through

The coffee shivers, cold with disrespect
It accuses me of my infidelity; I realize I am the suspect
For all this while, I have been evaluated, by a furtive heart
Coffee, a sipping game and an unzipping art

Saturday Night...

2007-07-14T05:01:00.001-07:00

Two souls, in a deserted gallery stand admiring the art
Pleats gather on a forehead, appeals a disturbed heart
The eyes on the painting unknowingly stare
As the girl with pleats, renders herself bare

The immaculate beauty induces the lifeless eyes to blink
Her lips douse a cigarette, the Rosy furnishes them pink
The agile hands house a trigger, the belly is tight
The pleats waver in fervent dialogue, the tongues bite

“What are you doing tonight”, calls a voice
Seldom is getting involved a matter of choice
The man speaks, for the paintings plead
He emerges from the shadows, his instincts lead

The man is a contrast, white in black
Confident he walks, there is no turning back
The girl stands motionless, denuded and parched
“Committing suicide”, she replies “not long before I passed”

She blows the smoke at him, clouding his vision
He seems to rejoice, inhaling all with decision
The girl is suddenly is touched with déjà vu
But the notorious mind recalls nothing she knew

For the first time fear strikes her, the air goes still
She lashes on to the man, determined to kill
Her grasp though clutches thin air
He is her savior, life’s not fair

I see love in your eyes he sighs
And Love can’t let you die, if He does he lies
The opportunities will come and go, time right to alight
Stay with me tonight, for tonight is Saturday Night

a horse called love...

2007-06-25T03:53:00.000-07:00

A horse gallops across the moor, and a steady gaze ‘rides’ it
The dew hangs from the leaves; stars make a humble exit
The ‘eyes which stare’, are not one but two
Naked and unveiled, they caress, they solicit, they woo

The water – wheel gyrates, the stream maunders a din
The wet hair cuddle together, the moist embraces the skin
Nestled in love, the spirit floats a boat
The boat catches the current, makes the heart dote

Green eyes, they survey the sky, beseech and entreat
A stunt awaits, a story in the making, an unaccomplished feat
The clouds part, the sun ushers in
Explores and discovers - blanched eyes soaked with gin

Those eyes, the blood rises to them, for they are no longer white
They grapple with the ardor, the candles of zeal burn bright
The horse is by now out of sight, it was never about the equine
The eyes, they rise to seek love, these infidel eyes of mine

Now the green eyes revel in secret delight
For the gaze is acknowledged in equivocal fright
Two hearts miss a beat, for they rush to bosom
The ripe melons crack, the buds bloom, the lips blossom

The burgeoning desires clash in the sugarcanes
Enveloped in a sugary bodice, love reigns
With a gentle keenness, and a fervent indiscretion
Two souls blend without admonition

The eyes refuse to budge, for there is nothing else to be seen
She searches for colour, while my world is all green
We hold hands, promise to part never
For the white equine now returns to carry us forever

when god sinn'd...

2007-06-03T05:21:00.000-07:00

the firmament seems to crack, the imperial stars reveal themselves
on the road below , two nuns walk, in the night, besides two ‘elves’
a light shimmers at a distance, the church bells catch the wind
the darkness bears down, the devil smiles, for today ‘god’ sinned

the ladies are silent, they hear the lunatic sing a lullaby
the road meanders through the corpses, the debauched souls cry
the owl sees them bend over the cross, cant in unison
the mist descends, the elves wait, their eyes bear a longing vision

under their feet are no prints, their voices can’t be heard
the eyes, they shine, tell a story, never told, never heard
suddenly the lightening crashes, a baby cries
the trees sashay, the wet leaves fall from the highs

the boy smiles, that smile demands affection
the elves relax, their hands bloody from the vivisection
the lunatic kisses His forehead, he can now renounce his forsaken disguise
for the kingdom cometh, right under devil’s eyes

mumbai local...

2007-05-29T10:53:00.000-07:00

The observant and the discerning would know when the glass cracks, the fissures beeline through the weakest path. I would argue emotions which inflict our heart follow the same conduct. More so they find the weakest link in our chain of endurance and debilitate our self assurance.

The fortunate ones who have had the opportunity to come in intimate contact with the Mumbai local would deduce with me that besides being physically exhausting, the experience induces emotional objectivity, for there is no weakest link, or even if there is it is so dynamic that to locate it with precision is next to impossible. This might sound like an abstruse theory to placate the intellectually starved, but it isn’t; as almost a million participate in similar ordeals everyday, and they would easily validate my hypothesis.

Imagine yourself still in the uterus, with all your faculties developed to identify and discriminate the planetary odors and gestures. Now distort the setting to share the space with four thousand sweating bastards, each trying to be the first to be alighted. Now understand the connections, the strand which provides the context its emotional brilliance. Every bastard has a family to celebrate his homecoming. The big momma loves all.

With the bodies congealing to form a putrid mass which is expelled at every station, we have on our hands an orgy every time the emotion overflows. However the emotion never follows a definite path as there is only one path and that leads ‘home’, the final link in the chain, independent and infallible.

discovery in bedlam...

2007-05-26T22:16:00.000-07:00

the eyes liaison with the heart, the tambourine follows the beat
the houris perform the samba, the bartenders regale those who meet
i spot a man, who stands alone, a tweed jacket adorns him
the silhouttes rob him from my sight, as the lights fade to dim

the burning towers light up, the piano roars up a carnival
the faces are redolent as if seen everyday, my curiosity stages a rivival
i look through the crowd, sifting through every visage, every vestige
a whimsical desire rages in me, conspiring against my prestige

ensconced in me the spirits take charge, the gopher set to barge
my mind so depraved, but my tongue so chaste, i cache all surge of urge
as a man on business i survey, my faculties fixed on the man
with a sudden turn, a ingenious manoeuvre, i trap him, holler in elan

the beats fall into decadence, the atmosphere descends the slide
denied the orgasm, they now stare, wrath burns them from inside
i hold my pose, bewildered, for i realize i stare at a mirror
i owe one to the ecdysiast, her panache redirects their fervor

they take me for a lunatic, my friend on the stage deserves the attention now
the music rolls back again, the strippers orchestrate a wow
i feel flinched of my pride, feel like counterfeit, like sham
i still like to think, that day i found myself, in the bedlam...

Dewdrops!! - a tribute..

2007-04-04T13:38:00.000-07:00

He came along at ‘sunrise’
Replete with enthusiasm of his own devise.
He did greet with open arms
What pulchritude, what mesmerizing charms.

An attitude so charming so distinct
The spark of energy, the killer instinct.
He would sometimes get lost in his own appeal
Inducing in us a jovial jaunty feel.
However I have a confession to make
His jokes gave me a bit of a headache.

Then came the fall of the 'axe'
Fate’s words penetrated through tons of 'wax'.
A deliberate thought made me realize
I had been fooled into a surprise.

Adi was a revelation
Powerhouse of energy, cynosure of all celebration
Just when I thought the climax had come
The next moment better he would become.

Seldom had I been in such exclusive company
Someone who could emulate Himesh’s symphony
A man with a beautiful heart, radiant face
Who was far and near, generally all around the place.

Those hot debates, those lunch sessions
Those frenetic moments, those lasting impressions
Those songs we sang, those games we played
And times when strings of 'sanity' were frayed.
I carry them all like beads on a string
They’ll inspire me like 'dewdrops' in spring.

B & W

2007-03-26T14:14:00.000-07:00

Dressed in jet black I stand, behind a façade of mirrors
My ego bites me, yet I stand, bearing my ‘scissors’.
Dressed in jet black I stand, and blackness stands beside me
It pours down hard, drenching me, dousing me, cleansing me.

I know not I would see her today, I know not the night will pass
My body emits a flagrant odor, my heart yearns to trespass.
I have an urge to cry, to burn every home, to intrude, to pry
She is heartless, does not love…does not lie…does not die…sigh.

I kneel to the ground, smear my forehead with dust
Blind myself to obviate looking at Lust.
She wears white, delineating a perfect contrast
She too stands still, though her ego lists on the mast.

The waters shimmer under the moon, hurricanes as bystanders expect
Time with its copacetic charm is patient, the engine serenades for effect.
The ship is on fire, burning bright, the ‘scared’ run with no land in sight
I kiss her, my grasp is tight, the blackness yields to the white.

finale...

2007-02-09T11:30:00.000-08:00

Strawberries are raw, vineyards are bare and I’m broke
The wind blows in the sorrows, time apportions my dole.
On the highway the lunatic struggles with his cloak
By the fireplace, my impulse burns with the coal.

My pursuits lie lifeless, I am their assassin
The dregs of whiskey emanate the stench of death.
I have followers - the eyes on the wall, the shadows of my kin
The cat whiskers are taut as the extinction approaches in stealth.

The pages of the diary flutter, my heart follows beat
The bareness is evident, the fecundity turns demure.
My immaculate dreams persuade me, demonstrate fleet
I descend into the realms of the unknown, seduced into immure.

Enveloped in my pride, I lied to me
The fangs of death I could never see
Now I wait, impounded, incarcerated
To be written off , out dated.

a page from the diary...

2007-02-06T00:01:00.000-08:00

I love her. I don’t know how or when did it happen. There are a myriad things i don't know about...my shout...my undeserved clout...my ego bout...the vapid night out..

I have another confession to make, I don’t like defining things, so don’t expect my writings to have many names. I personally don’t like names. They are so damn mundane, banalities of a well defined world, where everything is tagged, priced and sold. Well for some the date itself is auspicious; I have no particular fascination I must say with any kind of detail or definition.

I love digressions, which I guess is a natural result of the whims of my capricious mind. Love is also a definition, some would argue. Love is a denial of individualism, when else does a man or woman deny their capacity to sustain themselves without each other. I see love in a different light though, for me it captures the essence of what I aspire to be
, I fall in love with what I aspire.

I must tell you something else…I don’t take my love to bed…I essentially sleep alone. Somehow sleep is the only reality I understand…the only reality I can define…I find it synonymous to death…which is certain…inevitable. Should I say I like going to sleep, but not if I haven’t deserved it.

I like getting tired before I retire, it gives me form, fulfillment and a definition I can live with, probably the only one I can live with that I am tired.

I am no achiever and I don’t dream. The fact that you read this is simply because I found writing exhaustive. Getting tired can be challenging…and you know it.

This ain’t my story, for I gave up myself long back.

hitch...

2006-12-25T07:56:00.000-08:00

my life is done, not realized
can't name my feelings, am not surprised.
there exists in me a grieved state
it defines my life, adorns my fate.

every day i see the birds on the roof
i see the sun, shining aloof
i wonder which is more dear
i wonder what is my greatest fear

i hate being loved, but love i will
could kill the parasites, but cannot kill
banalities of a civilized mind bind me
inflated ego of my celebrated mind haunts me

i have accepted i have nowhere to go
soothsayers may have other cards to show
i know all my castles are in the air
i know i need not 'breathe' with flair

i love, i care cannot say
i travel,i float cannot stay
my eyes betray my thoughts
i have sold off the pride i bought...

mi rage

2006-08-12T21:40:00.000-07:00

Away from the crowd, away from the hype
Like a surfeited daguerreotype
I stand alone, beside my clone
The world is sinking but I am not prone

For in ‘water’ I stand
Rowing my life with an unsteady hand
For in water I have always stood
The monotony of ‘land’ I never understood

I float oblivious to all fate
I a lonely king of a lonely estate
I ‘mirror’ myself and think
I know after all these years, I won’t blink

I am humble in a lull, arrogant in a storm
Warmth makes me dull, wind gives me form
I ride the waves, but don’t get anywhere
I have no sense of direction, I no longer swear

I sit again and deliberate
I somehow can’t avoid those ‘eyes of hate’
He stares at me from down under
How many times have I tried to do us asunder?

His animosity burns me from inside
Our distance grows by the tide
It is unfortunate that ‘he’ is bound to ‘me’
Ironical, because I love being free

she will be loved

2006-05-22T02:21:00.000-07:00

Time stands still, thinking aestivates
Love dominates, beauty captivates
Our eyes meet, I stare
She turns away…as if I care…I care…

We coincide…never cohere…
I follow her everywhere… find her nowhere
I feel fleeced…I lie bare…
Tell her…I don’t dare…

She shines…and a million cameras follow suit
She captures every imagination…every bruit
I stand alone…transfixed in my own admiration of her
And I solemnly decide… ignorance is my only saviour

The meretricious smile…the histrionic articulation
The bust so prominent…the effected emaciation
The false adulations…the libidinous sneers
Girl you deserve better than these peers…

I got her to turn…burn
I diminished her…made her yearn
But though I did everything to hide
My eyes…my infidel eyes…they lied

The dam fractured…the water did trespass
With the cleave in the façade…she didn’t need a pass
Our eyes met again…this time not to part
“Love’s a crime and I commit it everyday…for recidivism is a rare art…”

In a burst of verve I confess in élan
The cameras go still…lights switch to neon
She takes my hand…doesn’t say a word
Nothings said…though everything’s heard

We hold hands…we gyrate …she’s delighted
I remember the nights I had waited…letters I had secretly indited
By the pane a red Rose blooms
Reminding me of my adopted nom de plumes….

Father's Son

2006-05-19T23:33:00.000-07:00

The ‘rain’ doused his cigarette…he knew it was his last. He looked up, cursed the minacious firmament, looked down, and cursed his hebetude. He felt like a misbegotten, a miscreated bastard left alone to misbeseem. He knew he was alone in an ocean of putrid mass, searching for purgation in Gehenna. He rummaged through the ‘accumulation’, searching desperately for beating hearts, breathing nostrils, warm hands, batting eyelids…. there were none…none.

He didn’t know if he’d survive this…though he felt a strong sense of déjà vu of having dreamt the proceedings…. only embarrassment was that he didn’t remember the end…or maybe he didn’t want to…or maybe he wasn’t supposed to…

He felt it…the obstreperous whisper…the discordant music…the still wind…dry saliva…it was inevitable…ineluctable…it spelt relinquishment…abandonment…resignation…desertion…DEATH.

He knew he had to relegate his thoughts…for he had no credence in time…only moments ago his greatest fear had been a bullet piercing his head…now it was to die without memories of his past life and dreams of what life could have been.
He would have to rethink those dreams, recall those memories…. prepare himself for expurgation… the final ‘expunge’.

He hadn’t been a soldier always…his recollection took him to days of his childhood…his parents…they looked happy…his mother combed his hair while his father read the Hamlet to him…”To be, or not to be: that is the question”…. he remembered his wife…she was to give birth to a baby…how he would have given anything to see his child…somehow he felt he could hear her screaming…how could she know…no she didn’t… his baby was being born…he knew it…he could feel it…he remembered the command on the radio…”PULL BACK…don’t indulge…you are too few…”, they had warned him…”staying there would mean certain death”…he hadn’t heeded the voice…”all death was certain”…he had replied… he had no choice…he had submitted himself to the good of his country…good of his people…he had held his position…he was still holding it…he had decided to be…

He could hear voices…familiar ones… though he couldn’t discriminate them. He felt great proximity to his family…he suddenly felt constricted…he felt forced…he felt all qualm receding…he felt hot…very hot…damn hot and damn wet…he could hear the voices clearly now…they said ”push harder…. HARDER”….

Somebody picked up his ensanguined body…he felt the eyes on him…he’d always loved attention…had the reinforcements arrived…he felt a womanly touch…he felt a kiss…he could have bet all his savings that the kiss was his wife's...it was sans the lover's affection though...he wondered why...he felt his comrades…he felt a salute…he felt respect…. he felt admiration… and then he felt nothing…he had arrived…no sooner than he had departed…he had been reborn…. a father’s son indeed…

last semester blues...

2006-04-14T03:33:00.000-07:00

I swear…

By unseen faces and unheard places
By butts and buttresses
By demure dilettantes and their elaborate dresses…

By keen vigilantes and their stares
By the piano and musical chairs
By elevators and the bygone stairs

I swear…

By the parachutes and hot air balloons
By my friends and …buffoons
By the love letters and the different moons…

By the speed of light and summer heat
By the torn jeans and naked feet
By the kisses stolen down the ‘one way street’

I swear…

By the beer bottles and paathshalas
By the ‘angel eyes’ and late night galas
Let me not forget the so-called ‘madhubalas’…

By the classroom jokes and chocolate cakes
By the ‘people of fashion’ and the rakes
By the originals and the fakes

I swear…

By the times I felt alone
By the conversations on the phone
By my sweetheart and her finicky chaperone…

By the fast bikes and speedy cars
By the ‘body builders’ and ‘drug czars’
By the ‘hackers’ and my soccer ‘yaars’

I swear…

By the expeditions and the photos
By the ‘group leaders’ and their vetoes
By the ‘flirts’ and their false kudos…

By the slogans on the t shirt and the tattoos on the arm
By the teasers and taunts which meant no harm
By the skirts so hot and the smiles so warm

I shall never forget…these times I spent
I wish I could stay…buy time on rent
But I see moments disappear…as new ones take their place
I will collect all the beads I can…and then string myself a necklace…

zilch and then...hope

2006-04-10T00:36:00.000-07:00

"yeh meetta meetta gana aapke liye leker aaye hain Mawana sugar....mithaas zindagi ki..." the static ended abruptly and the radio station buzzed again with a Himesh Reshammiya 'classic'. i looked outside the window....my eyes showed no surprise..it was as if they were accustomed to what they saw...they had about them the nonchalance of a sage...callousness of the owl and haughtiness of the eagle. i felt tension in my muscles, my memory ached from last night, i felt perturbed...i was in awe of telugu actress i saw on one of the rare posters publicising a film from the land of the nizams...inexplicabily.

i had never come to know and understand the infamous monday morning blues..but there was always a zilch which accompanied monday mornings...zilch of thoughts..zilch of memories and zilch of feelings. i felt robbed...every monday morning i would wake up a new man...a wanderer...a vagabond ....a peripatetic...

every monday morning brought with it another challenge...a journey so taxing that it could kill a milquetoast...i pride myself to be veteran of many such trials by fire...i found myself in the middle of another one....A DTC bus ride from delhi to noida...i suggest you donot laugh....

looking out through the stained glass provided me with distractions i relied upon to pass time...but today was different...it was as if i was i was watching a movie for the umptieth time over...the story, the cues, the dialogues, the sequence all seemed pedestrian....lousy-lemony...i knew it all...the screech of the tyre, the fuss on the rickshaw stand, the expletive of ladies, the keening and sniveling of little girls, the ruckus of the traffic, the clamor of bicycles, the hullabaloo of babus, the giggles and snickers of young boys....i felt the void again...the humdrum continued...

i looked at the book resting on my lap...'1984' the title read...i had picked up the book from my uncle's collection. 1984 had caught my attention...it incidently was the year i began the journey called life. I hadn't begun to read the book so i flipped over a couple of leaves and read arbitrarily...

April 4th, 1984.

He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him. To begin with, he did not know with any certainty that this was 1984. It must be round about that date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty-nine, and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two.

For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he writing this diary? For the future, for the unborn. His mind hovered for a moment round the doubtful date on the page, and then fetched up with a bump against the Newspeak word doublethink. For the first time the magnitude of what he had undertaken came home to him. How could you communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossible. Either the future would resemble the present, in which case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from it, and his predicament would be meaningless.

something stopped me from going on...i felt i was not alone..it was as if a hundred eyes were zeroing on me. i felt the drops of perspiration flow down my back...the flow was smooth as smooth as jagjit singh's ghazal...as irritating as well...i looked up at the 'bystanders'...they all looked away...i tried to read again...and the vagabond pupils rested on me again...i could not read...i noticed a pink turban in the crowd...it brought a smile to my face...i stretched accepting the pain in my leg, the moisture on my back and my helplessness in the present situation.

i got myself to read again...

April 4th, 1984.

Last night to the flicks. All war films. One very good one of a ship full of refugees being bombed somewhere in the Mediterranean. Audience much amused by shots of a great huge fat man trying to swim away with a helicopter after him, first you saw him wallowing along in the water like a porpoise, then you saw him through the helicopters gunsights, then he was full of holes and the sea round him turned pink and he sank as suddenly as though the holes had let in the water, audience shouting with laughter when he sank. then you saw a lifeboat full of children with a helicopter hovering over it. there was a middle-aged woman might have been a jewess sitting up in the bow with a little boy about three years old in her arms. little boy screaming with fright and hiding his head between her breasts as if he was trying to burrow right into her and the woman putting her arms round him and comforting him although she was blue with fright herself, all the time covering him up as much as possible as if she thought her arms could keep the bullets off him. then the helicopter planted a 20 kilo bomb in among them terrific flash and the boat went all to matchwood. then there was a wonderful shot of a child's arm going up up up right up into the air a helicopter with a camera in its nose must have followed it up and there was a lot of applause from the party seats but a woman down in the prole part of the house suddenly started kicking up a fuss and shouting they didnt oughter of showed it not in front of kids they didnt it aint right not in front of kids it aint until the police turned her turned her out i dont suppose anything happened to her nobody cares what the proles say typical prole reaction they never --

i felt a sense of deja vu...suddenly i realized i empathized with the fat man, the child...there fated destiny...i looked up from what i was reading...i rejected my feelings as if they were not mine...there's a lot those people could have done to save themselves...there's a lot i go through everyday but i am guided by hope...hope that tomorrow would be a better day...that i would profit from every journey i undertake...i closed my eyes...i closed the book...i am not a fatalist i told myself...and i would not let me become one...

do I know me...

2006-02-28T04:15:00.000-08:00

There ain’t no sound, or maybe I’m deaf. There ain’t any light or maybe I’m blind. I’m bruised maybe I’ve been in a fight, but these bruises are different…I can’t feel them. I can’t taste my perspiration, I don’t even know if there is any sweat. I can smell everything though… that in other words means I can smell nothing. I have never been in such proximity to myself, I feel estranged. I search for distractions, but there are none…I have been robbed of them. I am alone with myself, and I don’t know how to start a conversation…

Its like being in front of a mirror in a dark room, you expect to see yourself, but don’t expect to meet yourself. These nuances are important because they define the thin line between knowing what you are and what you think you are.

I still can’t decide what to say. I feel insignificant… I don’t feel a thing… I assume I am insignificant… I feel my solitude…twenty years he’s been my tenant and I haven’t got myself to know him…
I can’t recall anything else I have accomplished…my memory escapes me…
Everything in this life is futile…I conclude…I don’t know myself…
In Greek mythology, Sisyphus, who had once deceived the gods and cheated death, was condemned for eternity to roll a stone up a hill. Every time he was about to complete his task, the stone would roll free back down to the bottom of the hill. Sisyphus would then have to start over again, even though the same thing would just happen again. Thus, the punishment of Sisyphus is a punishment just because it is an endless exercise in futility. Sisyphus is stuck in an eternally pointless task. Now, if the world and everything in it are also pointless, the lesson is that the task of Sisyphus is identical to every thing that we will ever be doing in life. We are no different from Sisyphus; and if his punishment makes the afterlife a hell for him, we are already living in that hell.
What can Sisyphus do to make his life endurable? Well, he can just decide that it is meaningful. The value and purpose that objectively don't exist in the world can be restored by an act of will. Just going along with conventional values and forgetting about the absurdity of the world is not authentic. Authenticity is to exercise one's free will and to choose the activities and goals that will be meaningful for one's self. With this approach, even Sisyphus can be engaged and satisfied with what he is doing.
To live one's life, one must exercise the freedom to create a life. To create a life one must know what one wants. The sad part is I still don’t know what I want…the happy part is I don’t want to know…

What then was the point of writing the article you will ask… let me ask: Why should you care…

I don't want to dream

2006-02-24T00:42:00.000-08:00

I have begun to dream…don’t know if its true
For I dream in my dreams…haven’t a clue
It’s a dilemma… I’ve been trying to fight this enchanting plight
Culling emotions these ethereal manifestations expedite

Why me…I ask of them…let my mind be free
Cluttered with spikes…it has lost all its symmetry
Why ask us they say…your mind is your own
Why blame us if its imagination prone

I could swear I met Alice in wonderland
I have crossed the Rubicon, even surfed on the Arabian sand
I have been in Pele’s shoes, in Presley’s grooves
Forget it…start afresh the morning behooves….

That essentially captures it…my pain…the strain
What is that I dreamt…ladies and gentlemen did you know…ABEL slew CAIN!
I still don’t know if this development would benefit me
I have resorted though to a great dreamer’s autobiography…

This is what he says…it’s like walking on a thousand shattered pieces of glass
Doesn’t take people long to realize you belong to the fools’ class
There are few though who polish the glass under there feet
They are then admired and placed in the elite…

Inspiring words…sans motivation though
I could do without dreams I know
I could do without being the emperor or a superhero
I could do without starting every time on zero…

I am therefore I think…..

MBAed!!!

2006-02-22T23:58:00.000-08:00

Closing walls and ticking clocks…………I stand here keeping time on a watch without calibrations. There exists a bothering sense of urgency… unrecognizable, incomprehensible yet undeniable. Don’t know if its fear but what is there to be afraid of. Maybe its ambition but what is there to want. Maybe it is failure but what is it that never did fail? No it is not success for success isn’t complete without more success. It has to be something else that drives me, thrives in me, loves me and makes me love…aspire…fear…fail…succeed.

I find myself on the platform … staring … waiting. I feel my pockets for a cigarette…don’t find one…I remember I don’t smoke… I look around for somebody to speak to, don’t see anyone…or maybe I don’t want to see anyone. I speak to myself…try to read lips…

Passing time shows no arrogance only apathy… it passes noiselessly for sound is free…passing windows catch my attention now and then… I see beauty… admire it secretly… then turn away…can’t decide whether she eyes me too…can’t decide whether I could get myself to want her… she gets off…I get off…

I am still speaking…I am the only one listening…I am destined to appear for an interview…MBA interview…I consciously walk straight…wear a meretricious smile…there are other guys like me…I hate their ties…I love mine…I feel hollowed…inside out… there are friends around…some from same college…most of them better than me…but these people are ‘modest’…complements attract complements…don’t they? …There is a lot of sugar around… I feel lonely…if there is one thing worse than being an ugly duckling in a house of swans; it's having the swans pretend there's no difference… I feel saturated…I hate interviews…I don’t know why do I want to do an MBA…

They don’t care what I tell them… I don’t care too… its called mutual cooperation…they understand… I understand too… I feel sad though…I want to go home…

I am home…I feel relaxed…I strip down for a shower…let the cold water douse me…I like myself in the mirror…regular exercise pays…it does…I like the roughness of the towel…I finally have a smile on my face…

Mom calls…she wants to know how the interview went…I give her my account of it…she cannot believe I said what I did…I reassure her…she gives way…never mind she says you can always go to Harvard…oh I love my mother…my sister calls too…speaks of everything except the interview…I love her too…I can’t tell her that though…saying that would be hara-kiri…my spirits are up and running again…

I have five missed calls on my cell…Kalyan wants to know how my interview went…even Pallav is curious…Vaibhav desperately wants the bad news…lol…somebody else is also concerned…I call her up…she’s at all ears to my story…she has her own too…I listen to it reluctantly…I am in no mood for another one on shopping discounts…it turns out to be interesting though…a covert invitation to a dinner party…now I feel I have a life…fortunate one…I accept…

I had to lie…I would be visiting friends in Noida I told my mother…but its ok…didn’t want to handle too many questions…Kanika looks like a diva…we dance…I am pathetic at dance…she’s tolerant though…I step on her foot a couple of times…she steps on mine…I am happy I came…Sid is there too…even Kapil…we have an amazing dinner…first time in the day I feel satiated…Mom calls…she knows…I am guessing…its for saying good night…our night though has just begun …I finally feel I am among equals…I am smiling…I am happy…I live for people around me…I love them…I don’t care if I make it to an B school…at least not until tomorrow…

is life worth living....?

2005-12-25T03:37:00.001-08:00

It was my alter ego who spoke first. “Is life worth living?” he demanded with the confidence of a pugilist. I found myself sitting at the bus stop, chewing pensively on the remnants of ‘our’ earlier conversations. I bought time as I ravaged for a fitting rejoinder.

My deliberation was cut short as my loquacious ‘partner’ was speaking again. “Life for most of you is as sinuous as a verbose English sentence punctuated by birth and death, conspicuously imperfect and unconscionable. Seldom are you careful enough to dot the i’s and slash the t’s. Your indulgences have overshadowed the very essence of life. You are like a tiny flame flickering in an immense void, straightjacketed by waste, horror and degradation. And as if the intricacies of life were not enough look at the mess you’ve created around you - coffee has caffeine, water has pesticides, and the road can kill you.

I was taken aback. Never in our earlier bouts had he exhibited such effrontery. The scathing accusations left me stranded in a hideous lonely emptiness. However I did not feel defeated rather the more I fathomed the facts the more they piqued my interest. The root of our plight lay in our failure to realize that we live in a relative world where flaws are as conspicuous as there are people, therefore any demarcation in terms of responsibility and accountability is redundant and futile.

Having mustered my thoughts I replied, “Life does not know any bounds nor does it understand limits. It has never offered explanations nor has it demanded any. But it is inherently perilous for otherwise it wouldn’t be fun living it. Life hails ‘existence’ and not ‘essence’. Life has never been utopian, though the nature of perils has changed with time. Encyclopedias give us a vivid depiction of the prehistoric horrors – ice ages, gargantuan predators etc. Historians have mentioned in detail the gory wars fought, the disgusts of industrialization, imperialism, and nuclear bombs etc. Every eon brings with it concomitant dangers but life continues. Life has only one rule - ‘all is permissible’. If you try to violate this sacrosanct rule life loses its appeal and reduces to a pedestrian set of tasks not very different from the fate Sisyphus was condemned to.”

I could see his confidence melt away. His tone was no longer imputative rather that of apprehension and speculation. “But”, he began, “ last night when you were asleep I overheard the coke bottle plot against you. And the mobile phone under your pillow the one you trust so much, well he was all praise for the coke bottle. And soon the Cadbury chocolates joined in; their perfidious instincts aroused.” He was almost out of breath by now.

His naiveté apprehensions brought a smile to my face. It also made me realize that I had a gift - the gift of life, which in spite of being incomplete was sans peur. I also realized that life was beyond reproach, in fact it would be an imbecile attempt to inculpate an individual for promotion of his self interest unless his actions are aimed at deliberate harm. It doesn't really matter that you cannot alter your behavior on the basis of consequences that you cannot know, because you are not accountable for your behavior anyway. Therefore to say that people responsible for pollution should be sought and punished is as preposterous as finding a needle in a haystack. It therefore becomes imperative to accept the fancies of life in their authentic form and to sift out misleading essences. The ultimate aim should be free, autonomous existence.

globalization er glocalization...

2005-12-24T08:03:00.000-08:00

The precincts of the world seem to be shrinking, the demarcations are getting blurred; globalization has evolved form being just a figment of visionaries to a ubiquitous phenomenon. Satellites, jet planes, Internet and coke cans all seem to carry the contagion.
The homogenizing influences of globalization promote integration and the removal not only of cultural barriers but also of many pejorative dimensions of culture. Globalization is a vital step toward both a more stable world and better lives for the people in it. Besides, current trends that fall under the broad definitional umbrella of ‘globalization’ are accelerating a process that has been incessant throughout history as discrete groups have become familiar with one another, allied, and commingled - ultimately becoming more alike. The blending of cultures through migration, dissemination of news, ideas and fashions through trade, travel and media and through the rise of global references ---- Coca-cola, Addidas, Rupert Murdock has led to an indisputable uniformity. It has evolved into an impeachable tradition, binding and infallible.
The reverberations of globalization are no longer superficial rather they have percolated into every local sphere of culture be it language, art, education, religion, entertainment, food, attire, dances, songs or books. ‘Glocalization’ as most economists term it certainly seems to be an ideal portmanteau for the phenomenon.
It is said about the language that it is the essence of a culture, converge the language and people would follow. One of the landmark achievements of globalization has been the introduction of a universal language - English. It is estimated that by 2050 half of the world would be more or less proficient in it.
Even the most ironclad barriers are succumbing to the force of globalization. The countries like Russia and communist China are also opening their gates for the world, symbolizing a convergence of ideologies. Shanghai for example has evolved into a glasshouse for global brands. Globalization is not only transforming the world; it is creating its own metaphors as well. Satellites carrying television signals now enable people on opposite sides of the globe to be exposed regularly to a wide range of cultural stimuli. Russian viewers are hooked on Latin soap operas, and Middle Eastern leaders have cited CNN as a prime source for even local news.
The fall of individualism can also be credited to globalization. Individuals are forming new communities, linked by common interests and fads that cut across national borders. People today are chatting with foreigners sitting miles away, scientists are sharing their ideas over the Internet, and environmentalists are campaigning together using email. Groups like an international Juventus supporters’ club, a worldwide U2 fan club have become a commonplace. It all signifies greater understanding and cohesiveness creeping into world culture. The world is indeed becoming one. David Beckham may walk the Santiago Bernabéu with his ingenious coiffures but it does not much time for our budding footballers in the street to emulate his style. Such has been the impact of globalization pervasive and ‘all embracing’.

However, it would be juvenile to even imagine that a planet of seven billion people could incorporate a single culture. It would be impossible to counteract or eradicate the subversive elements of diverse cultures prevalent in the present world, preposterous to think of framing social laws that would transcend culture.
The fear that globalization would lead to an undifferentiated culture is pretty benign. After all drinking coke is not a compulsion but a matter of choice. English may usurp other languages not because it what people prefer to speak but because, like Microsoft software, there are compelling advantages to using it if everybody else does.
Nobel laureate Amartya Sen pointed out - “the culturally fearful often take a very fragile view of each culture and tend to underestimate our ability to learn from elsewhere without being overwhelmed by that experience”.
Beyond the obsessions of global uniformity, there exist an opulent potpourri of cultures so eclectic and so apart. People are not only guzzling Mac D’s hamburgers, there are over 8000 Indian restaurants – six for every Mac Donald’s in the UK up from just six in 1950. Mariah Carey and Madonna are global chart toppers, but so are Britain’s Elton John and Ireland’s U2 and how about our very own A.Rehman. If Tom Clancy and Jeffrey Archer sell well abroad so do Paulo Coelho, Vikram Seth and Arundhati Roy. And not to forget J.K. Rowling and J.R.R Tolkein who seemed to have taken the world by a storm. Today India produces more commercial films than Hollywood. People around the world are looking beyond Armani and Gucci. The hegemony of brands is approaching a suffocating end. These realities tend to endorse the fact that globalization does not threaten local cultures; instead it led to the enhancement and diversification.

Appearances may be deceiving. The progressive world gives an impression of having tacitly approved globalization. However the ground realities differ. The majority people still remain untouched by the phenomenon, preserving the inveterate cultures. One of the many contrasts is the disparity that exists between the third world countries and the developed nations. As the rich have got richer and the poor have got poorer, there cultures have moved strikingly apart. I had mentioned earlier that drinking coke instead of being a compulsion is a matter of choice; you can easily narrow that down to a matter of affordability.

Another important change accompanying globalization is that of immigration. Emigrants carry their revered habits and cultures across the globe and tend to assimilate as immigrants the practices of their accepted land, leading to a multicultural society.
The homogeneity of globalization exists only in parochial sphere of urban life, beyond that the effects if any are very limited.

The Gin Soaked Boys

2005-12-22T05:59:00.000-08:00

It is a place where even Time stops to party. Talk of hedonistic appeal and it is brimming with it. Ganesha is prominent, so is Mahakali and I think I can discriminate the ‘Nine Inch Nails’ in the backdrop digging into the boisterous mirth. It’s a place replete with our own home grown backyard rockers, our beloved noisemakers and boss viziers of the sleaze-o-rama precincts of the rockers club. Where transients slide into cheap rooms and get awakened in the middle of the night by yelling neighbors, they are the presiding booze-hound laureates. On the proscenium stands Monish - my friend and schoolmate, we’ve known each other for years now. Monish isn’t much of a celebrity. You could meet him on the street and not feel inclined to give him a second glance. The demure looking boy who had trouble appearing for his Infosys campus interview, in his den today he’s the cynosure of every vagabond pupil, every vacant mind. They cheer as he strikes the chord on his guitar. Reminisces of Jimmy Hendrix and Joe Satriani come fleeting past. The very image of his celebrated kisser—the tattooed skull, the pierced eyebrows and the 666 t-shirt—has been enough to consign him to the bohemian backwaters of rock culture.

What is rock culture all about I wonder? It’s not the women, not even the booze, no not the drugs, definitely not money and don’t give me that shit about expression and symbolic meaning. Somehow I am inclined not to buy all that. There is something deeper and more profound to it. There has to be. For nothing superficial can drive people to such insanity, such obsession, such confusion, and such illusions – a life of no comprehension and resurrection.

Rock beat is not intrinsically sexual or evil, or maybe it is. Works of art, including musical art, seldom convey a direct or explicit moral message. For this reason, the morality of art is extremely hard to discuss. Various kinds of art may have a tendency to stimulate us, to portray evil in a positive light, or to communicate an alternative understanding of reality. But because the message is almost never as clear and direct as an argument, different people can receive music in different ways, and precise lines are difficult to draw. Even among those with similar values, problems with works of art often induce consensus only at the extremes.

Rock groups consistently convey a false or otherwise evil message in their lyrics, their gestures i.e. smashing of guitars evil depicting signs loudness of music and distortion of human voice what we call growling etc. While this is by no means universal in rock music, it is probably characteristic of a larger and the more famous portion of rock than of most other genres. It is common to encounter rock lyrics obsessed with narcissism, anger, and rejection of authority, despair, destruction, sex, drugs, paganism, and Satanism.

It is clear that “rock culture” is a manifestation of the evil, which is incorporated into the public personae of many groups (whether for deliberate moral or merely business reasons). Young people, who are necessarily impressionable, are more likely to perceive rock culture in which ugliness and evil are so often “popular”, “awesome”, “honest”, and even “profound”. Objectivity can wait for the next morning; at present it is the ‘Rockers’ who rule, the evil who plays the fool and ‘Gin Soaked Boys’ who drool. Ain't it cool?

Prophethood vis - a - vis Philosophy

2005-12-21T02:51:00.004-08:00

Consider: In the world of mankind, from the time of Adam until the present, two great currents or lines of thought have, like two tall trees, spread their branches in all directions and in every class of humanity. One of them is the line of Prophethood and religion, the other that of philosophy and human wisdom. Whenever those two lines have been in agreement and united, by which I mean whenever the line of philosophy has joined the line of religion in obedience and service to it, mankind has experienced brilliant happiness and a brilliant collective life. But whenever they have followed separate paths, truth and goodness have accumulated to the side of Prophethood and religion, and error, evil and deviation have been drawn to the side of philosophy. We shall now elaborate on the origin and foundations of those two lines.

The line of philosophy, whenever it has split away from the line of religion, has taken the form of an evil tree spreading the dark veils of ascribing partners to God and of misguidance in every respect. On the branch of empowered reason, it has yielded for the consumption of the human intellect, the fruits of atheism, materialism and naturalism. On the branch of empowered anger and passion, it has produced tyrants like Nimrod, Pharaoh and Shaddad to tyrannize over mankind. On the branch of empowered animal desires and appetites, it has produced the fruits of ‘goddesses’, idols and those who have claimed divine status for themselves. By contrast, the blessed line of Prophethood, which takes the form of the Tuba tree of worship, has borne, in the garden of the earth, on the branch of empowered reason, the fruit of the Prophets, Messengers, saints and the righteous. On the branch of empowered anger, the branch of defense against and repelling of evil, it has yielded the fruits of virtuous kings and just rulers. On the branch of empowered attractiveness it has borne, throughout human history, the fruits of generous, benevolent persons of good character and modest bearing. The line of Prophethood has thus demonstrated how mankind is the perfect fruit of the creation. We shall now shed light on the two aspects or ‘faces’ of ego as the origin and principal seed of these two lines of thought.
One ‘face’ is represented by the Prophets and the other by philosophers. That is to say, Prophethood takes hold of one ‘face’, while philosophy takes hold of the other, causing them to diverge.

The ‘face’ represented by Prophethood is the origin of pure worship and slavery to God. That is to say, the ego knows itself as the slave of God. It realizes that it serves One other than itself. Its essential nature has only an indicative function. Ego understands that it bears the meaning of one other than itself, and it can be meaningful only when it points to that one. Its existence is dependent. Ego believes that its existence and life depend upon the creativity and existence of the one other. Its feeling of ownership is illusory. Ego knows that what it enjoys is an apparent, temporary ownership by the permission of its real Owner. It has a shadow-like reality. Ego understands that it is a contingent entity, an insignificant shadow which manifests the true and necessary Reality. As for its function, being a measure and balance for the Attributes and functions of its Creator, that function is conscious willing service.
It is in this regard that the Prophets, the pure, righteous ones and the saints who have followed the line of the Prophets, have truly perceived the nature of ego. Therefore, they have resigned sovereignty to the Exalted Sovereign of the creation and believed that He has no partner or like, either in His Sovereignty or in His Lordship, or in His Divinity. He is no need of an assistant or deputy. His is the key to all things; He has absolute power over all things. Causes, they have also come to believe, are but a veil of appearances, and nature is the sum of the rules of His creation, an assemblage of His laws, of the ways in which He displays His Power.

This radiant, luminous, beautiful ‘face’ of ego has always been like a living seed full of meaning from which the Exalted Creator has created the Tuba tree of worship, the blessed branches of which have adorned all parts of the human world with its illustrious fruits. Through this ‘face’, the darkness over the past is lifted and it is then understood that past time is not a domain of non-existence nor a vast graveyard, as conceived by philosophy, but a source of light and a bright, shining ladder with many rungs from which the souls traversing it may leap into the future and eternal felicity. It is also a radiant abode and a garden for the souls who have departed this world and cast off their heavy loads and been set free.

The second ‘face’ is the one represented by philosophy. Philosophy regards ego as having an essential meaning of its own. That is to say, it maintains that ego has an independent existence of its own; that ego is the index only to itself and that it labors wholly on its own behalf. It considers the existence of ego as necessary and essential. It falsely assumes that ego owns its being and is the real lord and master in the domain where it is active. Philosophy supposes ego to be a permanent reality. It considers the duty of ego to be self-perfection for the sake of self-esteem. And so on. Philosophers have in these ways built their various schools of thought on many such corrupt foundations. Even such eminent philosophers as Plato and Aristotle, Ibn Sina (Avicenna) and al-Farabi, maintained that the ultimate aim of mankind is to make themselves like the Necessary Being, in other words, to actually resemble Him. In that they drew a very wrong conclusion. They provoked ego through such opinions and set it free to run in the valleys of polytheism, thus opening the way to numerous different ways of associating partners with God, like worship of causes, of idols, of natural forces, of the stars. They closed the doors to man's perception and confession of his impotence and weakness, his insufficiency and need, his deficiency and imperfection, which are basic to human beings, and thus blocked up the road to worship and slavery to God. Immersed in naturalism and completely unable to escape from ascribing partners to God, they were unable to locate the wide open doors of gratitude.In contrast to the line of philosophy, the line of Prophethood considered that the aim and function of mankind is to be molded by Divine values and to achieve good character. They believed also that mankind, by perceiving their own impotence, should seek refuge with Divine Power, by perceiving their weakness, rely on Divine Strength, and by realizing their insufficiency and essential poverty, trust in Divine Mercy. By knowing their need, they should seek help from Divine Riches, by seeing their faults, they should plead for pardon through Divine Forgiveness, and by perceiving their inadequacy they should glorify Divine Perfection.It is because philosophy has deviated from the Right Path, in disobedience to the line of religion, that ego has taken the reins into its own hands and galloped into all sorts of error. Consequently, out of such an ego an evil tree has grown and swallowed up more than half of mankind.

freedom and equality

2005-12-21T02:51:00.001-08:00

Meet me; I am the harbinger of civilization. I represent the quintessence of creativity and individuality. I am free and unimpeachable. I am above all.
I have a friend, my only friend. She is not like me; she lives with other people who are like her. She speaks a language, the semantics of which do not permit her to use ‘I’ before ‘they’. I sometimes envy her for she is popular. But her plight devastates me for she seems to be fettered in chains of social responsibility. I have tried to help her but she won’t listen. She says I’m colorblind. I don’t understand her.
My name is Freedom and she is Equality.
I remember our first date; I was replete with exaltation and frenzy. She felt the same but wouldn’t show it. Her voice was inspiring yet so bland, her eyes blissful yet so distant. I like driving fast. But she wouldn’t let me. My anticipation grew as we approached the ball. She spoke of the people, their attire, and their customs. Somewhere inside me I felt in visceral fear creep in, for convivial gatherings intimidated me. They say great people find inspiration in little things. I find my stimulation in dance. Though I can be conspicuously unconventional at times, but when I dance, I do so with a complete apathy of all around me. That day I danced my heart out, a grotesque avant-garde performance; at least that is what I thought. I was wrong. They stared at me as if I had committed blasphemy. I didn’t care for their gibes. My eyes searched for Equality’s and finally met them. She seemed to see right through me. Her eyes told me all. She, like them wanted me to change.
I accepted Equality and her world. I compromised my liberty for benevolence and brotherhood. I like my equals drove within speed limits, danced to the rules, and ate according to the menu. I could not blame them; they were equals or rather should I call them puppets striving for economic and social parity. But it gave me jitters when I saw myself among them, working towards a goal that did not exist. What love could do to a man? “What kind of a society is this”, I asked Equality, “it penalizes genius and rewards mediocrity; economically, it murders the goose that lays the golden egg; it dehumanizes humanity and sometimes causes it to suffer indescribable pain”? She had always been proficient with words. Her reply was in her usual nonchalant tone, “the pain is promethean for it is for the greater good. It is the inherent human aspirations that are the cause for man’s greatest sufferings. We have learned to curb desire, as a result independence has ceded it place to interdependence”. I was befuddled. Though now I was able to see the colors I lost my ability to choose between them. That day at night I stole from my tent to see Equality for last time.
Memories of Equality linger on. I probably still stay in her heart and she would not let me go. Freedom however has moved on. Today, he walks the corridors of the power and prestige. His name finds its place in the highest echelons of civilization. His company includes visionaries like Bill Gates, Warren Buffet, Richard Branson, and Vijay Malaya. He admires free thinkers, scientists, mavericks and nonconforming artists for he finds solace in their work. Solitude for him is not a sacrifice it is a privilege. He drives fast in his new Ferrari. His hair carry the wind and eyes shine with hope. He is free again, unleashed.
Equality still lives with her people. I live in her heart. It is a happening place, her heart. There is room for almost everybody, no place for vanity though. I have begun to understand these people through the eyes of Equality. ‘She and I’ often venture out to the fields after the rains; she finds immense pleasure in the rainbow. She explains to me the hierarchy; I guess I have finally begun to understand colors. I try to persuade her. I speak of the riches, the opportunities that wait for her only if she was to take my hand. She responds didactically, “Free people can never be equal and equal people never free”. I am held by her charm, speechless.

- Siddhartha Proothi