I am wondering why common sense has gone extinct. Really. Why? Honest and devoid of sarcasm question. Is it so hard for us to be logical? Don’t most people find the need to ask why they are doing what they are doing? Or even, what the logical repercussions of what they do will be. Or probably repercussions don’t matter. It is amazing how you can go on living a life with just the wrong priorities and not even realise it. So when someone walks up to you and tells you what you really are worth, it kinda forces you to think what sheer cuckoo-ness led to those deviations from reality. If you don’t get your worth, logically you would get on with the programme. And I am about to do it. Shaky legs and shaky ground, but a sense of righteousness prevails. The defiant warrior marches. Where to? It’s time to GO FIGURE.

Hanging on precariously to odd conicals is getting a little tiresome. Living on the edge has its charms only as a bi-yearly affair. If you are doing it every minute everyday, it’s time to shake off the boredom. A general sense of claustrophobia and desperation is setting in, and for no apparent reason. Either I’m woefully off my rockers this time, or there is something going on here. In any case, not having the answers is not particularly helpful. I’m done pursuing happiness; if you are trying too hard, it’s probably not worth it. You’ve got it all messed up anyway. An extended holiday is just what I need. Things are weighing a bit too heavily on the soul, or something. Sometimes, it’s ok to run. And I need to. Fast.

It caught up, finally. A calm and lazy city was forced to wake up and Bangalore had a blast – this time it isn’t fun we are talking about. In what seemed to be a declaration of sorts, the adherents of terror told us what they could do, leaving a lot of people relieved that they didn’t actually do it.

To a city that is quintessentially laid back, fighting “terror” and “terrorist” is a very alien concept. It is no defence, of course, but these are terms that we as Bangaloreans know exist. But that is all. So when the city was attacked, it did more than just jolt us. For the first time, it made everyone think why nobody had found the need to “get real.”

As is the case with most places that are “secure,” – a term I fear using now – animosity, deaths, bombs, riots and the like have never been Bangalore’s highlight. Sure there have been few incidents that have involved the aforementioned events, but none that were strong enough to instil fear or bog down the spirit of the city. Not that the latest one has shattered the faith of people here, but it has definitely got them thinking. Visiting malls or certain parts of the town, roaming around the city at odd hours, shopping excursions to Commercial Street… These don’t seem like the best things to do right now.

And that’s what has changed. For once we are being forced to think about where we want to go and why - rather why not. I’m not entirely sure that is a bad thing. Being relaxed and peaceful is one thing and being lax is something else altogether. May be it really is time to step up the vigil and acknowledge that we have an issue to address. That would probably be a start. Something else that we could do is being more aware of our surroundings and seeing things instead of just looking.

Sometimes, it probably takes an explosion to break the spell.

After a brief hiatus, when I resumed reading as regularly as I used to I started with an author I knew would not disappoint me. And he didn’t. “Of love and other demons” by Gabriel Garcia Marquez was um…delightful. (I’m trying to emulate the ‘dazzling’, ‘sublime’, ‘spell binding’ and the like that one gets to see on the covers of novels) The book was most of these, but in moderation.

As always, Marquez does a fabulous job of blending the tangible and the intangible. I’m yet to come across an author (in my limited range of reading) who is riveting despite giving away the end to a story right at the beginning. His stories do not urge you to read on so you know how it ends; it’s more about the journey itself – so you can simultaneously go through what the characters experience as and when they do.

A 12 year-old girl, who has been allowed to grow wild, is bitten by a rabid dog. Her father is unaware of this and it is months before he becomes aware. The sudden realization inspires a love in him for his daughter that he has never felt all his life. In “saving” his daughter, he finds a purpose for his hitherto wasted existence. As the last resort, and after a muddled dream, the agnostic father seeks refuge in the church. The girl is confined in a convent as exorcism is her only hope and a devout exorcist is sent to redeem her. All elements of disaster right there on a platter. The celibate falls in love with the girl and their fates are sealed forever.

The only thing, though, is Marquez doesn’t tell you the story like this. This is what someone reviewing the book can do – show you what the picture looks like. Marquez tells you how to look at it. Even if I wanted to, I would not be able to describe the quirks of his characters. The girl’s hair being pledged till the day of her wedding, the hair growing even after her death, the mother’s cuckoo-ness of rejecting clothes, the father’s love for a madwoman, the madwoman, in reality, being the real mistress of the fated house…… and it goes on. His eccentricity is his strength and, eerily, that is what makes Marquez’s books so believable.

While the book is not on par with his truly superior works like Chronicle of a death foretold and One hundred years of solitude, it definitely is worth a read. And in my case, I perhaps appreciate this one a little more because the last novel of his that I read – Love in the time of cholera – was a bit of a let down after all the hype.

Pick up this book if you are in a mood to let your imagination wild without breaking ties with reality – it has all that you expect from Marquez’s books, but nothing more.

I think I need to start talking to spaces again. And the best place to start, I reckon, is this. What is it that they say about a void being a sponge? So here’s some junk coming up.

More often than not, I have been tempted to say that the existential crisis is extremely over-rated. Why exactly I have not been able to say it is due to the inability to free myself from the monstrous eddies of this crisis. In the brief moments that I manage to stop pondering about my life and the associated topics, I wonder about the existence of others. And when I say others, I refer to a particular lot. It is the bunch that makes you ask why homosapiens are called a superior race and where they left that lumpy grey matter that, presumably, all of us are born with.

I am increasingly finding myself in their august company - almost to a point of being paralysed with fear. They are there at your college, your workplace, in the party that you go to (even occasionally), in the malls, in the cinema halls – you name it. And what do you say to them? Contrary to what most people who know me are inclined to believe, I have tried my best to interact with them. Of course, no doubt that I have failed miserably.

And it truly boggles the mind. How, just how do these people that one tends to chance upon as an off-shoot of society get around everyday? They are most definitively toxic and I would imagine it would be impossible to afford them in today’s world where we are fighting, in more ways than one, for a safer haven.

Now, before I get those snarls, I would like to know or, in the very least, hear about someone who has never come across a specimen of the species I just described. The more I think about it, the more I am inclined to dunk the hitherto stationary object of my thoughts (me) in favour of this multitude I see everyday.

If it isn’t apparent already, then I’d like to spell out the point of this particular piece and this particular space -- Unburdening.

Soak it all up.

The P factor

What is with men and peeing in this country? Am I the only unfortunate soul who witnesses the carefree and unabashed release of men’s bladders just about anywhere I go? Ok I understand it is winter, but guess what? it is winter for ladies too! Hell, even advertisements endorse it like it were a way of life here. Although, it would have to be a really good argument to say it isn’t. And of course, the favourite seems to be good old ring road. At any given hour, you will find vehicles parked along the road with men freeloading without a care in the world. A lot of people have informed me it is a hit with women too, mercifully I have been spared that sight. And I can assure you, it ain’t a phenomenon restricted to Bangalore, and it has nothing to do with any “particular” species of men. The latest mantra with them – “let it rip.”
Just a thought to end the series of thoughts…It would be very astute to take a minute before shaking hands with next guy you meet; I would recommend it very strongly.

To your hand

Your touch is what I long for,
It is what I miss the most.

The pinch, the nudge,
The hug and the slap-
I miss them all.

Even the fights have lost their charm now.

I try to substitute it.
Each time I cross the road,
It is with a new person.
Each time I laugh,
It is a new arm I hold.
Each time I buy a ring,
It is for a new finger.

The novelty brightens things up,
Else, life would be dreadfully still.

Cynicism zindabad

Cynicism is so common place these days that I have begun to believe it is being overrated. I’m a cynic, but it disturbs me when I see a host of people like me. I’d like some exclusivity, at the risk of asking for too much. So, it really annoys me when I keep bumping into people who sound like me, make the same remarks and pick on the same things. What are we being cynical about? Are we sceptical about our jobs, our relationships, our neighbours or our dear politicians? In short, about life itself. I’d hate to take away the charm it holds by dissecting the term, but I was just idly wondering where the hell we are headed. Seems like dissatisfaction is the latest among the most sought-after destinations. Makes me feel great on good old Independence Day.

Alive

A drool here and some dabbing, and then some more. A fleeting moment of consciousness. He registered his surroundings and switched off the moment he saw everything was just the same.

"Are you alright?" "Do you know where you are?" He had never been able to understand why most of humanity was so stupid. Stupid enough to ask "in-your-face" obvious questions. "Are you in too much pain?" Now that is something....is it possible to quantify pain? "I am in pain...there's enough pain for...well....there is more than I need at the moment, glad to pass it along." All along, the masochist in him defiant-screaming, smirking and almost enjoying the moment.

The anaesthesia. The dilemma was killing him. Anaesthesia seemed like an inviting and logical option, but he froze the moment he thought of a life without pain. Heck, might as well get one of those beastly lethal injections. The pain was the only anaesthetic...he could feel it settling in that slow way a chill sets in. It was a comfortable blanket, the one you can't do without when you are at home. Another rendezvous with consciousness. That little tryst with sanity.

And then the ever punctual alarm shrieked away....it was time for him to switch off and get past the day.

My rainy day out!!!

Bangalore monsoons are always fun. Of course, that is only if you don't mind being stuck in traffic for hours, are ready to hitchhike your way through half dug up roads or pay that odd autowala twice as much to reach a place... you get the picture, right?

I had the misfortune of being "stuck" in an auto rickshaw when the ring road (the one on the way to airport road, i can never quite remember if it is the "outer" or the "inner" ring road) was flooded--er...too strong a word? well, this is coming from someone who was stranded there for a just a couple of hours....so, do forgive the hyperbole. The road, under consideration, is easily one of Bangalore's nicest roads. It has always been a pleasure to travel by that road and, not surprisingly, it is one of the busiest.

People who are familiar with Bangalore will know that one straight road goes from Kormangala to Indiranagar. I was at the former, aiming to reach the latter to meet another "stranded" friend and thus my two precious hours were washed away. The thing about being alone and confined to a place is that it offers you plenty of time to notice things. And observe, I did.

It is interesting to observe different reactions to the same situation. There was my lot, people travelling alone in an auto staring haplessly at each other and most of them listening to music (iPod zindabad!), a few calling their friends and cribbing away, and fewer belonging to a peculiar breed--just staring aimlessly (read me). One common thing to all these characters...they had enough time to learn the art of strategically positioning themselves somewhere in the middle of the rickshaw so as not to get wet when the other vehicles generously splash water or when it is raining in every direction possible.

Then there were the two-wheeler guys (strictly unisex term, I hear PC is the "in" thing these days), some with pillions. These guys were just all over the place--on the divider, on the footpaths--absolutely anywhere they could maneuver their bikes. As an off-shoot, I also witnessed a very funny fall. This bright brain was riding his bike on the footpath and was encountered with a light post and our man, being the suave bike-handler, tried to go round it. What happened was half the bike got past the post and the other half refused. So, our man was forcibly brought to his knees but, in the last effort to salvage his pride, he put his right palm on the ground for support. {DISCLAIMER: You have to overlook the fact that this write-up is a little convoluted, but then so is the scene} This is the scene broken down meticulously to its every minute detail. But when it happened it was just "vroom-turn-screech-thud." Now, when a man who is half on his bike and half on the ground is looking at you by painfully propping his head up while supporting his whole weight on his right palm, he is obviously swarmed by sympathetic people. Once his safety is ensured, the sympathetic people also make sure they give him a piece of their mind, till he sheepishly decides to abandon the sidewalk and ride on the road again.

Then there were the car fellows. They have the least to complain about. They have a shelter and won't get physically wet when other vehicles splash water, and have music to amuse themselves. Just one glitch, too bad if you have lousy company.

The guys who enjoyed the rains most were the ones walking. When it rains like the way it did on Saturday night, you are smart enough to see the pointlessness of getting a shelter, if you happen to be walking. These guys just ran past all the vehicles, much to our dismay, ran right into puddles, managed to drag in uninterested fellow walkers and had a little party of their own.

Amidst all this, how can I forget the watchdogs of the society? Of course, the press was there. Photographers on medians trying to capture the pitiful scene and veer the eyes of the heartless government in letting one of our best roads flood the way it did. The usual.

There it is....an account of how those two hours, though frustrating, amused me thoroughly. Like a wise man once said, "In the middle of every difficulty lies opportunity," well, here's mine.

The odd alley

And off we go that path again.
That darned path.
Never figured where it began,
Will never figure where it ends.
Was the beginning always the end?

A life of rhetoric.
A swamp of questions.

The charm of uncertainties.
The gnawing realities.
The oh-so-restless spirit.

Ah! if not for the maps,
I should have been hopelessly lost.

Life has taken on an incredibly slow pace. Everything around seems to have reduced to a drawl. A D-R-A-W-L. After having been bombarded with constant action, desirable or otherwise, passivity feels like the first drops of hot water on frozen feet. Will it turn out to be a warm, comforting experience or yet another insipid one???
Time will tell.

It is so tiresome to constantly be in an uninspiring environment. A pity that one has to seek refuge in books or music to feel inspired in life. Reinvent yourself, did you say? That too, dear friend, needs some motivation. I'm bored of being self motivated and I'm bored of turning to the usual.

Damn, I need some....novelty. That's just it, I guess.

Shadow

It is fascinating,
the way you follow me all the time.
What is more curious,
is the rare times when i need you,
you are gone.

Vanish into thin air,
as The Bard would say.

I shield you from the scorching heat.
I guard you from the biting rain.
All you do is hide behind me-
you pathetic, selfish mirage.

You, my dear shadow,
are utterly and completely loathsome.

An Ode to Mr.Greene

For all the “reading” that I do, it is a pity that I had not attempted reading Greene earlier. I happened to be idly shopping for books, something of a pastime now, when an interesting title caught my eye.

“May we borrow your husband?” Err.......take a guess......

I was standing there wondering what the hell I would say to someone who asked me that. I did not miss the “we” either. Well, of course I bought the book. It turns out to be one of Greene’s travel writings. It is a cluster of isolated stories, his observations of people during his visit to Antibes. And curiously, most of the book deals with homosexuality. So, when the “we” borrowing the husband turned out to be two men, the book had my undivided attention. Not much of a plot, though, just a compilation of random incidents.

His style of writing is gripping. He calls the book a comedy. The humor, in my opinion, is very subtle and underplayed. There isn’t a quick repartee thrown in here and there. The tone is one of a simple conversation. All the same, he smoothly leads the readers into the layers of his characters, a difficult task to achieve, given the brevity of every story. By the end of each piece the reader is left with a little something of each story.

It was a welcome novelty, reading Graham Greene. At a time when we are bombarded with writers losing themselves in a web of words, a simple narrative is all it takes to hold one’s attention.

So, there it is, my little token to a very interesting writer. I sure know what to look out for on my next book-shopping excursion.

A refreshing breeze,
A sense of freedom-
Of getting rid of a clutch.
A rusty door,
Shut finally.
Or was it opened?

A reckless, unintimidated spirit
Out to cruise on the soaring waves.
A queer sensation creeping in-
The last I heard,
they called it happiness.

A tangy twist,
Being freed and caged, all it once.
Being courageous and timid, all at once.
And living life, all at once.

The last I heard, they called me mad.
Unleashing insanity, all at once.

She was trying it for the first time……being a spectator. It was interesting, to say the least. She witnessed the painstakingly, slow process. It spread its veins and rose, an ascent that took all that came its way. She had never realized how it had encompassed everything………..everything. After it had reached the peak, it branched out, spread like a wildfire. Now, it almost felt paradoxical. She smirked. It swallowed her, the wildfire. And it was there, in its core, that she had witnessed the death. At last. It was time to move on. And they say death is morbid.

a long, tiresome night........

Its 3 am in the morning and here i am, barely awake......trying to get past a ridiculous shift. Come to think of it, its not ridiculous at all....its actually a saviour.....i'm taking tomo (tomo being my next "working" day....i have lost track of current days, days yet to come and days gone by) off...that in return for the 15 hours that i put in today. A pretty fair deal, considering its that time of the year when i cannot afford to take a day off.

Anyway, i have always marvelled at how i get by with life everyday.........my work timings are bizzare and given that i'm NOT working for a BPO or the likes its rather tragic to try and explain what exactly i do. I am a journalist. People expect me to be "proud" of what i do.....not that i'm not...i wouldnt do it if i were not. But i'm not "proud" of it in the worldly sense of the word.
Not proud to assume the role of a saviour or a messiah of the needy, the "whistle-blower" or other stereotypes associated with the idea of journalism. That is not what i do. Conservative journalists would almost scorn at the kind of journalism i do. Each for his own, I guess.

Sometimes i wonder....what was it that drove me to choose this profession??? perhaps the same stereotypes that i now detest. That is something i have observed or rather noticed about myself.
it is somehow extremely hard to forgive someone with the same flaws as you. I find it almost impossible to see someone make the same mistakes that i made and fall prey to the same prejudices as i did. Guess somewhere it just reminds me of my mistakes and makes me realize that i've never forgiven myself, in the first place.

That apart (i have really got to stop digressing!), i started off writng something so i could stay awake....not a bad effort, i managed to be awake for about 45 minutes...which leaves me with a little over an hour to kill. That, i imagine i will be able to do......managed to gather up some food for thought.

more, when i have something inspiring to say...or so i hope.

Life-
Born with a gift.
Meant to be lived.
I choose not to live it,
To waste it away.

A sense of ownership.
An assumed one at that.
A belief that it is mine to waste, after all.

Weighed under the burden of that ownership
The burden of expectations, from the first wail.
Tuned to "operate"-
To "dream a dream"
To "live a life"
And beyond-

Beyond.....beyond the line,
Beyond the horizon.
Explore new avenues-
Or, "live" a restricted program.

A purpose to live life-
A craving to look beyond.
Shrouded in tumult,
I wake up to a distant, soothing voice.

Amidst the haze and noise, I ask myself,
Should I wait at the end of the road?
These crossroads, waiting for my nod.
Should I waste my energy on a futile call?
A call, a cry, a moan.......

Fading back to reality.
Reason replacing fantasy.
Urging me not to ask these questions.
Questions, that I know will never be answered.
Answers, I know I will never get.

A folly that shall not be regretted.
A fond idea that shall not be forgotten.

Time to bid you adieu, my friend.

ummm....errr.....well...

i think i'm back to rambling.......come to think of it, it is quite hard to just go on rambling. one of the reasons i find solace in poetry i guess. it is just that much more easier to write something that probably makes sense only to you and dodge any questions with a cryptic "poetic license." quite presumptuous to assume the title of a poet, i know, but what the heck, you can feel good about yourself once in a while!!!

i thought i had an agenda even for this "rambling" but little surprise that i have already forgotten what it was. one thing i'd like to admit here is that i have always been jealous of the million bloggers out there who can ramble on endlessly and actually make sense. people who care enough have asked me this a few times-"why poetry?" and fewer people think its quite a snobbish thing to do, have a blog for "poetry." in any case, i myself haven't figured the "why."

it is just so hard to maintain focus while writing!!! i know for a fact that i lack the ability to translate my ever-flitting thoughts into text; which is why the green-eyed monster is born in the first place. with poetry (rather my idea of poetry) it is simpler because it is graphic and you just have to find a line for the image you conjure. to me that is so much easier than trying to explain my images in simple, crisp and concise english.

this brings my focus to the genral idea of poetry. going by my (albeit flawed) line of thought, poetry is much simpler than prose, contrary to popular opinion. i can imagine the great poets of our age turning in their graves listening to this statement. it was just a passing thought, i don't quite agree with it myself. i don't think the different forms of writing are comparable, although, i do think poetry leaves a wider scope for interpretation. so now the reader (my sympathies with you, dear friend) may ask me why the hell i made a statement without believing in it myself....well i guess i was trying to be a "responsible journalist" by giving both sides of the story, if at all there is one to begin with.

my computer screen tells me i have managed to generate four paragraphs with this word concoction of mine....i think i will do myself a favour by not reading it else my conscience would force me to be merciful to any potential reader and delete this post immediately.

well thats that then....the effort to generate a more sensible rambling is on. i too shall succeed someday......someday...