And the night sky stared at me in the face, as I stood on the edge of the terrace parapet. Blustering night winds blew my hair back (they seemed strangely longer and a lot wavier now) and I struggled to balance myself. The grisly green snake with the head of a child continued to talk to me in its squeaky voice. "Give me the ring" it hissed. "No!!!"I heard myself shout over the noises of the brewing storm. It slithered closer, and a cold sweat broke out all over me. I gripped the ring tighter. It was almost touching my toes now, and a great big tongue of lightning flashed across the skies. The snake opened it's fangs and hissed. In the eerie white lightning, I saw the ring wedged firmly between its fangs. "What the...I had the ring...I had it...give it back to me...it's my good luck charm.." I bent down to grab the snake by the throat and rattle the life out of it, when thunder broke out and a furious gust of wind blew me off balance. I fell off the parapet. The snake (back with the head of a child again) thrust it's head over the parapet and laughed at me. Weird childish eyes and infant teeth. I shivered in dread as I fell. And fell. And fell.
And woke up in a cold sweat. A dream.I realized I was wet with sweat. Shrugging off the thick blanket, (whatever happened to the winter cold, God himself knows)I jabbed at the talking clock byt the bedstand. "The time is 2.23 a.m. Have a nice day" the metallic voice crooned in a sing song tone. Like it cared about my day. I clutched my face in my hands. The green snake kept coming back to mind. Ugh. What a nightmare. I tossed and turned in bed for a few minutes and realized I couldn't sleep alone in the hall anymore.
I tiptoed over to my parents' bedroom. They were sound asleep on their newly furnished bed. The room, at that stressed out moment, appeared to me the picture of protective calm and serenity. Only my dad's snores punctuated the tranquility, but that too was something my mom had grown immune to over the years. I suddenly felt the need to sleep with them. "Ma, please can I squeeze in?"
She looked startled for a moment. "Of course Bharat", she said and moved to make room. I lay down on the edge of the bed beside mom. She moved further in. My dad mumbled something about my mom being too fat for the bed these days. "Shut up, Bharat has come here". My dad snored in reply. Mom shrugged and closed her eyes. I shut my eyes and realized no green snake could harm me now. She put an arm around my shoulders. I snuggled in further. "Bad dream?" She asked, eyes still closed, and a half smile playing on her lips. "Yes...I was on the terrace and a green snake with a child's "..."Hssshhh...just sleep now. We'll talk about this in the morning." I nodded and stopped my frantic narration. The scent of my mom's hair wafted in my nostrils. I felt at peace with the world. I planted my mom a light kiss on the nose. She wriggled a bit. I snickered and closed my eyes again.
And she drifted off to sleep. Taking her son with her. Away from snakes and other sordid beings. So what if I'm 20 years old now. I guess you can never be too old for running to mom after a bad dream.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Me and my two lives
Paulo Coelho had, in one of his books, explained how people lead two lives. I was thinking about this last night, and it struck me that its remarkably true for most of us.
I lead two lives too.
There is one life in which I am forced to do all that I do. In this duty bound life, I am made to study subjects that don't intrigue me, work for a cause that I don't believe in, be with people whom I don't really identify with, and speak on things that I am not sure of myself. I smile for photographs well knowing that it's a fake smile I'm putting on. I sit and talk with people on topics like the weather, and politics, neither of which interest me. I try hard to maintain an image in society, for what, I really do not know. I make promises and say things that I'm sure I won't be able to keep. In the process, I end up lying, often to my parents, and to the ones who love me the most. I back off from decisions at times, fearing the repercussions. At times I quit the fight when I'm needed the most, saying its not really my battle, when the truth is that I am afraid. I ignore my conscience, and I hate myself for doing so. On a few lonely nights, all my wrongs keep me awake, and I feel like the biggest sinner on earth. I end up hating myself on such ocassions, and I feel I'm unworthy of all that I have been blessed with.
Such is this life.
But there is another life I live too. One in which I meet people who think on my wavelengths, and feel a special connection with them, knowing that they are much closer to me than the world will ever know. I find love in the most little and trivial things, and the beauty of the world is revealed to me. I believe in an unending and undying love, and I know how necessary that is to be happy. At times, I realize that there are certain dreams I cherish, no matter how deep within they are, and I vow to unfalteringly pursue them. I discover my soul accidentally at times, when I am writing, or indulging in any other passionate work, and on this chance meeting, I smile unassumingly, only to realize that this is the most genuine of all smiles. I stumble upon joy while looking at a chilly winter sunrise, and suddenly God reveals himself to me. I cry at times when I hear about soldiers dying, and I write about them to glorify their bravery. Sometimes, just sometimes, the path I seek reveals itself to me, only momentarily, and then it's gone, but it leaves me wise enough to know that a moment's revelation is what inspires a lifetime. I wake up in the middle of the night ocassionally, and thinking about life ,feel as if I'm the most blessed man on earth. And that's when I realize that there's no challenge big enough for a man who lives this life.
These are my two lives. I don't know if both will intertwine one day, or will continue to be as disparate. But what I do know is that I am neither good nor bad. I am merely human, trying to find the path that will take me where I wish to go.
Friday, November 23, 2007
King of his universe
He was the quintessential artist. Stubble on his chin, gold rimmed spectacles hardly doing anything to hide the sadness in his eyes, a flowing white shirt, inexpensive blue trousers (the kind that people rarely wear these days), and brown shoes that didn't match at all with the rest of his outfit. A bulging folder, no doubt full of his works, and pencils of various colors jutting out of his shirt pocket completed the rest of his getup.
His eyes were sad in a very inexplicable way. I don't know if sad eyes are something characteristic of artists, or was it merely lack or work, or both, or something else. Either way, he cut a lonely figure sitting beside Mr. Ronald McDonald on the bench outside McDonalds on that chilly November evening. It was a tragicomic contrast between them, Ronald smiling away for all the world to see, and the painter, (by now I'm sure that's what he was) portraying sadness on his own face.
I myself was seated opposite him on a compound wall, just a few metres away, waiting for a habitually late friend. From time to time, he would open his folder, take out a portrait of a face he'd drawn with those wonderfully colorful pencils of his, and gaze into it. People were constantly passing by, it being a Friday evening, and McDonalds being what it is in the suburbs, there was a steady flow of people in and out of the restaurant. People would stop for a second, stare with open admiration at his drawings, and pass by on their way.
That was when I started feeling sorry. Now who on earth these days gets face portraits done? Sitting still for minutes together, that too outside of McDonalds? People have cellphone cameras, digicams, and photo shooting has never been easier. Who'd pay 20-30 bucks to see their face in color pencil shading, when Picassa and Photoshop let you do the same thing for free? He seemed at that moment, a guy extremely misplaced in space and time. There was a touch of sadness rankling within me still, as my friend arrived and we went in.
Talking about a host of other things, I forgot about him after stepping inside. Around half an hour later, we emerged outside. He came to mind at once and I looked in the direction of the bench. Surprise surprise. A young married couple had seated their little kid of about six or seven on Ronald's lap. He was looking the other way, and they were forcing him to sit still. A surge of happiness went through me. He'd got someone to draw! Beyond the kid I could see him.
The folder was open in his lap, a few pages jutting out. He was busy at work, gold rimmed spectacles reflecting the bright lights of the building. There were color pencils tucked into the gaps between his fingers on his left hand, which he'd clenched into a fist, somehow managing to hold a clipboard, on which he was drawing. With the deftness of a master, he'd switch pencils between his right and left hand without opening the fist. The child stirred, and with the stern voice you'd associate with a teacher, he told him to stay still. And continued. As I passed him on my way out, my shadow fell on his clipboard momentarily, and he looked up. As our eyes met for an instant, I realized something.
Gone was the sadness. His brows were knitted in intense concentration, and the sadness was replaced by the impatience of a man interrupted in the middle of something he's really passionate about. He was the king of his universe at that moment. My shadow moved on, and his clipboard was bright again. And the artist was back at work, drawing faint shades of hair on the portrait.
I realized I was a lot lighter at heart as I went home.
His eyes were sad in a very inexplicable way. I don't know if sad eyes are something characteristic of artists, or was it merely lack or work, or both, or something else. Either way, he cut a lonely figure sitting beside Mr. Ronald McDonald on the bench outside McDonalds on that chilly November evening. It was a tragicomic contrast between them, Ronald smiling away for all the world to see, and the painter, (by now I'm sure that's what he was) portraying sadness on his own face.
I myself was seated opposite him on a compound wall, just a few metres away, waiting for a habitually late friend. From time to time, he would open his folder, take out a portrait of a face he'd drawn with those wonderfully colorful pencils of his, and gaze into it. People were constantly passing by, it being a Friday evening, and McDonalds being what it is in the suburbs, there was a steady flow of people in and out of the restaurant. People would stop for a second, stare with open admiration at his drawings, and pass by on their way.
That was when I started feeling sorry. Now who on earth these days gets face portraits done? Sitting still for minutes together, that too outside of McDonalds? People have cellphone cameras, digicams, and photo shooting has never been easier. Who'd pay 20-30 bucks to see their face in color pencil shading, when Picassa and Photoshop let you do the same thing for free? He seemed at that moment, a guy extremely misplaced in space and time. There was a touch of sadness rankling within me still, as my friend arrived and we went in.
Talking about a host of other things, I forgot about him after stepping inside. Around half an hour later, we emerged outside. He came to mind at once and I looked in the direction of the bench. Surprise surprise. A young married couple had seated their little kid of about six or seven on Ronald's lap. He was looking the other way, and they were forcing him to sit still. A surge of happiness went through me. He'd got someone to draw! Beyond the kid I could see him.
The folder was open in his lap, a few pages jutting out. He was busy at work, gold rimmed spectacles reflecting the bright lights of the building. There were color pencils tucked into the gaps between his fingers on his left hand, which he'd clenched into a fist, somehow managing to hold a clipboard, on which he was drawing. With the deftness of a master, he'd switch pencils between his right and left hand without opening the fist. The child stirred, and with the stern voice you'd associate with a teacher, he told him to stay still. And continued. As I passed him on my way out, my shadow fell on his clipboard momentarily, and he looked up. As our eyes met for an instant, I realized something.
Gone was the sadness. His brows were knitted in intense concentration, and the sadness was replaced by the impatience of a man interrupted in the middle of something he's really passionate about. He was the king of his universe at that moment. My shadow moved on, and his clipboard was bright again. And the artist was back at work, drawing faint shades of hair on the portrait.
I realized I was a lot lighter at heart as I went home.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
New ones from Dubai (short story)
The cheap motel room in central Dubai was abuzz with activity that night. Bright lights adorned the entire setup, a few technicians ran around, a fat sweaty middle aged man with a balding scalp was shouting out orders to all and sundry. Wasim strutted into the room wearing only a long towel. With his rippling muscles, hairless chest and disconcerting smile, there was no mistaking him for what he was. "How much time boss?" he lazily drawled. "Just about done, just about done" the fat man repeated for what was like the fourth time in the night.
And in the middle of it all, sat Safina. Draped in only a bathrobe, she sat on a cheap couch beside the bed. Her eyes were closed. After getting fired from her job as a waitress a few days ago for messing up a big order, life had become very difficult for her. She'd managed to save some money, but all that seemed like a joke now considering she didn't even have a job. She thought about her life back home in India when her parents were alive. How carefree the days were back then. She shivered when she thought about the days ahead. Finding a job again, saving for her brother's college admission. At 18, Ali was at a hostel in Mumbai. She desperately needed money to get him into a college of his choice. He wasn't a bright student, but she had to do it somehow. For her parents' sake atleast. I'll do it somehow, she thought. Three years of battling it out in Dubai had taught her a lot of things. But nothing had prepared her for this.
She was shaken out of her reverie by the fat guy. "Come on girl, you can't keep the set waiting for too long. You've had your rest. Now it's showtime. Boys, are we ready?" She stood up uncertainly. Slivers of pain shot through her, and she grimaced. Just for tonight, she told herself. Wasim was beside her now, leeringly stroking her hair. Taking a deep breath, she prayed to God to forgive her for this sin. For Ali's sake. For Ali's sake. Once he graduates and takes up a proper job, all this will seem like a bad dream. I'll go back to my India, and never ever see the faces of these bastards again. God, please let this not hurt too much. "Action!" cried the fat guy. Swiftly, Wasim jerked off her bathrobe, and pushed her on to the bed. It was quite a while before he cried "cut!".
Back in Mumbai, it was raining at night. Ali shook the rain out of his hair as he reached his friend's house in Bandra. "Man, this rain.." he muttered, as he plopped down on the couch. Four of his friends were there. Cigarette smoke hung about the place. Alcohol was pungent in the air. "Say Ali, how're you going to tell your sister that you got debarred for low attendance? I mean...you'll be pushed back a year now right? And won't this affect your college programmes?"
Ali shrugged. "What she doesn't know can't hurt her. Anyway, I don't even have to tell her that. She'll start crying in no time." Saying thus, he took a puff of the cigarette. "Hey what about the porn?" Subash enquired. "Patience my man", Ali said..." I've told Husain to look out for it. He's got some new ones from Dubai it seems".
And in the middle of it all, sat Safina. Draped in only a bathrobe, she sat on a cheap couch beside the bed. Her eyes were closed. After getting fired from her job as a waitress a few days ago for messing up a big order, life had become very difficult for her. She'd managed to save some money, but all that seemed like a joke now considering she didn't even have a job. She thought about her life back home in India when her parents were alive. How carefree the days were back then. She shivered when she thought about the days ahead. Finding a job again, saving for her brother's college admission. At 18, Ali was at a hostel in Mumbai. She desperately needed money to get him into a college of his choice. He wasn't a bright student, but she had to do it somehow. For her parents' sake atleast. I'll do it somehow, she thought. Three years of battling it out in Dubai had taught her a lot of things. But nothing had prepared her for this.
She was shaken out of her reverie by the fat guy. "Come on girl, you can't keep the set waiting for too long. You've had your rest. Now it's showtime. Boys, are we ready?" She stood up uncertainly. Slivers of pain shot through her, and she grimaced. Just for tonight, she told herself. Wasim was beside her now, leeringly stroking her hair. Taking a deep breath, she prayed to God to forgive her for this sin. For Ali's sake. For Ali's sake. Once he graduates and takes up a proper job, all this will seem like a bad dream. I'll go back to my India, and never ever see the faces of these bastards again. God, please let this not hurt too much. "Action!" cried the fat guy. Swiftly, Wasim jerked off her bathrobe, and pushed her on to the bed. It was quite a while before he cried "cut!".
Back in Mumbai, it was raining at night. Ali shook the rain out of his hair as he reached his friend's house in Bandra. "Man, this rain.." he muttered, as he plopped down on the couch. Four of his friends were there. Cigarette smoke hung about the place. Alcohol was pungent in the air. "Say Ali, how're you going to tell your sister that you got debarred for low attendance? I mean...you'll be pushed back a year now right? And won't this affect your college programmes?"
Ali shrugged. "What she doesn't know can't hurt her. Anyway, I don't even have to tell her that. She'll start crying in no time." Saying thus, he took a puff of the cigarette. "Hey what about the porn?" Subash enquired. "Patience my man", Ali said..." I've told Husain to look out for it. He's got some new ones from Dubai it seems".
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
The real India
So I read in a newspaper today that a man in a remote district of Tamil Nadu married a bitch yesterday. Big deal, you must be thinking. A lot of people do that right? Well think again. He married a real four legged bitch. And the article goes on to say what a grand wedding it was, and all his village was present at the ceremony it seems, complete with a grand feast at the end. Disgusted? I am.
The article goes on to say how the man Selva had in his youth, killed two dogs, and in an act of intrepid stupidity, hung their carcasses from a tree. Within a year, he suffered from partial paralysis and lost his hearing too. Plagued by health problems incessantly, it was a mighty sad life that Selva led. Until an astrologer came with the perfect antidote for all this...to cleanse himself of the sin, marry a dog. Selva agreed wholeheartedly, and hence all this.
The wedding, apparently was presided over by all town elders. They draped the bitch in a silk saree and Selva took an oath to keep his better half happy. This act was covered by NDTV, Mumbai Mirror, and all leading southern newschannels and papers. It is with great satire that this article was reported in the Mumbai Mirror. Somewhere, something is missing. Shouldn't people be disgusted and appalled by all this? Who are these 'town elders'? Does nobody in that village have common sense? Are we supposed to sit back in our couches at night and laugh at this spectacle on TV? Or is it supposed to be our morning quota of newspaper humor?
Who needs serious help here? That guy Selva? Or the prescient astrologer? Or the entire village which was a party to all this? Definitely the media too, which, in a frenzy to report, has left its own morality and brains behind a long time ago. If you threw your head back and laughed at this, you need help too.
It is unimaginable, the amount of ignorance, illiteracy and poverty in a region which would lead to something like this actually happening.
So on the one hand, we have Yuvraj Singh getting a crore for hitting six sixes in an over, we have prominent ministers proclaiming modest assets worth tens of lakhs, we have Mukesh Ambani as the richest person in the world, we have Sunita Williams lecturing in IITB about how to dream big, and we have movies like Om Shanti Om made with a budget of crores.
And on the other hand, we have a poor illiterate man marrying a dog because he thinks his health will improve. And we have a woman in Raipur killed, because people suspected she was a witch.
Which is the real India? Is our version of modern India as fake as movie stunt glass made of candy?
Maybe some things in life can't be understood. For better or worse, our country and the people within fall in that category. Anyway, best compliments to Selva and his bride on behalf of the entire country.
The article goes on to say how the man Selva had in his youth, killed two dogs, and in an act of intrepid stupidity, hung their carcasses from a tree. Within a year, he suffered from partial paralysis and lost his hearing too. Plagued by health problems incessantly, it was a mighty sad life that Selva led. Until an astrologer came with the perfect antidote for all this...to cleanse himself of the sin, marry a dog. Selva agreed wholeheartedly, and hence all this.
The wedding, apparently was presided over by all town elders. They draped the bitch in a silk saree and Selva took an oath to keep his better half happy. This act was covered by NDTV, Mumbai Mirror, and all leading southern newschannels and papers. It is with great satire that this article was reported in the Mumbai Mirror. Somewhere, something is missing. Shouldn't people be disgusted and appalled by all this? Who are these 'town elders'? Does nobody in that village have common sense? Are we supposed to sit back in our couches at night and laugh at this spectacle on TV? Or is it supposed to be our morning quota of newspaper humor?
Who needs serious help here? That guy Selva? Or the prescient astrologer? Or the entire village which was a party to all this? Definitely the media too, which, in a frenzy to report, has left its own morality and brains behind a long time ago. If you threw your head back and laughed at this, you need help too.
It is unimaginable, the amount of ignorance, illiteracy and poverty in a region which would lead to something like this actually happening.
So on the one hand, we have Yuvraj Singh getting a crore for hitting six sixes in an over, we have prominent ministers proclaiming modest assets worth tens of lakhs, we have Mukesh Ambani as the richest person in the world, we have Sunita Williams lecturing in IITB about how to dream big, and we have movies like Om Shanti Om made with a budget of crores.
And on the other hand, we have a poor illiterate man marrying a dog because he thinks his health will improve. And we have a woman in Raipur killed, because people suspected she was a witch.
Which is the real India? Is our version of modern India as fake as movie stunt glass made of candy?
Maybe some things in life can't be understood. For better or worse, our country and the people within fall in that category. Anyway, best compliments to Selva and his bride on behalf of the entire country.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Succumbing
(The plaintive song of a person who tries to improve the world, but gets pulled down into the muck anyway)
And I have a billion dreams with me,
The world I will change, just wait and see.
The blind shall all see, the lame shall all walk
The deaf shall hear, and the maimed shall talk.
The poor will eat to their hearts fill everyday,
And without bitterness their prayers they shall say
Poor children will go to their schools and study,
The malnutioned will become able and sturdy
No home shall be dark, no fireplace shall be cold,
Warmth in every house, body, heart and soul.
No rest for me until I shall do all these,
Saying thus, I set out on the road to my dreams.
But life plays games with me, strange games
My naivete it destroys, humbles and shames
And all the blackness in the world I fight
But its a lonely struggle, and deepens night
No more I can see in front of me, darkness is so
I can't even find my goals within me anymore
And I join the rest of the world, laughing,
At my own misfortunes, and of those surrounding,
Blind to my dreams, that lie still somewhere
In a nook of my soul, but I am oh so unaware
And a billion dreams I had with me,
But the world finally got the better of me.
And I have a billion dreams with me,
The world I will change, just wait and see.
The blind shall all see, the lame shall all walk
The deaf shall hear, and the maimed shall talk.
The poor will eat to their hearts fill everyday,
And without bitterness their prayers they shall say
Poor children will go to their schools and study,
The malnutioned will become able and sturdy
No home shall be dark, no fireplace shall be cold,
Warmth in every house, body, heart and soul.
No rest for me until I shall do all these,
Saying thus, I set out on the road to my dreams.
But life plays games with me, strange games
My naivete it destroys, humbles and shames
And all the blackness in the world I fight
But its a lonely struggle, and deepens night
No more I can see in front of me, darkness is so
I can't even find my goals within me anymore
And I join the rest of the world, laughing,
At my own misfortunes, and of those surrounding,
Blind to my dreams, that lie still somewhere
In a nook of my soul, but I am oh so unaware
And a billion dreams I had with me,
But the world finally got the better of me.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
OH Dravid!
This one is for the cricket enthusiasts. As for those who happen to chance upon this piece, if you don't follow the vagaries of the men in blue, you are going to get turned off. Please continue at your own discretion.
They say fate plays strange games. But I thought Rahul Dravid was above all that somehow. He came across as a smart man, one of the smartest you will ever meet. The kind who doesn't talk much, always knows what he's doing, and somehow manages to stay on the right side of trouble and controversies, even in this crazed age of media espionage and voyeurism.
It is still amazing how his name was always absent in the ugly coach versus seniors spat that led to Greg Chappell resigning a few months ago. It is amazing how he never put a foot wrong throughout his illustrious career, first as a batsman, then as a wicketkeeper, and as a captain.
The world cup debacle somehow seemed to affect him more than the others. Then on, he was always criticised for not being aggressive enough. Some called him 'that 70s captain'. Though he never reacted openly to all this, it was a shock when he gave up captaincy last month, citing that he wasn't enjoying the job and that he wanted to focus on his batting.
That was just a month ago. Now, he's out of the tour for Pakistan for non performance in 5 games. A month ago, he was taking all the major calls on selections, and now his head has been set rolling by those hungry for 'youth and aggression'.
It is somehow strange that a man like Dravid could make such a big blunder. Dravid the calculated guy who let his bat do all the balltalk. Agreed he didn't perform. But it is somehow disappointing when the same barometer is not used to judge someone like Sachin Tendulkar, whom the nation forgives only too easily.
I had posted blogs on Dravid and Ganguly two months ago, saying that their careers are always intertwined with each other. Now, Ganguly is in the team, and Dravid is out.
It's back to the drawing board for Dravid. I'm guessing he'll come back strongly. He's not the wall for nothing.
They say fate plays strange games. But I thought Rahul Dravid was above all that somehow. He came across as a smart man, one of the smartest you will ever meet. The kind who doesn't talk much, always knows what he's doing, and somehow manages to stay on the right side of trouble and controversies, even in this crazed age of media espionage and voyeurism.
It is still amazing how his name was always absent in the ugly coach versus seniors spat that led to Greg Chappell resigning a few months ago. It is amazing how he never put a foot wrong throughout his illustrious career, first as a batsman, then as a wicketkeeper, and as a captain.
The world cup debacle somehow seemed to affect him more than the others. Then on, he was always criticised for not being aggressive enough. Some called him 'that 70s captain'. Though he never reacted openly to all this, it was a shock when he gave up captaincy last month, citing that he wasn't enjoying the job and that he wanted to focus on his batting.
That was just a month ago. Now, he's out of the tour for Pakistan for non performance in 5 games. A month ago, he was taking all the major calls on selections, and now his head has been set rolling by those hungry for 'youth and aggression'.
It is somehow strange that a man like Dravid could make such a big blunder. Dravid the calculated guy who let his bat do all the balltalk. Agreed he didn't perform. But it is somehow disappointing when the same barometer is not used to judge someone like Sachin Tendulkar, whom the nation forgives only too easily.
I had posted blogs on Dravid and Ganguly two months ago, saying that their careers are always intertwined with each other. Now, Ganguly is in the team, and Dravid is out.
It's back to the drawing board for Dravid. I'm guessing he'll come back strongly. He's not the wall for nothing.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Won't come back home this time
(I have a thing for writing about soldiers. Somehow its more fascinating each time. This is another tribute to them)
It gets late, and off go the city lights,
So do the laughter, and the fights,
Ten thousand homes, all getting ready,
For bed time, nightdresses and stories,
A cosy little world, it thunders outside,
Dina shakes in her bed, little eyes wide,
Momma will daddy get wet? Will he be fine?
Does he have a bed and does he sleep on time?
Daddy's at the border, rifle in hand,
Shivering in his boots, but at his stand,
There's tension over the mile, bombs erupting,
Momma knows that, still, she keeps smiling,
And says daddy's a super man, he takes his rest,
And when they need him the most, he gives his best.
Dina says her prayers, and closes her eyes,
Momma kisses her forehead, and puts off the lights.
Meanwhile, daddy is in battle now, the bombs are closer
And the gunshouts louder, and now one on his shoulder.
He is bleeding now, and he falls to the ground with a slump,
A bullet in his body, throbbing, a fatal mettalic lump,
And daddy knows he's seen the last of Dina and his wife
And he's trembling now, just trying to hold on to his life,
As it slips away, he prays 'God let Dina grow up right',
And a few minutes later, daddy passes away, into the night.
Momma gets the news when Dina is at school,
She closes her eyes, and the world begins to whirl,
And she knows she can't tell Dina, some things can't be told,
You can't say daddy's gone forever to a four year old,
And so at night, the world watches TV at the end of the day,
About movies, cricket, ministers, and whats 'hot' today,
Dina is in bed, thinking her superman daddy is doing just fine,
And in the darkness, momma cries the night away,
For she knows daddy won't be back home this time.
It gets late, and off go the city lights,
So do the laughter, and the fights,
Ten thousand homes, all getting ready,
For bed time, nightdresses and stories,
A cosy little world, it thunders outside,
Dina shakes in her bed, little eyes wide,
Momma will daddy get wet? Will he be fine?
Does he have a bed and does he sleep on time?
Daddy's at the border, rifle in hand,
Shivering in his boots, but at his stand,
There's tension over the mile, bombs erupting,
Momma knows that, still, she keeps smiling,
And says daddy's a super man, he takes his rest,
And when they need him the most, he gives his best.
Dina says her prayers, and closes her eyes,
Momma kisses her forehead, and puts off the lights.
Meanwhile, daddy is in battle now, the bombs are closer
And the gunshouts louder, and now one on his shoulder.
He is bleeding now, and he falls to the ground with a slump,
A bullet in his body, throbbing, a fatal mettalic lump,
And daddy knows he's seen the last of Dina and his wife
And he's trembling now, just trying to hold on to his life,
As it slips away, he prays 'God let Dina grow up right',
And a few minutes later, daddy passes away, into the night.
Momma gets the news when Dina is at school,
She closes her eyes, and the world begins to whirl,
And she knows she can't tell Dina, some things can't be told,
You can't say daddy's gone forever to a four year old,
And so at night, the world watches TV at the end of the day,
About movies, cricket, ministers, and whats 'hot' today,
Dina is in bed, thinking her superman daddy is doing just fine,
And in the darkness, momma cries the night away,
For she knows daddy won't be back home this time.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
All the warmth in the world
It rained like hell that day. As if life isn't hell enough for me already, he thought. They were a group of 7, sitting inside the canteen. Piping hot tea and boisterous laughter flowed freely amongst the students, who were enjoying a half an hour break between lectures that rainy Wednesday morning. Sushant, who usually was the major proponent of these canteen visits, however, had left his glass of tea untouched that day. He was staring outside the giant windows, watching the white sheets of rain lash the green trees and marshy meadows outside. Occasionaly, a gust of wind would bend the slim trees so much that they would seem like giving away. Now and then, stray raindrops carried by the wind would find their way in to the canteen and fall on these people, bringing squeals of delight from them. The skies remained dark and gray as if they had an infinite reservoir of rain. It's beautiful outside, he remarked with a tinge of sadness tangible in his heart.
His mother had practically disowned him. After many fights with her, they had reached the flashpoint. She had told him coldly that he was an embarrassment to her, and wasn't a son anymore. And hadn't spoken to him since. Now he had never felt more miserable in his life. He didn't even have a home to go to now. It's not a home anymore, he thought. Just a place to eat and sleep. A stranger in his own house, he thought. He wasn't part of that conversation in the canteen, he was practically lost. He wondered if it was possible to live without a family in the same house as them. Guess that's what I'm gonna have to do now, he thought. Just be alone in the house. I'll be a complete man,amd excel in my studies, and get a good career going. Sushant thought. Just that I won't have a family. But will I be happy? Ofcourse you will ...one part of him said. The other simply said...but who taught you to even spell the word 'happy'?
Just then, his mobile phone rang. It was his mother calling. Hurriedly, he hushed all his friends into silence, and picked up the call, with his blood pounding in his ears. "Hello Sushant, I heard its raining a lot there, please take care and don't get wet, come back home soon or the cold will get to you". Sushant could barely get himself to talk the next few words..."Mom. don't worry I'll come back soon." "Yeah, hurry or train service will break down, I'll make something for you at home so don't eat at college"."Mom...I love you...I'll never break your heart again".
A touch of hesitation at the other end, and Sushant heard "Love you too Sushant". And the line went dead. He realized he had tears in his eyes. I'm still a son! He grabbed his glass of tea. It was still hot. He sipped it slowly, feeling the warmth seep into him. "You're practically glowing...who was it on the phone?" his friend asked.
"The person who taught me to spell 'happy'...I'm going home guys...you guys sit for more lectures if you want" he said, and started homeward. It was cold outside, and he didn't even have an umbrella. But it didn't matter. He had all the warmth in the world waiting for him at home.
p.s : I know this sounds a bit weird, but this is something that's very close to my heart right now.
His mother had practically disowned him. After many fights with her, they had reached the flashpoint. She had told him coldly that he was an embarrassment to her, and wasn't a son anymore. And hadn't spoken to him since. Now he had never felt more miserable in his life. He didn't even have a home to go to now. It's not a home anymore, he thought. Just a place to eat and sleep. A stranger in his own house, he thought. He wasn't part of that conversation in the canteen, he was practically lost. He wondered if it was possible to live without a family in the same house as them. Guess that's what I'm gonna have to do now, he thought. Just be alone in the house. I'll be a complete man,amd excel in my studies, and get a good career going. Sushant thought. Just that I won't have a family. But will I be happy? Ofcourse you will ...one part of him said. The other simply said...but who taught you to even spell the word 'happy'?
Just then, his mobile phone rang. It was his mother calling. Hurriedly, he hushed all his friends into silence, and picked up the call, with his blood pounding in his ears. "Hello Sushant, I heard its raining a lot there, please take care and don't get wet, come back home soon or the cold will get to you". Sushant could barely get himself to talk the next few words..."Mom. don't worry I'll come back soon." "Yeah, hurry or train service will break down, I'll make something for you at home so don't eat at college"."Mom...I love you...I'll never break your heart again".
A touch of hesitation at the other end, and Sushant heard "Love you too Sushant". And the line went dead. He realized he had tears in his eyes. I'm still a son! He grabbed his glass of tea. It was still hot. He sipped it slowly, feeling the warmth seep into him. "You're practically glowing...who was it on the phone?" his friend asked.
"The person who taught me to spell 'happy'...I'm going home guys...you guys sit for more lectures if you want" he said, and started homeward. It was cold outside, and he didn't even have an umbrella. But it didn't matter. He had all the warmth in the world waiting for him at home.
p.s : I know this sounds a bit weird, but this is something that's very close to my heart right now.
Monday, September 24, 2007
We all have, at some point in our lives, reached a stage of depression where suicide seems an acceptable thought. Luckily, good thought prevails, and we refrain from pursuing. But here is a look at what happens when one actually decides to go on with it. Writing it was a different experience, to say the least. Provided a scary kind of thrill. Let me know if you like it.
This way….
There is none like me, the failure amazing,
The ship of my dreams- I have watched it sinking.
A shooter who has missed every target he aimed,
Woe befall me, for my parents I have shamed.
Through my errors, loved ones I have lost,
Promises I have broken, and friendships it has cost.
God, can’t you see, this life I do not deserve-
Dogged by failure, what purpose can I serve!
The ship of my dreams- I have watched it sinking.
A shooter who has missed every target he aimed,
Woe befall me, for my parents I have shamed.
Through my errors, loved ones I have lost,
Promises I have broken, and friendships it has cost.
God, can’t you see, this life I do not deserve-
Dogged by failure, what purpose can I serve!
So that night when the world peacefully slept,
Under the starry skis I sat down and wept
For all the dreams, hopes and the loved ones
That I shamelessly lost, but had once.
Suddenly, like a lonely vehicle up a dark mile,
An idea takes root, and thinking of it, I smile.
All my blunders and follies now no one can mend,
But this pitiful existence of mine, I can easily end.
Under the starry skis I sat down and wept
For all the dreams, hopes and the loved ones
That I shamelessly lost, but had once.
Suddenly, like a lonely vehicle up a dark mile,
An idea takes root, and thinking of it, I smile.
All my blunders and follies now no one can mend,
But this pitiful existence of mine, I can easily end.
Now, bleeding and reeling, to the ground I stagger,
My wrists I have mercilessly slashed with a dagger.
Expectantly, the serene moonlit heavens I see,
Awaiting the second chance that god will give me.
As the warm blood gurgles and drips away,
My eyes close gently, a pity it ends this way…
And the world turns a melancholy shade,
My wrists I have mercilessly slashed with a dagger.
Expectantly, the serene moonlit heavens I see,
Awaiting the second chance that god will give me.
As the warm blood gurgles and drips away,
My eyes close gently, a pity it ends this way…
And the world turns a melancholy shade,
And watches in silence as into nothingness I fade.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Its a known fact that I can't dance. And my dancing is a joke to acquaintances, an embarrassment to close friends and a misery to myself. I tend to avoid dance parties, for I stick out of the crowd like a sore thumb. But let me try not to let my prejudice against dancing cloud my judgement when I write about this.
Very recently, I was at a society Ganesh Mandal function. It was a hot and humid evening, and there were atleast a hundred people crammed inside the pandal put up, with a stage and loud speakers at the front. Bright lights adorned the stage, and there was a dance competition going on for kids below 8 years of age.
There were girls wearing traditional Marathi dresses and dancing to folk tunes and boys wearing jackets and trying out the 'bhai' numbers. Pretty much what you would expect from a dance competition. The audience was supportive, and stuck with the amateur performers despite a few obvious bloopers and visible stage fright. In the middle of all this, came a little girl of 6 or 7, to dance to 'Dil me baji guitar' from a recent movie.
The curtain opened, and the music began, and she began by taking off her jacket, swaying it over her head and throwing it into the audience. This, alarmingly, was greeted with much enthusiasm by the audience. A few guys at the back began dancing. Then began the dance, with her shaking her hips, and gyrating suggestively to the item number. Somehow I couldn't watch it, something was too wrong about it. Also, she was biting her lips weirdly, and I could only hope it was stage fright showing, and nothing else. The young mother of the child was egging her on from just in front of the stage, performing to a small degree most of the dance steps herself. A full three minutes later, the dance ended. The crowd was in raptures. Somehow, party pooper that I am, I couldn't bring myself to clap.
I don't mean to sound like a prude here, but what on earth happened to 'Twinkle twinkle little star' and fancy dress competitions, and all those associated cute little things about childhood? Since when did 'Dil me baji guitar' replace them? I'm telling you, I may be wrong, maybe it's just me, you may have been at that dance yourself, you may not have found anything offensive, but I just think its a bit sad that a kid of six should learn to throw off her jacket and bite her lips while dancing suggestively. It just shouldn't be this way...kids, for all their jocundity, should be just that...kids. And we have to be responsible enough to let our protective instincts take over at such times.
Then we go and cry about crimes against children and child molesting. It's a sad day for the world when kids stop being kids. I bet she didn't know the meaning of the song, or the significance of her gestures. She can be pardoned. We can't, for allowing this.
Bet some of you think I'm sounding like a sad disgruntled old timer now. Well, I don't care. But what I care about is written above. I hope I made a point.
Very recently, I was at a society Ganesh Mandal function. It was a hot and humid evening, and there were atleast a hundred people crammed inside the pandal put up, with a stage and loud speakers at the front. Bright lights adorned the stage, and there was a dance competition going on for kids below 8 years of age.
There were girls wearing traditional Marathi dresses and dancing to folk tunes and boys wearing jackets and trying out the 'bhai' numbers. Pretty much what you would expect from a dance competition. The audience was supportive, and stuck with the amateur performers despite a few obvious bloopers and visible stage fright. In the middle of all this, came a little girl of 6 or 7, to dance to 'Dil me baji guitar' from a recent movie.
The curtain opened, and the music began, and she began by taking off her jacket, swaying it over her head and throwing it into the audience. This, alarmingly, was greeted with much enthusiasm by the audience. A few guys at the back began dancing. Then began the dance, with her shaking her hips, and gyrating suggestively to the item number. Somehow I couldn't watch it, something was too wrong about it. Also, she was biting her lips weirdly, and I could only hope it was stage fright showing, and nothing else. The young mother of the child was egging her on from just in front of the stage, performing to a small degree most of the dance steps herself. A full three minutes later, the dance ended. The crowd was in raptures. Somehow, party pooper that I am, I couldn't bring myself to clap.
I don't mean to sound like a prude here, but what on earth happened to 'Twinkle twinkle little star' and fancy dress competitions, and all those associated cute little things about childhood? Since when did 'Dil me baji guitar' replace them? I'm telling you, I may be wrong, maybe it's just me, you may have been at that dance yourself, you may not have found anything offensive, but I just think its a bit sad that a kid of six should learn to throw off her jacket and bite her lips while dancing suggestively. It just shouldn't be this way...kids, for all their jocundity, should be just that...kids. And we have to be responsible enough to let our protective instincts take over at such times.
Then we go and cry about crimes against children and child molesting. It's a sad day for the world when kids stop being kids. I bet she didn't know the meaning of the song, or the significance of her gestures. She can be pardoned. We can't, for allowing this.
Bet some of you think I'm sounding like a sad disgruntled old timer now. Well, I don't care. But what I care about is written above. I hope I made a point.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
The T20 world cup had an Australia v/s Zimbabwe match on, on Wednesday night. Now who’d be sucker enough to watch that, I thought. For those uninitiated into the world of international cricket, Australia is no less than an invincible team. Zimbabwe is pretty much a minnow, beaten by all and sundry, and just about filling up the vacancies for the tournament. After being relegated from world cricket because of a poor win-lose ratio, and being plagued by political problems within, they were hopelessly out of action. Poor Zimbabweans, I thought. And all the world must have shared the same view, as evening gave way to night, and I tuned in for the match, expecting Australia to effect a merciless spanking on what is pretty much the most impoverished team in world cricket.
There was rain prior to the start of play, and the experts predicted a tricky pitch and a sluggish outfield. Basically unsuitable conditions for batting. Australia won the toss, and Ponting (captain, you’ve gotta know that!) walked with a swagger, making almost no efforts to hide his smirk. “Well, we’re going to have a bat, you know, get some runs on the board, and put them into bat.” And he complimented his statement with the Aussie drawl, which I personally feel goes hand in hand with arrogance.
Well, so the burly Hayden and the sly Gilchrist walked into bat. The Zimbabweans looked a jittery lot. Can’t blame them, I thought. That was the point I almost lost interest and switched off the TV. It was going to be so predictable.
But something made me sit a little longer. Surprise, tight bowling and hostile conditions got the better of Gilchrist. Hayden fell a little time later, so did Ponting, and a bit of near brilliant fielding sent back the dangerous Hussey. Pretty much, the Australians were on the mat. Where were the jitters now? The Zims seemed a confident lot now, and it was as if they were possessed. The Australians ended their innings after having made 138 in their 20 overs. That was 139 to chase for Zimbabwe, at almost 7 runs per over.
It was an uphill battle, but I guess the initial burst of confidence stuck through with the Zimbabweans till the end, and they rode the storm on their own fortune, and stamped a thrilling last over win on the world number one team.
Doesn’t go to show anything great. It’s the prospect of an upset that makes a match like this interesting in the first place, but the odds of that are very very less.
And it’s right when sport is not confused with entertainment, for it’s not like a Karan Johar movie, but this incident just goes to show that the impossible does, sometimes, reveal itself occasionally.
It’s stuff like this that makes you believe in all those improbable things that you’ve dreamt of. It may be a terribly difficult battle, but it surely is worth fighting for. I’m sure none of the Australians must have slept that night, kicking themselves for the overconfidence with which they had approached. Also, none of these guys must have slept either, for joy of course.
Life’s not bad. It’s just difficult. But don’t let the struggle get to you. So what if you’re up against Australia. You just gotta be the hungry desperate Zimbabwean to win. And give hope to the world.
There was rain prior to the start of play, and the experts predicted a tricky pitch and a sluggish outfield. Basically unsuitable conditions for batting. Australia won the toss, and Ponting (captain, you’ve gotta know that!) walked with a swagger, making almost no efforts to hide his smirk. “Well, we’re going to have a bat, you know, get some runs on the board, and put them into bat.” And he complimented his statement with the Aussie drawl, which I personally feel goes hand in hand with arrogance.
Well, so the burly Hayden and the sly Gilchrist walked into bat. The Zimbabweans looked a jittery lot. Can’t blame them, I thought. That was the point I almost lost interest and switched off the TV. It was going to be so predictable.
But something made me sit a little longer. Surprise, tight bowling and hostile conditions got the better of Gilchrist. Hayden fell a little time later, so did Ponting, and a bit of near brilliant fielding sent back the dangerous Hussey. Pretty much, the Australians were on the mat. Where were the jitters now? The Zims seemed a confident lot now, and it was as if they were possessed. The Australians ended their innings after having made 138 in their 20 overs. That was 139 to chase for Zimbabwe, at almost 7 runs per over.
It was an uphill battle, but I guess the initial burst of confidence stuck through with the Zimbabweans till the end, and they rode the storm on their own fortune, and stamped a thrilling last over win on the world number one team.
Doesn’t go to show anything great. It’s the prospect of an upset that makes a match like this interesting in the first place, but the odds of that are very very less.
And it’s right when sport is not confused with entertainment, for it’s not like a Karan Johar movie, but this incident just goes to show that the impossible does, sometimes, reveal itself occasionally.
It’s stuff like this that makes you believe in all those improbable things that you’ve dreamt of. It may be a terribly difficult battle, but it surely is worth fighting for. I’m sure none of the Australians must have slept that night, kicking themselves for the overconfidence with which they had approached. Also, none of these guys must have slept either, for joy of course.
Life’s not bad. It’s just difficult. But don’t let the struggle get to you. So what if you’re up against Australia. You just gotta be the hungry desperate Zimbabwean to win. And give hope to the world.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Ramblings
It's 11.20 pm. The hot stuffy August night has got to my nerves, and I sit here wanting to type something that will make some amount of tangible sense to the reader. Maybe touch a nerve somewhere within, or jerk a tear, or inspire him enough to make his hair stand on end.
That is exactly what I have set out to do, but the problem is I'm totally empty in my head right now. I try a poem. The first two lines have meaning, but don't rhyme. The next two rhyme, but I'm not exactly sure they're related to the previous two. Frustrated, I clear my screen. The discordant poem has been obviated, but my head is none the clearer. I close my eyes and think. What appealed to me recently? Nothing much worth mention. What saddened me? Again, not blog material. What thrilled me? Have to say...nothing of late. Boring week? Apathy? What is wrong with me? Worthless thoughts enter my head, and I am a slave to my own interpretations of why I can't write. With an effort, I clear the cobwebs and shut my eyes again and force myself to think.
I try a piece on the Indian cricket team. It comes out poor, and I realize the futility of the entire exercise. Writing is like magic. When you sit down to write, either you write or you don't write. There's no room in that world for a term like 'try to write'.
I shut down the computer and go for some TV instead. I guess you can't be a writer all the time. There'll be a next time though. There sure will be.
That is exactly what I have set out to do, but the problem is I'm totally empty in my head right now. I try a poem. The first two lines have meaning, but don't rhyme. The next two rhyme, but I'm not exactly sure they're related to the previous two. Frustrated, I clear my screen. The discordant poem has been obviated, but my head is none the clearer. I close my eyes and think. What appealed to me recently? Nothing much worth mention. What saddened me? Again, not blog material. What thrilled me? Have to say...nothing of late. Boring week? Apathy? What is wrong with me? Worthless thoughts enter my head, and I am a slave to my own interpretations of why I can't write. With an effort, I clear the cobwebs and shut my eyes again and force myself to think.
I try a piece on the Indian cricket team. It comes out poor, and I realize the futility of the entire exercise. Writing is like magic. When you sit down to write, either you write or you don't write. There's no room in that world for a term like 'try to write'.
I shut down the computer and go for some TV instead. I guess you can't be a writer all the time. There'll be a next time though. There sure will be.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
A poem penned on Independence day
The Salute
They rhapsodize a soldier’s life often,
But I have lain, bathed in my own blood, shivering,
Feeling it warmly drip away, as the bullet throbs,
I have crouched in ramparts, faced death head on
And have brushed past it, none the wiser,
And none the stronger, for every time.
A long lonely battle it was on the mountains,
Survival, an uncertainty, duty, a necessity.
Plagued by hunger and cold, we have protected
Your lethargy, corruption, bickering and reservations.
Doubt assails him, when the soldier learns of these,
As to whether there is a purpose to what he does.
It is independence day now. The flag salute.
You are attending it. So am
You are there, but not really so, as I observe.
What plays in your mind now oh compatriot?
Have you forgotten your greed and hypocrisy
At least now, or are you still wallowing in them?
A wave of disgust hits me,
What have I wasted my life for?
Given my blood for?
Shivered for? Cried for?
Disconsolate, I come for my customary salute
A gust of wind lifts the flag up, flutters in all glory
The national anthem plays. Emotions stir my heart
The sun shines, and with it, do the blessings of them,
The great leaders of the past, and I am bathed in holiness.
For I have done my duty. I am a proud Indian.
A salty tear, runs down my cheek. I salute.
I stand erect, and I afford a slight smile.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Almond eyes
The black night beautiful beckons,
Calling me out of my own blackness
With melancholy thoughts I take her hands
And walk out on the silvery beach sands.
A circus wire, where ocean meets land
I walk on it, leaving footprints in the sand.
I look back and they are washed away...
I laugh at this, and to my blackness I say
Everything is washed away, everything goes
Except blackness, that even in such moments shows.
The wind murmurs in my ears, then what stays?
It plays with me, sings in my ears, tickles my face,
And begs me to answer. And I think, with closed eyes
And she comes to mind, she, and the thousand miles,
That lie between, and to the wind I speak of her,
And of the love that faded as the miles grew longer.
The wind in reply, shoves a great black cloud away,
And an eerie white light emanates, as the moon peeks out
A full moon on the beach, and everything becomes bright.
Think not of the miles, but think of your love,
As she too is looking now at this very same moon.
Everything else might go, but love never does.
I gaze at the moon, feeling a strange warmth on my soul,
The blackness vanishes, so does the cold, I feel her scent,
All around me, my friend the wind has brought it to me,
And I know she looks at the moon, with lovely almond eyes,
At the beauty of the night, and thinks,
Not of the miles, but of me, just as I do of her,
That is when I realize love never goes.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Maktub
This is for all the philosophy lovers. Philosophy as in, the real thing. If your definition of philosophy starts and ends with 'life is like an icecream so enjoy it before it melts', probably you're not the right audience for this.
There are certain words that have a ring of magic to them. To me, Maktub is one such word. It obviously means nothing to the uninitated, but once you knwo the meaning, I'm sure you'll be a bit enchanted too.
The Arab culture has an ancient belief, or rather, an archaic saying. It simply says "It is written". Three simple words that convey the most amazing meaning. You could read a million books on self improvement, or about how to deal with it when bad things happen to good people, and all that, but believing in Maktub is much easier.
It is written. Meaning no matter how horribly things go wrong, or how badly life deviates from the script you had planned, believe that if you want something with all your heart and you believe it is your destiny, then the whole universe conspires in helping you achieve it, because it is written. And if it is written, it happens.
Maybe you wouldn't be too sure about it now, but you'll see. Believe in yourself, and no matter how messed up things may seem at that moment, things will fall into place, because you believed in yourself and your destiny. And when the pieces of your life fall into place, you'll find yourself muttering 'Maktub', because you will realize that miracles do happen, but not to those who call themselves 'lucky', but to those who believe in them.
So, if you are reading this right now, and if you have a dream, go for it. Make it your destiny. Failures along the way are immaterial, because your destiny never changes. And one day when you achieve it, you will have made your peace with the universe and all its mysterious ways, for it has worked for you and your dream.
P.S: As is custom, I have someone to thank for being the inspiration behind this article. This time its Paulo Coelho. His was the book in which I'd read about Maktub in the first place.
There are certain words that have a ring of magic to them. To me, Maktub is one such word. It obviously means nothing to the uninitated, but once you knwo the meaning, I'm sure you'll be a bit enchanted too.
The Arab culture has an ancient belief, or rather, an archaic saying. It simply says "It is written". Three simple words that convey the most amazing meaning. You could read a million books on self improvement, or about how to deal with it when bad things happen to good people, and all that, but believing in Maktub is much easier.
It is written. Meaning no matter how horribly things go wrong, or how badly life deviates from the script you had planned, believe that if you want something with all your heart and you believe it is your destiny, then the whole universe conspires in helping you achieve it, because it is written. And if it is written, it happens.
Maybe you wouldn't be too sure about it now, but you'll see. Believe in yourself, and no matter how messed up things may seem at that moment, things will fall into place, because you believed in yourself and your destiny. And when the pieces of your life fall into place, you'll find yourself muttering 'Maktub', because you will realize that miracles do happen, but not to those who call themselves 'lucky', but to those who believe in them.
So, if you are reading this right now, and if you have a dream, go for it. Make it your destiny. Failures along the way are immaterial, because your destiny never changes. And one day when you achieve it, you will have made your peace with the universe and all its mysterious ways, for it has worked for you and your dream.
P.S: As is custom, I have someone to thank for being the inspiration behind this article. This time its Paulo Coelho. His was the book in which I'd read about Maktub in the first place.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
The strange case of Rahul Dravid and Saurav Ganguly-part 2
Then came the fateful tour to Zimbabwe in the end of 2005. Indian cricket saw its most public mud slinging, and consequently, Ganguly was unceremoniously ousted from the team, and banished to the wilderness of Indian domestic cricket. He's gone for life, said most pundits, giving him less than a chance in a million to come back. And so it was that Dravid became captain. His statement of "being happy" at his promotion no doubt belied his true feelings, after having waited in the wings for years. That was Dravid the gentleman, trust him to be magnanimous at all his successes.
Gone with Ganguly were most of the seniors who had become complacent, and there was a glut of youngsters in the team at once. Exceptional performances in the beginning of 2006, including historic wins at Pakistan and West Indies lead many to believe this was the revival of the Indian team.
Meanwhile, unnoticed, in empty stadiums and foregone tournaments, Ganguly rebuilt himself. The fact that the team was doing well without him must have deterred him no doubt, but to his credit, he never gave up. It was his trial by fire, and he never once flinched or shrank back.
On the flipside for the team, with youth came inexperience. A horrendous tour of Malaysia, followed by nightmarish defeats at South Africa, lead to serious doubts about the quality of these overnight heroes, and a few called for the seasoned hands again. As destiny would have it, his name was on the cards, on the selection meetings, and on the lips of every bereaved fan in the fanatic country.
When India lost all the one dayers in South Africa, that was it. Out were Raina, Kaif and their fickle promises, and Ganguly flew in. When he walked out to bat, that pompous air was gone, so was most of the arrogance, the arrogance that waved a shirt from Lords and made Steve Waugh wait, but was replaced by something grittier...his inner fire burned brighter than ever.
He looked a tired man, in body yes, but not in spirit. Atleast he hadn't given up his own fight. Dravid meanwhile was the same as ever, rock solid in his own form, and still the paragon of perfection, both as a human being and as a cricketer. As a leader though, he was a little less efficient.
I guess to be a leader, you have to be able to lower yourself to the imperfections of others and tackle them. Dravid somehow never seems to do that till date, and continues to be his own God.
Today, both Dracid and Ganguly take to the field, much the same way they have over the decade gone, and Ganguly sometimes cuts a lonely figure fielding at long on, and Dravid seems lost in his own worries, and neither can give up being themselves, which has been their boon and bane over these years.
Their story has taught me that drama is not limited to Bollywood alone. If cricket history was an epic, then Dravid and Ganguly would be characters to emulate.
They are both reaching the end of their careers now. Is there another twist in the tale? Might not be surprised if there is.
Gone with Ganguly were most of the seniors who had become complacent, and there was a glut of youngsters in the team at once. Exceptional performances in the beginning of 2006, including historic wins at Pakistan and West Indies lead many to believe this was the revival of the Indian team.
Meanwhile, unnoticed, in empty stadiums and foregone tournaments, Ganguly rebuilt himself. The fact that the team was doing well without him must have deterred him no doubt, but to his credit, he never gave up. It was his trial by fire, and he never once flinched or shrank back.
On the flipside for the team, with youth came inexperience. A horrendous tour of Malaysia, followed by nightmarish defeats at South Africa, lead to serious doubts about the quality of these overnight heroes, and a few called for the seasoned hands again. As destiny would have it, his name was on the cards, on the selection meetings, and on the lips of every bereaved fan in the fanatic country.
When India lost all the one dayers in South Africa, that was it. Out were Raina, Kaif and their fickle promises, and Ganguly flew in. When he walked out to bat, that pompous air was gone, so was most of the arrogance, the arrogance that waved a shirt from Lords and made Steve Waugh wait, but was replaced by something grittier...his inner fire burned brighter than ever.
He looked a tired man, in body yes, but not in spirit. Atleast he hadn't given up his own fight. Dravid meanwhile was the same as ever, rock solid in his own form, and still the paragon of perfection, both as a human being and as a cricketer. As a leader though, he was a little less efficient.
I guess to be a leader, you have to be able to lower yourself to the imperfections of others and tackle them. Dravid somehow never seems to do that till date, and continues to be his own God.
Today, both Dracid and Ganguly take to the field, much the same way they have over the decade gone, and Ganguly sometimes cuts a lonely figure fielding at long on, and Dravid seems lost in his own worries, and neither can give up being themselves, which has been their boon and bane over these years.
Their story has taught me that drama is not limited to Bollywood alone. If cricket history was an epic, then Dravid and Ganguly would be characters to emulate.
They are both reaching the end of their careers now. Is there another twist in the tale? Might not be surprised if there is.
The strange case of Rahul Dravid and Saurav Ganguly-part 1
Personally, I love them both. I almost idolize the former for his perfection, and admire the fighting spirit that the latter exhibits. Both arguably among the best that this nation has ever produced, have careers that have run parallel over these years, and have been inexorably intertwined with each other at the same time too.
They made their debut together at the Lords in 1996. Ganguly, ever the more flashy of the two, got to a century on debut. Dravid, a ton unlucky, missed his ton by 4 runs. That somewhat set the tones of their careers then on. Ganguly was touted for his aggression and style, and was seen as the man who could make his own luck and laugh in the face of danger. Dravid hung on too, albeit a lot less convincingly, and his was an ideal case of 'slow and steady' not impressing all. He was seen as too slow and technical, and unable to improvise most of the times, and consequently was in and out of the one day team. But test matches told completely different stories. His application and diligence was the stuff of legends, and his extreme concentration and immaculate technique became the subject of many an animated coffee table conversation. And so it was that these two players became indispensables in the team.
So Tendulkar proved he was a pedestrian captain sometime in 2002, and the reins had to be handed over to someone else. Obviously it was Ganguly, for he was the one who could inspire confidence in teammates and awe among foes. He did a few audacious things that went well, reaching the world cup final being one of them, and ventured where no Indian had gone before, like making Steve Waugh wait for the toss, and ripping off his shirt and waving it from the Lords Balcony. That was an unforgettable era of Indian cricket, and what went unnoticed behind his astute leadership was the fact that his deputy Dravid was in the form of his life, and the fact still remains that most of the victories in that period were carved out of Dravid's willow, and by his amazing decision to double up at wicketkeeper, in order to make place for an extra batsman.
It was a peculiar arrangement though. With Ganguly, there was too much drama, and the feeling that something is about to explode in your face. His flamboyance and authority is something that no other Indian captain can boast of, but he courted controversy, and when his form began to dip, talks of nepotism within the team, factions, and bickerings began to do the rounds. Conversely, Dravid continued to stay away from teh spotlight, background man that he was.
Such were these two, unaware of the sweeping changes that were around the corner.
(cont'd)
They made their debut together at the Lords in 1996. Ganguly, ever the more flashy of the two, got to a century on debut. Dravid, a ton unlucky, missed his ton by 4 runs. That somewhat set the tones of their careers then on. Ganguly was touted for his aggression and style, and was seen as the man who could make his own luck and laugh in the face of danger. Dravid hung on too, albeit a lot less convincingly, and his was an ideal case of 'slow and steady' not impressing all. He was seen as too slow and technical, and unable to improvise most of the times, and consequently was in and out of the one day team. But test matches told completely different stories. His application and diligence was the stuff of legends, and his extreme concentration and immaculate technique became the subject of many an animated coffee table conversation. And so it was that these two players became indispensables in the team.
So Tendulkar proved he was a pedestrian captain sometime in 2002, and the reins had to be handed over to someone else. Obviously it was Ganguly, for he was the one who could inspire confidence in teammates and awe among foes. He did a few audacious things that went well, reaching the world cup final being one of them, and ventured where no Indian had gone before, like making Steve Waugh wait for the toss, and ripping off his shirt and waving it from the Lords Balcony. That was an unforgettable era of Indian cricket, and what went unnoticed behind his astute leadership was the fact that his deputy Dravid was in the form of his life, and the fact still remains that most of the victories in that period were carved out of Dravid's willow, and by his amazing decision to double up at wicketkeeper, in order to make place for an extra batsman.
It was a peculiar arrangement though. With Ganguly, there was too much drama, and the feeling that something is about to explode in your face. His flamboyance and authority is something that no other Indian captain can boast of, but he courted controversy, and when his form began to dip, talks of nepotism within the team, factions, and bickerings began to do the rounds. Conversely, Dravid continued to stay away from teh spotlight, background man that he was.
Such were these two, unaware of the sweeping changes that were around the corner.
(cont'd)
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
The last supper...a little known tale
For all those uninitiated into the world of books, Paulo Coelho is the author of the Alchemist, the book that changed the lives of many people, including the likes of Will Smith and me, and though his other books have never come close to that sort of popularity, they’re intriguing to say the least. Those who haven’t read them, go do it now.
Anyway, there’s this fable in one of his lesser known books ‘The Devil and Miss Prym’, a story which deals with the millennia old fight of Good versus Bad. I really don’t know if its true or not, but I’ve never forgotten it, though its been like three years since I read that book. It goes like this…
Centuries ago, in the age of the renaissance, Leonardo Da Vinci had just conceived the idea of painting the Last Supper, a painting which shows Jesus Christ having supper with his apostles, and the painting is special because it shows Jesus, the embodiment of good, and Judas, the doer of evil (because he was the one who betrayed Jesus) in the same painting, along with the other devotees. Da Vinci had his own style of going about his paintings, and it was to seat a live subject in front of him and paint. But this style of painting often required him to go on long ‘subject hunts’. It was on one such long and arduous subject hunt that he discovered a cherubic looking church choir youth, whose face had an angelic look to it. “You’re the man for my painting” said Da Vinci. He invited the youth to his studio, and the face of that youth became the face of Jesus in that immortal painting. So the painting was half done, and Da vinci now wanted someone to paint with as Judas. He searched far and wide, but he could never see evil and avarice manifest themselves so clearly on one face, and he had all but given up hope.
He had almost given up, when he discovered by the roadside one day, a drunk drug addict lying unconscious. His face had all the world’s sinister darkness on it, and he was the quintessential dissipated evil man. He dragged him into his studio, and immortalized the features of that wasted man as the face of Judas in the painting. A few hours later, the man came to his senses, and when he saw what Da Vinci was painting, he said “Hey I’ve seen that painting before!” Da Vinci was perplexed…had some painter stolen his ideas? “Where, Where?” he shook him by the shoulders.
“A few years ago, before I lost the singing job at the church choir, a painter…was it you? Called me as a model for Jesus Christ in this painting. My memory is lulled by my intoxications now, but I believed the painter was you, and this was the very same painting.”
Moral of the story: There’s no good, there’s no bad. You’re both, and both are in you.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Birthday no. 20....
(Written last night)
So my birthday will be over in an hour. The hoopla and hullabaloo has already subsided. Not that I’m much of that type. I often get a lot of flak for not being ‘up to the occasion’ as these people put it. Guess that’s not me. loud celebrations don’t interest me, nor do overt displays of birthday-pride and birthday-importance. Call me shy. Call me reticent, prudish, whatever.
And so its 11pm, and I’m looking back at the day. Raucous dinner with best friends, cake cutting with family, special moments with someone, a new shirt that’ll grow old someday, resolutions that will grow cold someday. That was the day.
I look back at other birthdays. Same scenes. What changes? A birthday is portrayed as a change inducing day. “ooh you’re twenty now. Someone’s growing.” “Good lord was it yesterday that you peed on my pants?” and stuff.
Nothing changes. I mean, sure, stuff changes. Circumstances change, surroundings change, but people never really do. The Bharat who got rapped on the knuckles by the teacher in school when he was eight, is not really different from the one who gets reprimanded by his father now for over using the phone. The Bharat who felt shivers when his name was called for oral examinations in fifth standard, is exactly the same guy who feels a ball of fire run down his insides when he approaches the results notice board. The Bharat who cried on watching Border is the same guy who merely pretends impassivity now. I used to cry in Junior KG when my mom used to go to office. I still feel the same tinge of sadness when she leaves. I desperately used to wait for 5 pm, counting down hours, everyday so that I could go down and play. Now I desperately wait for weekends to play, counting down days. See? Nothing changes.
People fake wisdom, they fake worldliness, they fake sophistication, as they progress. To show other people, or to inflate their egos or maybe something to that effect. Either ways, none of it is necessary.
If you accept that you’re the same, maybe the pangs of growing up and losing things will not bother you that much.
Retain that little kid in you. You’re nothing without that kid.
Monday, July 9, 2007
The God who cried like a baby
I’m not a great tennis fan. Prior to yesterday, I just used to watch it for the short skirts, and that too was a turn off when the Williams sisters were playing. And I never quite paid attention to the
All through the match, the contrast between the two players enraptured me, as must have been the case with all amateur tennis fans. Nadal was the more expressive of the two, with his “Ums and Ahs” resounding across centre court, his unbridled exaltations after a few winners and his histrionics all showing us how pumped up he was. Federer, on the other hand, being completely inexpressive, rarely ever bothering to even clench his fist in aggression. A knitted brow showing a hint of worry was all he would reveal, and that too only briefly. It was as he was above the emotion showing level, and as had been my guess from the start, he did win in the end.
But what happened thereafter, surprised me. On hitting the winning shot, he threw himself on the court, clutching his face with his hands, and cried. Sobbed, even. Wowie, I thought. Now what’s with that?
All his pent up emotions rushed out, and he looked like a disheveled baby in the few minutes after the victory. And in those few minutes he revealed that he wasn’t God after all. No more a god than you or me. Just a guy who kept his cool, and weathered the storm. What’s the harm in crying after winning?Saturday, July 7, 2007
The bore well kid
“Hey you heard about the bore well kid? He died today evening”
“Jeez…I didn’t even know there was a bore well kid…”
“He was stuck for fifty hours it seems. How can you not know about it?”
“I’m not exactly the 24hour news channel types…maybe that’s why I missed it”
This is the conversation I had with my mother yesterday. I don’t watch India TV, I haven’t been reading newspapers lately, and so this piece of information had completely eluded me. Until now, that is. Oh well, too bad I thought. Poor kid.
That night, for some reason I couldn’t sleep. Maybe it was the thunder outside. Maybe the disquiet inside. I switched on the TV sometime around midnight. It was on, as expected. The whole episode about the boy.
I learnt his name was Suraj. I learnt he was six years old. First standard. He fell in while playing, they said. Apparently, it was a desolate area and he was playing by himself. Now that’s news, I thought. What kind of kid plays alone in a desolate area?
A little later the answer to my own question came to me. The kid who plays alone in a desolate area is the kid whose parents cannot afford him a cricket bat or a football. He’s the kid whose parents are helpless as they see their child pass his time with pebbles and slingshots. Maybe they were casual laborers with no time for him. Maybe he didn’t have friends. Maybe he wandered there all by himself on his way home from school. Maybe he was scouting for new pebbles, or had spotted a few colorful odds and ends in that desolate area. Maybe he just shrugged off his school bag and went behind a big butterfly or something. And fallen in. Must have been the longest two days of his little life. More so for his parents. I realized my eyes were moist.
The world works in mysterious ways. What kind of God allows this to happen? I cried a little that night. And I went to bed hoping Suraj awakens in a better place.
Recollections of a July 11th guy
A rainy afternoon yesterday. I was in the train traveling to Andheri. It was a boring journey…uncharacteristically empty trains, a steady drizzle outside, implying all windows had to be closed, the stuffy interior of the train that bore a morose silence punctuated only by cell phone rings and the own rickety sounds of the train.
At Kandivali, a middle aged man came and sat beside me. nothing out of the normal, except for the fact that his left hand was amputated from the forearm downwards. I made the mistake of staring a second longer at his hand, and he noticed, as do all such people. He smiled. God. Embarrassed, I smiled back wanly. “July 11th. Borivali blast” He said. I nodded, not knowing what else to do. If I’d looked away, maybe I would have missed out on this narrative. But I kept nodding, and looking in his direction, like I expected him to offer the details. Stupid me as usual.
As if on cue, he started talking. About wanting to buy a car last year, being confused about the model, going over prices, stats and features in his head whilst in the train on that fateful evening, when it happened. A concussion in his head that knocked him out. Waking three hours later at Bhagwati hospital, a poorly run government place. He talked of being on a mattress on the floor, half soaked with blood. Maybe his. Maybe not. Not that it mattered. Searing pain in his left hand, metal pieces probably. The hurt crying out. Bodies being brought in as if they were so many mannequins. Volunteers running in. Haziness in his vision. An injection. Rain battering the decrepit windows. Water seeping in. Flies on the blood. The car debate seeming funny at the moment. Nothing seeming important but the two words “I’m alive”. And wanting to be so. And then passing out, as the sedative took effect.
At this point, he realized that maybe he had let loose a little too much. Sorry, he says. Anyway, time for him to leave. Goregaon approaches. ‘I’m getting down here.’ He promptly gets up. The train lurches a bit, and he struggles to balance himself for an instant. The next instant, he smiles at me. I say…wait, what about the car finally? He laughs and says that his son will be old enough to drive in another year. I’m settling for a Swift he says. The train stops and he gets off.
Monday, July 2, 2007
The Path
(A poem that'll hopefully offer solace to the restless and a hope to the wanderers)
The path
When on your journey you rest, with feet gone sore,
When the struggle seems meaningless, and with love gone cold
When none heed your call, neither friend nor foe,
And when you’re lost, knowing not which way to go,
When you know not what it is that you seek,
But it haunts you in your wakefulness and sleep
When you lose the urge to get up and go forth
For letting go seems easy, giving up, a welcome thought.
And in this moment of defeat, listen to your soul,
Your soul, the one God you believe in…
‘Oh weary traveler,
Many walk the road to their dreams
Until greed and lust befall them all.
But what you seek is special, the meaning of life,
The nature of love, and the essence of happiness.
But not to capture for yourself these secrets,
Or to peddle as wisdom to those who crave them.
You seek to assuage the storms that rage within yourself
Know this oh lost soul,
Just as he who thirsts does not always find,
He who wanders is not always lost.
Go forth wanderer, your journey awaits you
But never once should you give up on your quest.
For heaven awaits not those who find,
But those who search. And stay on the path.
You search, therefore you are.’
Friday, June 29, 2007
Why 'stuck somewhere'?
Well, I guess my blog should begin first with an explanation of the title. There's this friend of mine with whom I go on long evening walks occasionally... nothing to it, just getting away from the crap of everyday life. She isn't a great talker, but when she gets talking, there's an underlying sensibility to what she says...and once she was trying to explain to me why she was frustrated with the way most of her friends were living their lives, and she was struggling to come up with a relevant phrase, and all she could manage was "They're all just....just...stuck somewhere I guess". I don't really know why, but that phrase lodged itself in my brain, and I saw this as a perfect opportunity to use it, since that's what most of us still are today...'stuck somewhere' , in some corner of our own minds, in the swamps of our own pasts, and in the confines of our own limits.
This blog is dedicated to all those who silently pray at night for freedom in their lives, and for those who have the courage to make a difference in the lives of those around them.
This blog is dedicated to all those who silently pray at night for freedom in their lives, and for those who have the courage to make a difference in the lives of those around them.
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