Tempest in a teapot

Written upon the news of her death

2012-02-24T18:01:00.000+05:30

She died today. She survived her husband by three decades. And the last ten years, she was confined to her bed. To her cot, actually. In a 6 by 5 room, or may be smaller. With a tin roof over her head that leaked like a broken tap when it rained. With a dirty blanket to keep her warm. A pedestal fan that was whimsical. An "all-out" that unsuccessfully warded off the mosquitoes. And an almirah that ate up a lot of space and had all her stuff crammed inside with a lot of junk from the house. This is what I remember of her, in her private little slum, 5 years back.

What did she feel? About dying. About us. About the 10 years long wasteland of time when she waited endlessly, sensing the passage of time only in the gradual decay of her body.

***********************
What is life but an interregnum in the nothingness that exists before birth and after death. An awareness that is defined by distilling the larger universal Consciousness into the Ego of an Individual, a Person. And the awareness of this individual Consciousness set against the massive, the infinite Consciousness of the Universe is so daunting, so overbearing that we try and negate it either in pursuit of meaning that will bolster our Individual Consciousness or by losing our Ego in the trivialities of life, the latter more commonly. Either way, we speed up the passage of time by losing ourselves in activities (meaningful or otherwise) to avoid the overbearing pressure of this universal Consciousness against our own limited Individual Consciousness...till Death comes to our rescue and makes us one with the larger, the infinite Universal Consciousness.
***********************

So, what punishment for her to face the smallness of her own consciousness and brave 10 long years without any escape but the periodic mercies of slumber. To stare at Death approach slowly but steadily and not have the escape of life's trivialities... and the anodyne of worldly relationships...and the illusion of permanence that most of us lose with Death (while she lost it a long time back).

Dimensions of my professional life

2012-02-24T15:40:00.000+05:30

A 12 by 5 week
In a 4 by 6 cabin
Facing a 1 by 1 monitor
On a 3 by 2 table

You get the government you deserve

2011-08-25T10:21:00.009+05:30

I have now been part of several arguments - at home, at work and in my mind - about Anna Hazare and his crusade against corruption. This is a narrative, description of feelings, an attempt to describe my personal "thought-journey" as this movement has progressed.

I started from a purely cynical point where I had vague misgivings and spontaneous irritation at the sanctimonious tone and tenor of the debate (especially of those arguing for Anna and his movement) and my initial intent was to just heckle, tease, irritate. An urge born out of resentment...of people pretending to moral righteousness, preaching social conscience while perpetrating daily retail corruption and anti-social behavior. Middle class men who bribed their way out of traffic rules, middle class women who were cruel to their servants, young men who smuggled ipads and ipods without paying duties, film stars who cheated on their taxes, news anchors who deliberately misrepresented facts, students who cheated their way through exams - they were the loudest in preaching "anti-corruption". Nobody seemed to say "I am / have been corrupt and I can change a lot of that without the Lokpal". Everyone seemed to be filled with outrage at the politicians and the government. It reminded me of the middle class obsession in this country with "comfortable contained spirituality" - limited to packaged presentations on TV channels...where a few breathing exercises became Yoga and listening to a 30 mins sermon on Aastha made one feel spiritually cleansed. It is convenient and feel-good. And thus, at first, I was just cynical and detached.

Many of these heckling sessions and debates have forced me to introspect and go beyond. There are people I respect, people who are well intentioned and well informed who are passionately for Anna and his movement. Why? Is this "vague unease" with the whole thing on my part purely a reaction of my cynical nature or is their an intuitive logic to it that I have not forced myself to crystallize into coherent arguments. So I have thought and forced myself to think independent of my biases and prejudices against people who are supporting the movement. And here is what I think (I have omitted may arguments which come to me but have been presented again and again on TV or other fora to spare repetition)

1) Men behind the movement (for Anna is but the face) have orchestrated it brilliantly. Put a "saint" at the forefront - this country is a sucker for saints and self-sacrifice. Ramayan has always been easier to understand and sell than Mahabharat. Absolve everyone but the "politicians" of the blame for a disease which every single one of us has helped spread - everyone feels good. Act naive - naivete gains sympathy and popularity and is the best weapon against logic. Remember Raj Kapoor who did it film after film to become a bigger super star than more capable actors. A Balraj Sahni can never be a super star. And throw in a lot of slogans.

2) The movement is riddled with logical contradictions. How can you believe that the Government will not allow the Lokpal bill to pass in the right form through democratic pressures (and therefore we must fast and force it to) and yet believe that once passed the Lokpal bill will solve anything. The government, the "super-villain" that it is, can easily not allow the Lokpal to function once it comes into existence. Will we be on a perpetual fast, the majority of population forcing the government to do what it ought to do in any case by boycotting food and work? Surely if we believe that Lokpal bill will work once passed, we must be ready to believe that the government can be made to work (otherwise we should organize a movement for a "government less" country).
If there is such a popular sentiment against corruption and the present set of politicians, why do we think it is impossible to elect a new and honest party to the government - why not elect Anna Hazare as the next PM and his team as the cabinet and pass the Lokpal bill. According to the rhetorical jingoism, there are a million people ready to sacrifice their career and lives to help build a corruption-free nation. Yet we will not find 500 odd people ready to fight elections and win on the back of the support of the million people protesting today? Why? Because, it is easy to fast and sloganeer and make speeches and wear Anna topis.
Our distrust for the government is palpable. We say the all political parties are equally corrupt and we need an parallel, independent policing system. Why will this system work? Who will appoint these watchdogs? Where will we find these infallible, incorruptible people? Did we not at some point envision the Prime Minister's office to be held by a person of unimpeachable integrity? Was the judiciary not, in theory, designed to be independent? Today we want a watch dog for judiciary and talk about judicial crimes? Who will watch over the Lokpal when that become corrupt?

3) I believe corruption is an issue and like most issues it needs preventive measures as well as punitive measures to resolve. If you ask me, we have punitive measures aplenty in our country already and they are not working - because these punitive measures are supposed to be administered by human beings who are fallible and corruptible. You cannot scare corruption away. India is a religious country and most Indians believe in the existence of God who punishes the corrupt - yet corruption is higher than in the supposedly un-ascetic West. Why? Because, the external God is only as powerful as that - the inner God, our own moral fiber and conscience cannot be substituted by the threat of an external virtuous God. And there is no shortcut to building that. You can fast and browbeat the evil government and the politicians but there are no easy solutions to the resident evil - what are you going to do the next time you violate a traffic rule, or your son cheats on the taxes, or you need to pay up in black for property?

4) I think corruption in India has diminished and changed in nature. A lot of it I attribute to increased literacy, economic upliftment, technological advancement and reduction of government interference. e-ticketing has reduced reliance on overcharging touts for rail tickets and e-passport will have a similar effect. Simple and very specific solution for a specific problem. Of course there is corporate corruption of late. Remember this is not politicians - these are non-political corruptions. As I said, no substituting the moral fiber.

Let me summarize. I think corruption is a generally a result of 3 situations : A) Moral bankruptcy, B) Scarcity, C) Excess. B) and C) are relative measures and essentially two sides of the same coin - inequality. Only in an unequal distribution, does scarcity or excess mean anything. And I believe that development is the best tool to reduce inequality.

5)There is no alternative to Government and democracy. There is no alternative to making these two work. And no short-cuts. You get the government you deserve. You have elected it - do not wash your hands off it so glibly. And if you haven't (as is true of most of the middle class supporters of Anna) then you turn up in the next elections. Until then, your jingoism is hypocrisy. If you say that the masses- illiterate, rural, impoverished, gullible masses have elected the present set of corrupt politicians, well then you change that reality by creating an India which has more educated, discerning voters than otherwise. You can't disrespect their verdict because they are the current India and may be they'd rather elect these corrupt politicians in exchange for money, food, other populist measures or hope (that potent opium for the poor and the deprived) than die for an empty, impractical ideal.

These are my opinions. These are no arguments - I do not want to argue any more. I have rebelled for rebellion's sake and I know it feels good. But that is what it is - a feel-good short term measure. And no, it doesn't mean that I support the present government or the present set of politicians or that I am pro-corruption. But then, why do I need to clarify that? That has been Anna's biggest impact on me - he has made me explain and defend myself for a perfectly tenable and logical point-of-view (not necessarily superior) that is different from his and his supporters.

2010-12-22T03:27:00.002+05:30

kaun kehta hai ki
risthey tatva hain
inki umar to
hum se bhi kam hai

Who says relationships are abstract
they dont even outlive you and me

2010-12-22T03:15:00.001+05:30

प्यार पनपा था
लेकिन पूरा न हो पाया
पल पल के प्रश्न ने
पहले ही पीस दिया

2010-12-22T03:12:00.001+05:30

जब पल नहीं सकते
तो शहर आये क्यों
यहाँ लोग तुम्हे जंगली कहेंगे
जहाँ स्वछन्द कहते थे

फुर्सत...

2010-10-22T15:15:00.003+05:30

I am choking on time today
excited with the sudden abundance
....like a thirsty kid greedily gulping water
after playing hard and long
...Only I wasn't playing hard :(

अचानक तो नहीं फिर भी
इतना सारा दिखा
तो मन पागल सा हो गया है
ऐसा लग रहा है की रेगिस्तान से उठा के
किसी आंधी ने समंदर पे ला फेंक दिया हो
वक़्त ही वक़्त, फुर्सत ही फुर्सत...
स्कूल के उस नल के ठंढे निस्वाद पानी की तरह
जो खेलने के बाद अमृत सा लगता था
आज वो नल वक़्त उरेल रहा है
और मैं बिना सोचे की ये वक़्त साफ़ है या गन्दा
पिए जा रहा हूँ...
इतनी जल्दबाजी में की सांस रुक रही है

2010-06-03T14:32:00.001+05:30

Late -
is so unfortunate
by the time its there
time is never there

The day

2010-05-18T09:33:00.003+05:30

I usually wake up once before waking up.
At 4 in the morning.
Sometimes my throat is parched...dehydrated with last night's wine.
At other times, my bladder is full (sometimes with last night's wine).
But mostly it is the thought of the day that lies ahead.
Slides, numbers, projections, meetings, discussions.
Drag day. Dragon day.
Dreaded day.
Day blacker than the night.
Day of dead wakefulness.
So I think about the day, get depressed and put myself to sleep just 5 minutes before I have to wake up.

At 4 in the evening the thought of the day on its deathbed cheers me up.
I wade through the slides and the numbers and the meetings and the discussions with all the strength of my optimism.
And then in a couple hours I leave to meet my loved one.
To have a good time. To celebrate our surviving another day.
But. The day is gone. It shadows are not.
It looms large over us.
On me the tiredness and bitterness of all the hours gone down the drain.
On her the tiredness and bitterness of waiting.
So we meet in mute resentment of others company.
Resentment of the day long longing.

And so I am eager to go to sleep.
So that I can sleep and dream. Of a day not like the real one.
Till at 4 I wake up again. Before finally waking up.

Love's lyrics

2010-03-23T15:13:00.003+05:30

The sun is always there
Sometimes you look it in the eye and find it bright
And then sometimes you turn your back on it
To find only shadows ahead
But those shadows are yours, love
Because you are blocking the sun
******
I am greedy for your love. Aeons of your love is exhausted in one breath and I am left gasping for more. Each breath that I take, I will gulp a "worldful" of your love.
*******
Nights are for fighting.
Mornings for making up.
Afternoons spent pining.
Evenings for soaking up.

आभाव से समझौता

2010-03-19T19:00:00.003+05:30

मेरे मन की कुछ दराजे खली राखी थी। उन अनुभूतियों के लिए जो अन्चाखे थे। जिनसे मेरा परिचय किताबों में हुआ था। सोच कर की पढ़ी हुई ये अनुभूतियाँ कभी महसूस भी होंगी। हर दराज को प्यार से लेबुल किया था - एक नाम हर उस अनुभूति के लिए जिसका आभाव था।

ये सब बहुत पहले किया था। काफी दिनों से तो कुछ याद भी नहीं था। मैं तो मन के अन्दर झांकता ही नहीं था। इसलिए इन दराजों को बचपन के स्क्रैपबुक की तरह भूल गया था। कुछ दिन पहले मन में झाँका तो इन दराजों के देखा। लगा, चलो इनको भरने की कोशिश करे। कुछ दिनों तक अनुभूतियाँ बटोरता रहा।

कल एक तूफ़ान आया। आज सुबह देखा तो दराजों में धुल और पत्थर भरा हुआ हुआ है। भरे हुए दराज से मन भारी है। लेकिन अब इनको साफ़ करके फी संजोने की हिम्मत नहीं है ।

सोचता हूँ की झूठी आशा के हल्केपन से वास्तविकता का भारीपन अच्छा है । मन ऊंचा नहीं उड़ेगा लेकिन गिरने से ज्यादा चोट भी नहीं आएगी । और दूर तक तो जायेगा - भले ज़मीन से चिपक कर ही सही!

तुम्हारे लिए

2010-02-04T11:38:00.004+05:30

ये पंक्तियाँ सुमित्रा नंदन पन्त जी की कविता अनुभूति से हैं। पन्त जी छायावाद के स्तम्भ माने जाते हैं। मेरे बचपन और छात्र जीवन में पन्त जी की कविताएँ मेरे ह्रदय के समीप थे। समय के साथ मेरा रुझान अंग्रेजी की तरफ बढ़ता गया और पन्त जी अंतर्मन के किसी कोने में खो गए। आज बहुत दिनों बाद मुझे उनकी इस कविता की याद आ गयी । मैं इन पंक्तियों के लिए बहुत कुछ लिखने का प्रयास कर सकता हूँ किन्तु वो अपर्याप्त रहेगा मेरी भावनाओं को व्यक्त करने में ।
ये पंक्तियाँ तुम्हारे लिए हैं...

अनुभूति
---------

तुम आती हो,
नव अंगों का
शाश्वत मधु-विभव लुटाती हो।

बजते नि:स्वर नूपुर छम-छम,
सांसों में थमता स्पंदन-क्रम,
तुम आती हो,
अंतस्थल में
शोभा ज्वाला लिपटाती हो।

अपलक रह जाते मनोनयन
कह पाते मर्म-कथा न वचन,
तुम आती हो,
तंद्रिल मन में
स्वप्नों के मुकुल खिलाती हो।

अभिमान अश्रु बनता झर-झर,
अवसाद मुखर रस का निर्झर,
तुम आती हो,
आनंद-शिखर
प्राणों में ज्वार उठाती हो।

स्वर्णिम प्रकाश में गलता तम,
स्वर्गिक प्रतीति में ढलता श्रम
तुम आती हो,
जीवन-पथ पर
सौंदर्य-रहस बरसाती हो।

जगता छाया-वन में मर्मर,
कंप उठती रुध्द स्पृहा थर-थर,
तुम आती हो,
उर तंत्री में
स्वर मधुर व्यथा भर जाती हो।

2010-02-02T21:36:00.001+05:30

There is something in me which is angry. Very angry. Out to destroy everything I love. Why? I would like to understand please. PLEASE!!!

The outsider

2010-02-01T15:40:00.002+05:30

I am relearning an old technique. Don't know the appropriate word to describe it. Depersonalization. Yes that would come closest. Except depersonalization is considered to be an emotional dissociative disorder - so my word web tells me. Yet depersonalization it is and I find it most therapeutic. I used to do it quite often growing up, I looked at myself in the third person and regarded at everything surrounding me from the outside. Like a dispassionate, curious observer - even observer is too strong a word, I would be an onlooker. I would do it as an amusing mind game then - also a way to conquer my fears and apprehensions. It was a mechanism for me to cope with my unhappiness, my boredom, my limited understanding. Once i depersonalized myself, I was very objective and I felt invincible. Sandeep the person was vulnerable but Sandeep the outsider was untouchable. Somewhere down the line, Sandeep the outsider became the insider. I think it happened because I became happy with myself. I had things going the way I wanted them to. My ability to understand and control things improved. Recently I am rediscovering it. I dont have it fully and it isnt a skill I have mastered to the extent that I can fully modulate it. Ironically, I think i am relapsing into depersonalization as a way to escape too much happiness, self-satisfaction and too pat an understanding of things. It is to escaped the ennui of easy answers and vulgarity of easy options. Be that as it may, I am happy rediscovering the outsider. It makes me feel less vulnerable and more in control.

Unpunctuated

2010-02-01T15:22:00.006+05:30

it is increasingly difficult to write where there were sharp word embers to capture and radiate my smoldering thoughts there is now dusty ash which is diffuse in its warmth without edges or points i was used to picking up machined ready-made words for them but looks like i will now need to patch together and tailormake words and even then will i be able to cloth them will i be able to bring out the smooth subtle contours it is a pity i think the easier thing is to work them out and bring them back to shape so that they are simpler to make out

Your smell, sight and sound

2010-01-11T10:51:00.008+05:30

Ginger you linger
in the scent
that soaks the air
and permeates the pillows where
nestle two slender strands of your silky hair

Ginger you linger
in the image
faint foggy dimmer
hovering and floating in the mirror
long after you stood regarding your reflection fair

Ginger you linger
in the echoes
fading but clear
of tiny little laughlets asunder
eons after you dropped them gingerly here

2009-06-30T23:19:00.002+05:30

कहने को इतना कुछ जमा हो गया है
अल्फाजों की होर में बयां खो गया है

Mediocrity

2009-06-24T17:14:00.004+05:30

उमंगों के साथ ताकत भी होती
या खुशी खुशी मामूलीपन ढोता
यहाँ तो बीच में फंसा, आरजुओं से घिरा
अपनी अधूरी काबलियत पे हूँ रोता

Young man and the sea

2009-05-30T18:11:00.005+05:30

The magnetic, all consuming sea
reached its fingers inside me
and drew my conflicted phantom out
leaving me oh-so-lonely and distraught

Rain

2009-05-19T14:47:00.006+05:30

Sometimes when it rains,
I feel moist inside, I feel like
the grease stains on the soul,
and the grime in the system,
are being rinsed away

And then when the sky clears,
wringing myself to drain the moisture,
I sprawl under the post-rain sun,
emerging with a serviced soul,
crispy dry, gleaming new, ready for use

Answers You Seek From Me, To The Best Of My Ability

2009-05-15T12:20:00.004+05:30

How does one achieve closure? How does one move on?

I don't know exactly when it walked into my life. It was as if I was too engrossed playing in the sun, and didn't see the clouds gathering. And then one instinctive second, I felt a shadow fall on me. I looked up to discover that the sun was gone and it was chilly.

I had experienced clouds before. Even liked them on most occasions. Days when the Sun would not feel upto it and decide to stay at home, snug under a blanket of clouds. But the clouds, almost always, melted in a torrent of thick, cold water. The day after always felt cleaner, purged. It was like fasting. It left you feeling pure.But this time...it was different. It felt permanent. The clouds seemed to have come to stay. I had a premonition the Sun was gone from my life. Bright, broad day light, against the backdrop of which I could see things clearly, was gone.

And so it was. The clouds were always there from then on, hovering. I felt haunted. Weighed down. Then it stretched its fingers down and reached into my heart. My heart, dark and dank for the lack of Sun. There was now a thin streak of fungus. Soon it started branching out, multiplying. Everyday, it made progress. It wrapped itself around my veins and arteries like creepers. I could feel it creeping and closing in from all sides.

I ran very hard. In search of a blue piece of sky. I was told it existed. And I could get to live under it if I was sufficiently strong. Fear of the fungus inside, made me stronger. I felt I ought to stay back and fight. Rid my sky of its scourge. Get my Sun back. Fight the fungus. I didn't know how to. I wasn't smart enough. Or strong enough. And my sky was resigned to its fate. It had forgotten its Sun. How do you rid something of itself? My sky had become the clouds. So, I ran. In search of a borrowed piece of clean sky with Sun.

One day, at the end of my tether, I saw Sun in the distance. Not mine. Nevertheless, warm. I was relieved. And hollowed by the struggle. I gave myself to it. The fungi stopped growing. I was terribly weak, so I let the new Sun wash all over me. Nourish my body. Give me my strength back.

I owe a lot to the new Sun. It gives me warmth. And I toil hard under it, giving it my sweat and blood.

I look at my reflection often in the clear stream. It gives me a lot of pride. I am tall, muscular and strong. I can hunt the wildest of beasts. I can run miles. Climb the tallest of mountains. Nature appreciates me - I am productive.

What they don't see is my scarred interior. Gripped with fungi. Fungi, that doesn't creep any more but doesn't go away.

I look back at my sky. At its last remaining vestiges. Just beyond the border. Blackened now with barely noticeable streaks of azure that was its color. It still looks out for me sometimes from these rapidly diminishing portions of its past self. But everytime I start getting hopes it is beginning to clear up, the frowns are back. The dark forehead, black eyes, cruel countenance are all back. I cower back. I remember what it was. I tell myself that the sky may be mine, but it is disfigured. It will destroy me.

I am living under a borrowed sky. My days are borrowed. One day, the borrowed sun will take more than a day off. There will be a longish rainy season. The fungi will crack open the surface and emerge out. I will be enveloped, annihilated. And you, my friend, will not know. You will blame me for what I cannot fight. It has defeated me...long back.

How do I achieve closure? How do I regain my lost sky? How do I rid myself of the fungus within? Fungus or fungi - how do I tell the difference? Is it one long streak of fungus, or multiple, end-to-end? The borrowed sun is like artificial sugar. It can keep things sweet but will I ever taste sweet as I knew it? How do I heal the blisters on my soul. Do I owe something to my sky? My rotten heart - it can sure lay claim to that. And my worthless body. You can sure lay claim to it.

I have nothing else to give. I have no answers.

A Summer Afternoon Memory From a Long Time Back

2009-05-13T16:59:00.007+05:30

Drowsy seconds crawled by with eyelids droopy
the air hung heavy with heat, the formless kind
lacking character or dimension, soggy, sloppy
and people plodded through time, groggy in the mind

It was adorable, the concentrated summer atmosphere
undiluted by contrived comforts of electricity
unpretentious, intense, substantive and bare
it made up with endearing laziness, its lack of felicity

His Story

2009-05-12T15:58:00.008+05:30

At best a vagrant muse
at worst, a cheap potboiler
leitmotif a trite, facile ruse
and the climax, that bit deader

T'was purportedly his story
yet he merely a bystander
while others came to party
he looked on, a lone outsider

Love (and funeral)

2009-05-07T14:41:00.003+05:30

I am in love. Head over heels. I discovered Emily Dickinson purely by chance and boy, am I glad I found her or what? Below is one of my favorite poems from her. A trifle sad, but what is not on this blog :-)

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading—treading—till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through—

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum—
Kept beating—beating—till I thought
My Mind was going numb—

And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space—began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here—

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down—
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing—then.

This kid who is growing up...

2009-04-30T11:42:00.005+05:30

He looks forward to school. His parents are surprised. They think children hate schools. But, he does not want to miss classes even when ill. And he loves going out, meeting people. Surprising again, as he is no extrovert. He is very awkward with strangers, extremely self-conscious. He feels they are always comparing and secretly laughing at him. He has a morbid fear of being laughed at...even secretly. So he wants with all his heart to play, yet never really tries - he is sure they will laugh at him. Mother and father have always emphasized studies and trivialized sports. By the time he is old enough to discover his keenness to play, he is already a country man come to the city for the first time. This acute inferiority complex means that he often stands alone during lunch hours, watching the other kids play. And in the sports classes, he cuts a sorry figure. Once, when he was forced to play football by his sports teacher, he remembers the ball heading his way, and everyone shouting his name - he shut out the increasing thump of his heart, mustered all his strength and ran towards the ball, kicking it powerfully. Later, people told him he had missed the ball completely and it seemed like he almost got out of the way. Anyway, point is he is an underconfident, introverted, loner kid. Yet at heart, he is an extrovert. He loves school outings and school fights. When his mother sits him in the sun, outside his house, he looks at it and wonders. When he sees the sun, many people see the moon. And he is fascinated - he wants to travel and see places where there is moon, when his mother can see the sun here. He wonders if he can be at two places at the same time to see both. And he just goes on thinking like this. About Baker's street where Sherlock Holmes lived. About, hotdogs and hamburgers that the Hardy boys eat. About, aeroplanes and airports. Most of all, he thinks about snow. And about ships. Sailing quietly in the night, surrounded by infinitely stretching water on all sides. Weren't the early voyagers afraid of being on a ship - how were they sure, water ever ended and there was another shore? Ship, snow, sports - none of these are in his life and he lustsafter them. He wants all these and that keeps him going.One day, the underconfidence and complexes will be vanquished by his middle-class value system based on a need to succeed and he will become a superhuman. Or inhuman. There will be no snow for the snow will all melt. He will realize that timezones give jet lags. He will be sick of waiting at the airports. He will know that Sherlock Holmes didn't exist and neither do Hardy Boys. And that hotdogs and hamburgers are why American kids are fat. He will be far too smart for his own good. He will be an extrovert, yet really an introvert. He will dearly wish he falls ill so that he can bunk office. He will be a gym-freak, running for hours on a treadmill, terribly bored, yet unable to get off as if transfixed by the numbers ticking off calories from his body. Work will prepare him for the tedium of the treadmill and treadmill in turn will make him look forward to work. He will go out, get the world and become the world.

Suicide

2009-04-24T13:31:00.005+05:30

For a moment, consider why
after all, should you not die

What joy do you get pretending
that this ennui perpetual, unending
is what happiness is meant to be
and everything else was baloney

The concepts of truth and beauty
meaning, larger purpose and duty
to do something that transcends
self-serving, petty little ends
were all nice-sounding sentences
and that life, in fact, is lived in pretenses
that, in reality, it is a series of compromises
done up well, served in all shapes and sizes

I think its time, you dare
and end this sordid affair
It doesn't take a lot
use a gun, knife, or knot

Let death not be dull
like life was...one eternal lull!

Words

2009-04-17T23:09:00.002+05:30

Nude. Stripped of context. Freed from grammar. Arranged at mad angles. Deep, bloody, red ones on cold, white, glaring ice. Damp, wet, dripping, left to dry in the post-rain moist sun. That melt in your mouth like hot, chocolate fudge. That leave a lingering bitter aftertaste. That ring final. Inevitable. That hit you right in the face. Which are not the property of language. Peeled of language. essentially an expression of smell, sight, sound, self. Like buoys. Like lighthouses. Like compass. Like anchor. Like mirrors. That you can hang yourself with.

इश्क

2009-04-16T16:21:00.007+05:30

(मेरी पहली उर्दू शौकिया नज़्म...दरियादिली से गौर फरमाइयेगा)

रात रेत आहिस्ता आहिस्ता
उँगलियों के बीच से
फिसल फिसल कर तेरे
टांगों पे जा टिकती थी

चाँद काहिल, कुछ देर से
जो बादलों को ओढे था
झांक के बाहर चेहरा
तुम्हारा तकता था

आवारा हवा बार बार
समंदर से पा बढावा
जुल्फों को उलझा कर
चेहरे पे खींच लाती थी

तुम खीज कर अलक
पेशानी से पीछे धकेलती थी
और माथे पे तुम्हारे शिकन
खिलखिला निकल आती थी

तलावत से तेरी मैं ही नही
कुदरत भी होश खो बैठी थी
कल रात फितरत खुदा की भी
तेरे हुस्न से मचल गई थी

Loony in the head

2009-04-14T15:37:00.003+05:30

Do you screw up too
once in a while, you know
go get beaten up, do you
trip, fall down, hit a low

Do you for some time brief
tire yourself with breath
and go out seeking grief
go out seeking death

Do you, just like me
hit them with regularity
when they don't let you be
and you live with insanity

Do you, do you, do you
play your mind, play chess
I know you do, you too
go ahead, why don't you confess

Nobody's going to judge,
for others are also crazy,
no one is going to grudge
your madness, these times hazy

Stream of consciousness

2009-04-07T15:50:00.000+05:30

Labile. Volatile. This moment, happily enslaved by the promise of happiness. That moment, staring in the mirror at what might in its erstwhile days have been recognized as his humanity. Delusional days. Empty nights. Protracted periods spent trying to discern sharp and familiar shapes in the blind blur of rotating blades of the old fan in his old room. Followed by feverish weeks spent blowing the dust away from all the old books, in his old box, immersed between their pages, taking in every word as the gospel truth. Born again, dead again. Uniformly non-uniform. Regularly insane. Seasons of abstinence, interrupted by bacchanal binges. Learning to unlearn. Going in circles. Confused by moments of clarity. Happily sad and then sadly happy. Painfully aware, blissfully unaware. Longing for love, liberated by love, bound by love, loathful love. Liberated to lose bearings. Drunk on life. Thirsty for life.
******
All nice things are for future. Feed the present to the future. Squeeze it of all life, drain its blood out. Let ghosts from the future haunt the crap out of the present with their fake allure and false promise.
******
They continue to stare. Innocuously - tiny, round and pink. Pink! That makes him smile. It was ironical that they were pink, he had thought once upon a time. Now of course, it makes sense. Pink is appropriate. In any case, they are staring. Together, with their collective might, tugging at his fast melting resolve. 20 of them. Pop them - 10 at a time, 20 at a time. The more the merrier. Ignorance packed in tiny, little, pink things carrying with them the promise of bliss. Can perfect knowledge be packed so compactly too?
******

युवक की उत्पत्ति

2009-04-06T15:26:00.000+05:30

एक तितली
बेफिक्र, स्वच्छंद और सरल
हवा के संग बहती हुई
खिड़की से कमरे के
भीतर घुस आई
और गोल गोल घेरे में
आंखों के सामने
बालक के
मानो जिग्यासा से
मंडराने लगी

बालक के मन में
एक नवीन अनुभूति ने जन्म लिया
अपरिचित किंतु शक्तिशाली
सौंदर्य को शाशित
निरीह को अधीन
और अपनी प्रभुता स्थापित करने की
आत्म्कामिका की अनुभूति ने जन्म लिया

बालक ने लपक कर
धर लिया तितली को
और रंग बिरंगे उसके
पंखो को
दबा लिया उँगलियों से
आंखों में उसकी
डर और विवेश्ता
देख कर
उन्माद उसका बढ़ता ही गया

उत्तेजना की चरम सीमा पर
पहुँच कर
झटके में तितली के
पंखों को पृथक किया
उसके शरीर से
और कुछ क्षणों तक देखता रहा तड़पते हुए
कुछ ही देर पहले के
सजीव और सुंदर तितली को
मरते और मुरझाते

बालक निरर्थक
और शुन्य निगाहों
से अपने कृत्य को
अपने पुरुषत्व को
देर तक निहारता रहा
तितली मर चुकी थी
और हो चुकी थी
युवक की उत्पत्ति
बालक के मन में

सफर (by cuckoo, she should sing more)

2009-04-02T22:26:00.000+05:30

घर जाते हुए रस्ते में देखा
एक सूखा पीपल के पत्ता यूँ पड़ा था जड़ के पास
शायद बिछुड़ने के ग़म में रुका था कुछ देर

एक गीले हवा का झोंका आया
पत्ते को उसने जैसे गहरी सोच से जगाया

वो ज़मीन उसने छोरी जिससे लिप्त था इतनी देर से
और उड़ा अम्बर की और, कभी गिरता, कभी टकराता बढ़ता गया,

चल तो रहा था मेरे साथ ही
कभी मेरे पाँव से टकराता , तो कभी कुछ सोच के दूर हो जाता,
नजाने कहाँ जाके रुकना था उसको
पर जब तलक मेरे साथ चला, मेरा सफर तन्हा नही कटा

p.s. cuckoo dwells at : www.whileiambeing.blogspot.com

व्यक्तिगत दिन

2009-04-02T15:09:00.000+05:30

आज का दिन व्यक्तिगत बीता
ना हजामत की, न घंटे भर कसरत किया
काम पर कुरते में गया, कमरे के बाहर
चपरासी को कनखियों से देख कर
उसके अस्तित्व से अभिज हुआ ।

आज व्यापारिक समाचार को भूल कर
बेफिक्र पढ़े मनोरंजक क्षेत्रीय ख़बर
ऑफिस के मशीन की बासी काफ़ी पीने के बजाय
बाहर निकल कर ठेले वाले की ताज़ा चाय
और गरमा गर्म पकोरियाँ का मजा लिया ।

घर के रास्ते में जब कुछ भिखमंगे मिले
विवेचना बिना मैंने उन्हें पैसे दिए
आज न बुद्धीजीवी था ना ही न्यायाधीश था
आज आम सामान्य उभयनिष्ठ रहा
आज सामाजिक नहीं, मेरा दिन व्यक्तिगत बीता ।

This weekend and that - long, unstructured and incomprehensible (part II)

2009-03-30T00:23:00.000+05:30

II. Full circle in Calcutta - not this weekend
Day I
Midway from airport to S's place, I get a phone call and I go - "crap, I picked up some one else's luggage!". As I ask the driver to turn back, he looks at me with empathy and I realize "Not easy to leave your baggage behind! It follows you!" So here I was, back to Kolkata. Kol (yesterday) Kat(h)a - story : yesterday's story. Life has come full circle - and what a circle it has been. You have traveled all around, thinking you were moving ahead to reach exactly where you were and that is your eureka moment - life my friend is round and goes in circles. At this point, of course, inevitably almost, the car fm radio starts blaring out - ye duniya badi gol hai. I ask the driver to turn off the air-conditioner, and roll down the window to feel the breeze and check if it is familiar. Of course, it is familiar - hot, humid and carrying with it stench and dust - no pretensions, no soft touchy-feely stuff here, this breeze is rugged and has been around. In any case, baggage duly picked up again from a not-to-pleased babu moshai, I finally reach S's place. In the middle of an expansive stretch of barren land punctuated with midget huts, stands their tall apartment proudly displaying a neon sign which says Sarachi in gaudy red letters. Almost as a last lame stand of the weak and the pre-historic, stands a sorry excuse of a shop, just outside the entrance of the building - one ancient lantern burning dimly, almost purposelessly - preserved just as a matter of pride and old glory by the owner I presume. The shop has an assortment of goods - new age kurkures and out-of-fashion orange chocolates. Their flat is on the 10th floor - good, I feel better now. I will use the staircase - funny how we find ways to escape from places we go to. The apartment is swanky. I am informed that it falls under the high income group apartments. There is a terrace too which gives a good view of the poverty all around and is an amazing place to get drunk. I approve of the terrace.
Day II
The familiar yellow taxi, smelling of sweat and petrol - takes me to the familiar Park Street. How I wish K was here! As I walk the stretch, with restaurants lined up on both sides, old buildings greet me with an understanding nod as only old buildings can. We walk into one-step-up and come out feeling it is a little cheap and downmarket. As we did in 2004, realizing it was beyond my meager salary. Only this time the doorman wasn't sniggering. Life has come a full circle. Remember when Flury's reopened - there was an unbelievable queue of people outside it - such is the power of legacy . I take in the sight of people relishing Kathi rolls and mind goes back to K's love for Kathi rolls. There are a bunch of hippies having fried noodles by the roadside. Enter one of the restaurants, with its white liveried waiters and strangely subdued lighting that always depresses me. Eat and drink and drink till we realize that one of us is drunk. Seriously drunk. So, we have a seriously drunk person with one who is drinking for fun and is not serious with a third person who is seriously sober and doesn't find any of it funny. Follow mad chases on the road, wrestling in maidan , a few tight slaps - we finally end up where we are supposed to - in Sarachi building, with the seriously sober person much weary and worse for the experience. Sobreity has its own pitfalls! 24 hrs now with barely a couple hours sleep. Emotionally drained, I do what I do at such times - find the darkest corner in the apartment (which was in the kitchen), shove my head inside one of the cupboards, curl up in a feotal position and cry myself to another couple hours of sleep. By the time I wake up, the seriously drunk friend is still serious but sober, the seriosuly sober friend is still serious and sober, and I am in a situation where I can use a few drinks. So, we head up to terrace, i drink in the view - the numerous huts around, and we start talking. What is it about Kolkata. We talk so much- everyone talks so much. Don't know when we stop and go to sleep.
Day III
Next day is bright. I feel purged and clear-headed. Head to a swanky mall. Another expensive restaurant. Expensive buffet. An expensive wine. The erstwhile seriously drunk is not in the mood. So, I have it by myself. Of course, all the while I remember that wine has calories. So, i cut down on food and have only dal and wine. Fron the swanky restaurant to a swanly mutiplex. Only the cinema is gritty. It is about love, loss, lust and power. In brief, it is about life. It is based in Rajasthan and is a story of Rajputs - that gives me a sense of being connected. Which is of course delusionary because the Rajputs I know would look like caricatures of the ones depicted in the movie. Which reminds me of this clever thing that I thought of while watching the cinema - real life and real characters are such caricatures of fiction and fictional characters. And all the while we think it is the other way around. The best parts of the movie are of course (and naturally so) lost on majority of the audience. The storyteller is defeated again! So hardly a murmur of appreciation for those references to Dinkar's poetry and Pyaasa's songs. We go back home after cinema, realize we are hungry and nobody is going to deliver and go out foraging. On the way, I get into this monologue about life and marriage which is characteristically pessimistic and outrageous. But it makes for good dinner table conversation too.
Day IV
I wake up at 4, bid good-byes and head for the airport. I guess I will have to come back here - the baggage is still very much there. But for now, the play is over. Onwards to consultancy, smart dressing, good eating, many pleasantries, elevated sense of importance, juvenile insecurities, morning flights, loungy (lousy) waits. Onwards to life.

This weekend and that - short and structured (part I)

2009-03-28T19:32:00.000+05:30

I This weekend - without a shirt on my back
These days, I keep thinking about that poem (or story..I don't remember) I read at school. A hypochondriac king, convinced he was suffering from a serious affliction, summoned all the medical practitioners in his kingdom and demanded that he be diagnosed and cured of his mysterious illness. Some medicos were honest (yes, some of them are :-)) and informed the king that his illness was a delusion. The King, not used to truth, summarily sent them to gallows. Some others, more used to the ways of kings, humored him by diagnosing illnesses with strange sounding names and prescribed him placebos. Of course, the placebos could not keep the mad king happy for long and their fate was no different (much like in real life, the honest and the equivocal both go to hell!). So, in the end, there was only one physician left - considered the wisest and most prudent of them all. When it was his turn, he diagnosed the king with what he called "depression" and opined that the king could be cured only if he wore the shirt of a perfectly happy person. The king dispatched his troops in all directions to find a perfectly happy person. Days, weeks and months passed by - it seemed that nobody in the Kingdom was perfectly happy - everyone had a past to complain of, a present to preserve or a future to secure. Till one day, a group of soldiers, chanced upon one who appeared like a vagabond. He lay in an open field, under the sun, his eyes closed, a blissful smile playing on his lips. The soldiers questioned him - "Are you happy?" "Perfectly!" "Don't you have any cares?" "What cares? My past, present and future are this moment" "We want your shirt" "Shirt! I have never had one!" The king heard that the only perfectly happy person in the kingdom did not have a shirt on his back! The king suddenly understood this "depression" - he renounced his kingdom and wealth and lived happily ever after - like a vagabond. Such has been my weekend - lying in the open fields, under the open sun, without a shirt on my back, soaking in the moment.

5 random thoughts...

2009-03-22T23:20:00.000+05:30

1. 2.5 hours never seemed so many - you chase them all day and they keep receding...slowly and steadily. It is utterly wicked and cruel!
2. It is a season of relationships. As I am getting into new ones which are full of exciting possibilities, there are those couple of old ones, which threatened to break anchor and set sail - drift away. I have realized though, that beginning a voyage as they may be, with new mates, there is a string that ties us still and one of us just needs to tug at it for the other to come running by. As I was saying to C and S the other day, "My thoughts and values are evolving constantly. However, I no longer feel the need to evaluate and reassess all my relationships with new perspectives. Some relationships have now achieved the constancy that makes them independent of "points-of-views" and "perspectives on life" and they are just there - like your parents. I take them as given." Then there are those relationships that have taken a turn for the worse reminding of me of debts that I need to repay. It is a season of relationships this.
3. Rebellion is back in fashion. At least, the notion of rebelling has found its way back into my head and crept into my conversations. I look forward to these "chai for me and sutta for him" sessions with R that punctuate my working hours these days. Our conversations are irreverent and we crib unapologetically. These collegiate discussions, strewn with liberating expletives, are the high points of my working hours.
4. Rediscovering some words I had lost in the recesses of my mind. The other day, it was dark and I was fumbling around - I bumped in "ephemeral". Today, I met "visceral".
5. I found a leaf between the pages of one of my old books today. It brought back an old day from the not-so-recent-past. I ambled back from the school, on a hot and sunny afternoon, day dreaming about cricket and IIT. A violet leaf, smelling sweet, drew my attention for some reason and I plucked it, inhaled its aroma and decided to keep it - between the pages of a book. The leaf has that day written all over it. It is perhaps the best photograph of my childhood.

2 stills from years ago

2009-03-13T12:08:00.000+05:30

14 kilometers of narrow, winding, serpentine "kacchi sadak". Green fields punctuated by huts with semi clad kids flitting in the distance. Slow, rhythmic sway of the bullock cart lulls you to sleep. And every once in a while, just as I am about to slide in slumber, the buzz of a fly and its faint tickling touch on my cheek.
******
Jostling for space with the crowd around me. Fighting to hold on to my mother's fingers - squeezing it so tightly that she winces and looks at me annoyed. She heads for the same subziwala, her regular guy who gives her good prices. And they haggle endlessly. Every once in a while, some one passes us with an acknolwledgment of acquaintance. As I get bored, I start drawing imaginary things in the air with my fingers. I am at it for a while, before I feel a tug on my hand, mother looking at me with joy and explaining to the subziwala, "He likes drawing in the air. His drawings leave no trace except in his imagination".
******

While you are being...

2009-03-10T01:59:00.000+05:30

...you are making my life incredibly ethereal!

Between you and me...

2009-03-02T22:23:00.000+05:30

I feel like I am on a cliff. On the edge. It is so still I can hear my heart beat with a dull thud against my chest. I am so nervous, I almost feel tickled and laugh out loud. I slowly drop my gaze downward. From the clear blue sky into the dark, vertical, unending chasm. As I gaze into the depth, my heart beating faster and faster, scared and thrilled by what would happen if I let go of myself, I am held riveted, magnetically by the sight below. Realization dawns that I must take the leap. Having been here so many times before, returning without exploring what seems to be my destiny, this time I almost feel incapable of doing anything but gently bend and push myself against the infinitely elastic space. I close my eyes and step forward into the vacuum for the ride of my life. It is a leap of faith that I have taken. As I hurtle down, in a free fall, I see nooks and crevices that I scarcely knew existed in these rocks. Amazing shapes and form pass me by, in a blur with blinding speed. I feel exhilarated. I feel at one with you.

You feel like destiny to me. You are so quiet, I hear myself clearly. When we talk, sometimes your words take life and make faces at me, bringing me a smile. Sometimes you make the space between us melt and I am face-to-face with you feeling awkward and self-conscious. Your fragrance reaches me, traveling through optical fiber and telecom cable. I wake up looking for a green dot on the screen. As I work through the day, my eyes flit up every few seconds, taking in the color of the dot - green, orange and grey - matching my mood. There is a thrill in my heart and I am afraid too. I can land with a crash and end up hurting myself.

But for now, I will take the leap and enjoy the ride. I am hurtling towards you in free fall, as you wait for me, arms extended, smiling mysteriously.

Bon voyage!

प्रार्थना

2009-02-02T00:26:00.000+05:30

हे इश्वर,
प्रश्न मेरे मन से हर ले, चित्त को शांत इतना कर दे
मिथ्या अपने विवेक के वश में, व्यर्थ तेरी माया समझने की हवश में
न विचलित यूँ ही भटकता रहूँ।

चतुराई में अपने न करू खोखली विवेचनाएँ,
न अहम् के चश्मे से ताकू तेरी रचनाएँ
बुद्धि यदि बनती है बाधा प्रभु, बुद्धि मुझसे छीन ले ।

Return...

2009-01-26T23:40:00.000+05:30

What is it about past that imbues it with such purity and beauty ? And why is it that present is always spent miserably, in dread of the future and in painful reverie reminiscing of things colored beyond recognition by my fantastic sub-conscious...always plotting and planning to escape the humdrum and mundane that is today and was in all probability yesterday. With me, it has always been difficult to deal with the present - I like ghosts, they tread lightly and their company is not demanding - no weight of expectation for they are beyond redemption...and they keep changing ever so subtly to fit in with my moods. May be that's why I had put you to sleep. But now I am waking you up, braced for another confrontation with reality - the here and now.

Life

2006-08-27T22:36:00.000+05:30

It corrodes, It rusts
Not the nicotine, the smouldering tip
smoking like the wintry cold
the wicked red eyes sneering into yours
as it gnarls the white, churning it slowly and steadily
into powdery, spineless black
and then as you rear your head
crushes your soul one final time
under the shining suede sole

EDITED : In face of some confusion, yes I have written the above piece, the italics notwithstanding.

Schizophrenia

2006-08-26T19:00:00.000+05:30

The lunatic is in my head

You raise the blade, you make the change

You re-arrange me 'till I'm sane

You lock the doorAnd throw away the key

There's someone in my head but it's not me.

And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ear

You shout and no one seems to hear

And if the band you're in starts playing different tunes

I'll see you on the dark side of the moon

(Brain Damage, Pink Floyd)

"Ok, what is your problem ?"
"I don't know. Guess I'm just bored. No, I am definitely depressed. Lonely. Was looking so much for someone to talk to."
"You could have come to me, you know." She is hesitant, almost shy. I gaze at her, puzzled I think. Now, what is it? Of course. Why is it throbbing so badly.
"But I thought you were dead. Weren't you ? That day, remember?"
"Oh no! I survived. The others died. You didn't come though, did u,to check?"
"But, I did come. With the others. Even though Ma said she would ground us if we went. We didn't see any of you. Everyone was talking in hushed tones."
"Hmm. I remember. Kurta-pyjamas, shaking heads. There were screams too. And, it rained that day. Everything was white.The house and the people."
"But how do you know? You were not there. I didn't see you."
"You didn't." She accepted.
"I wasn't there". Simply.
"Then how would you remember?" Should I scream ? But she is beautiful.
"I seem to."
I am dazed. I hold the head in my hand. Why does it feel so big? The throbbing is worse.
"What? You don't believe me now?" She is angry. She is beautiful.
"I am here, am i not. Touch me if you think I am a ghost." I am only too glad to.
"You are cold."
"It is cold. 2 in the morning. And you are snug in a blanket."
"Ohh..you can come in if you want." She accepts the invitation.
"You never thought of me all this while, did you?"
"I did. Every 1st Jan. All they talked of you was you and your family. We could never celebrate new year because of you. And I had nightmares. Van. Accident. What-not!"
She looks hurt.
"I was thinking of writing a letter to you. A love-letter. But I was embarassed. And all the others liked you too. I stood no chance anyway."
She is pleased. "But you did."
"Did I? Didn't you say, I could play no game? I was a geek." Now, I am glaring.
"Why do you think I followed you all the way. Why am I here?"
"Where were you anyway? I never saw you."
"I was hiding. I can hide very well. You could never seek me anyway."
"I could never seek anyone. I used to get distracted by the trees and the whisperings."
"Hmmm." We are silent for some time. We remember. Those times.
"Anyway. What's you problem?"
"I told you I don't know. I am depressed"
"Why?"
"No reason. No. Because of everything. Everything is depressing."
"Why don't you talk to him?"
"He is in Redmond."
"That's not what I asked?"
"You know him?" I am interested.
"Of course I do. He is very sweet." I am jealous.
"Are you jealous ?"
"Why should I be ? I love him most. You better find him sweet. Or you have no business with me."
"Ok. This reservation thing.Why don't you post what you have written?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know anything."
"Its just that everyone has an opinion in the mess. Morons. They talk about fairness."
"Fair? When has life ever been fair? Was it fair to me? And why dont you ask Bhaskar about fairness".
"Bhaskar. You know where he is? He was married, wasn't he?"
"At 14."
"Exactly. And how does it matter that a few I-banks stop coming to the campus. My country would be better served if some more start earning a lot more and a few start earning a lot less."
"But will they stop coming to the campus?"
"No, ofcourse not. All this is paranoia. Everything is just supply and demand. Even Infosys came only to the IITs earlier. Now look at them. The i-banks need people from Asia. Its not like they need geniuses. But when they require only a few now, they go for the best few. Soon they will need more. And all this exclusivity will go fo a toss. Anyway who gives a damn?" I am breathless.
"You seem to."
"I don't. Not anymore. I am ready to take the plane."
"I am leaving on a jet plane..." She starts humming. Its annoying.
"Stop that."
"But why are you unhappy, then? Remember, you wanted to go to UK. Baker's street. Soho ?"
"Yes."
"So?"
"So what? You know I can't go. I will have no one there."
"Who do you have here? Only me. When did you last go home? And, Him - you will have to let him go on with his life. I will go with you."
"You will? How? What will you do there?"
"We can marry. You like me don't you?"
"I do. That's an idea."
"Say, you know how to cook, right. Otherwise, I will be starved for food there."
"You forgot the gajar ka halwa I made for the cookery contest at school?"
"Now that was something!!" I smile.
"Yes, I think we can marry."
"Should we kiss?"
"That is what you have been thinking of, huh?" She stares at me. "Ok. You can." We kiss.
"Do you drink?"
"I will if you want." She says quietly.
"No it's ok. I cannot drink much anyway. He will be angry."
"How will he know?"
"He does. He can sniff."
"Ok. Fine by me."
"So you are accepting the PPO?"
Now I am suspicious.
"Have you been sent by them?"
"By who?"
"By them. You know who. They can't think of anything but me accepting the PPO. My parents. My friends. My batch-mates here at IIMB. All of them have their own reasons. Only he is with me. Who has sent you?"
"Nobody. You just said we will go to London."
"I will go nowhere. In fact I will drop out of this place."
"And do what?"
"Anything."
"Still you must have something in mind."
"Go back to Bihar. Do something. Or just have fun. And then shoot myself in the head when I have had enough."
"Hmm. Why do you keep playing with the blade?"
"Its not what you think. I won't do that. He will be hurt too."
"Why is always about him ? What about you. You won't be hurt?"
"No. I like it. You know, its peaceful after that. Like you are in a vaccum. I feel pain. But it is pleasurable. Atleast I get to feel. Everything floats for sometime. The tear and blood. Then I know, I am living. And I want to get better. And then, when it is healing, I feel purged, pure, at peace."
"Bollocks. All the existential shit you have been reading? How long does that last?"
"What do you know about it? Don't talk about something you don't know."
"I have been reading with you. And I have always been there when you do it."
"Then why don't you stop me?"
"I do it too. Look at my hands." It is criss-crossed.
"See!!". I am vindicated.
"How did you like it today? Talking to Chotu?"
"I liked it. He is a bright kid. I am proud of him."
"I asked how did you like talking to him?"
"We can't talk. I mean we did talk, but I am not going to talk with him about these things. And he doesn't need any distractions. As it is there are many in our family."
"What about mine?" She might cry.
"I am sorry."
"No its ok. They were dreadful anyway."
I don't know what to say.
She is quiet for some time. Then, "Its time for me to go."
"Why?"
"Its almost morning. How will you explain me?"
"But where will you go?"
"I will hide. I told you I am good at hiding." She smiles very faintly. She is beautiful.
"Don't be sad. I will come again. We have plenty to talk."
"Yeah? I can't see that we have."
"We have. I haven't told you how we died."
"We?"
"I mean they." Then quickly, "And we are not finished with your problems. This writing thing for example. And that thing. Your secret plan."
"You know about that?"
"Yes. I have been with you for quite some time now."
There is something churning inside my stomach.
"We must make our wedding plans,too. But no parents business."
I feel I must vomit. "I gotta go."
"OK. Bye then."
"Good Night."
She opens the door and slides outside. I follow her to outside. I see her melt away into darkness.
She knows about the plan. But she is beautiful. And who knew she was alive. I am glad I decide. Will make plans for tomorrow.

I think sometimes

2006-08-23T03:26:00.000+05:30

If I were to die today would it be me or an irony of me ?
A little bit of both I guess.
And of endless feelings that could find no expression.
And of someone's purpose defeated.

Would I be happy it is ending?
Or would I die sad I never lived?
A little bit of both I guess.

Anf if I were to die tomorrow would it be different ?
Unlikely. For tomorrow is going to be the same. Like yesterday was.
I will wake up late. And go to bed late. In between I will sleepwalk.

Farewell

2006-08-19T01:25:00.000+05:30

One flies away to the US as another leaves for Delhi. One will return in a couple of weeks and the other, I don't know when. As I saw him drawing away in the dark, I remembered his first night in bangalore. He was here at IIMB with me. We met occasionally. IIMB does that to you. We had fun. He was working hard to move ahead in life. IIT was history. The real world was not as rosy as we had expected in campus. Then a phonecall one day. He had succeeded. Atleast temporarily. From two point something to five point something else. From Delhi to Bangalore. I was happy. I had seen him working harder than ever. We met. I got drunk. He got pained. I got philosophical. He introspective. We had a quiet dinner today, the three of us. Him and his jokes. He cracks jokes when he is self-conscious. Put him in a spot and his reaction is to poke fun at it. Then we returned. To L-105. He commented how this room was much better than the last one. I told him about Wodehouse. He loves hearing about books. He still remembers the Asimov I had given him to read. I read 'Psmith in the City' out. He laughed. We forgot for some time the heavy spectre of the dreaded parting to come. Then it was here.

"Take care. Seriously.".I will. You take care too.

I am happy for you. I am happy for Delhi. And for the lucky lady waiting for you in Delhi. It has been a long wait.

Read "the diary of a young girl". Its a beautiful book. A trifle sad. But what is not.

And remember with fondness how we fought together, how we made plans to start a coaching center, the four of us. We will visit your restaurant once you open it. If I dont go to London.

Till we meet again.

Safe journey.

A Love Letter or A Romantic's Collage

2006-08-15T22:39:00.000+05:30

Dear CynicalMe,

I don't know where I met her first. I am not even sure if I met her all at once. There were glimpses here and there, every now and then. A fleeting moment where I would briefly catch her before she disappeared . I remember, once between the yellow pages of a Sharat Chandra's novel I met a part of her. She was wearing a Bengali drape, two large pleats in the front, her pallu weighed down by a bunch of keys. The lady of the house since she was fourteen, when her mother died leaving behind a broken-hearted, noble father. She had become the mother of her father. She was "the quiet part", with an intense look on her pretty, little face radiated occasionally by a half-smile - go as quickly as it had come.

And then that night when I saw her in Maaya. Soulful and lively. Reckless and independent. She was adventurous, courting danger, living every moment. She was "the creative part". Late at night I had watched her on Doordarshan, half-afraid my father would wake up and catch me red-handed having my fling and snatch me away. The bewitching and the lovely Maaya died on the T.V set that day but lingered on, accumulating dust in one corner of a fourteen-year-old heart till ten years later a twenty-three-year-old remembered her.

I met her off-and-on in Kolkata. Irresistible, following me everywhere, elusive and persistent. I saw her sometimes on the rainy days, from the fifth floor of a building. As the rains lashed at the clothes left to dry, on a wire hung between two of the numerous huts scattered below like summer rashes, she would appear to hastily remove as many as possible as soon as possible. She looked mesmerizing as she ran around the rain in a faded and old salwar kameez frayed at the edges. I would spot her sometimes as she stepped out from a car to have fuchkes by the road. Excited and with careless abandon, some of the spicy water dripping down her chin. I would also see her in the metros, quietly reading a book, once in a while stealing a glance at the others, quickly looking back as she met another pair of eyes regarding her.

I met her always when you were sleeping. Did you always go to sleep when she came? Maybe she came when she knew you were sleeping. And then you would wake up, I would retreat, shamefaced and feeling like a fool. I would admire your practical eyes, your self-assured, cold logic. You would look at me with derision, your eyebrows raised enquiringly and I would squirme under your gaze - embarassed and red-faced, despairing hopelessly at my weak-heartedness.

I met her again recently. This time when you were awake. You say I have "relapsed hopelessly". You look at me with despise and ask me not be such a fool. You ask "what if she is not the one?" "What if she has met her own?" I don't know. As usual I have no answers to your questions. I will never have for how can I ever know? I am confused. Can you allow me to take a leap of faith?

Yours faithfully,

RomanticMe

The homemaker and the exotic beauty

2006-08-11T03:20:00.000+05:30

You see that pretty young thing, fall head-over-heels in love with her and have a romantic passionate affair. You decide she is the one , pop the question, she - the level headed practical girl that she is - thinks and decides you would be a good, reliable companion for life. Follow wedding and kids. Soon, regularity creeps in. You look at her, she is still beautiful but she reminds you of your mother now. She is your homemaker. You wake up in the morning, and you immediately look at the small stool beside the bed - there it is ! your morning tea just as you like it with the newspaper carefully folded and put beside it. You come back from the office, tired as hell and there she is ready with the magic wand to take your weariness away. But you are bored now. You snap at her. You find her tendency to shower excessive attention irritating. Yes, she reminds you of your mother. Then one day, you see this ravishing beauty. She has a mysterious allure, she is exciting. You are smitten. Follows a tempestuous affair. You are careful though. There ought not to be any tell-tale signs. You are having the time of your life. Then, one day you are asked to make a choice. The homemaker and the exotic beauty. The mother of your kids and the exciting, adventurous lady. The faint creases and the flawless skin. The determined eyes and the deep, alluring ones. The strong pallu-covered shoulders and the naked ones below the long, slender neck. What would you choose ? I know what I would.

Running (or probably just rambling)

2006-08-06T22:41:00.000+05:30

It happened when I saw Prof. Saurav Mukherjee jogging. Prof. Mukherjee is a teacher in the Organizational Behavior area at IIMB. My association with him goes back to the time when he took my CAT interview. Flashback:

Prof. Mukherjee : "You seem to be an idealist"

I (in an extremely combative frame of mind) :"Appearances can be deceptive"

Prof. Mukherjee : "Are you sure you can survive the cut-throat and often dirty competition at IIMB without compromising your principles?"

I: "Since when did lack of scruples become a qualification ?"

I got through IIMB (needless to say to my great surprise). I later realized I must have done well too, for I was shortlisted for AVB scholarships, which means, I was among the top 20 students joining IIMB based on the written and interview stages of CAT2004.

I met Prof. Mukherjee again as a teacher in the first term. I learnt he was an alumnus of IIT Kharagpur. I learnt he had given up an extremely lucrative job to join academia where he felt his heart lay. The term saw numerous arguments between Prof. Mukherjee and me. He never seemed to be irked by my argumentativeness. He commented once about how toppers from IIT, used to a very quantitative / engineering kind of thought process, found it difficult to adjust in a qualitative, ambiguous course like MBA. I passed his course with a 3.82 on 4 which, for those strange to the grading process at IIMB, is quite good.

By this time, I was smitten by Prof. Mukherjee.

Now, recently even as I was dismayed by my propensity to tuck in a blob of fat or two wherever it seemed ugly, I noticed that Prof. Mukherjee was shedding weight with a briskness that almost (but not quite) equalled the alacrity with which Miss Sherawat sheds clothes. And then I saw Prof. Mukherjee running.

Here, as predictable as Sharukh Khan in a Karan Johar tearjerker, I started running. And I surprised myself. I mean, who would have thought that I, who had scratched his back once or twice in the name of physical exercise, could run well. It seems I have good stamina when it comes to running and I can run quite far.

I feel extremely nice after running. The dull throbbing ache in my legs long after I have spent myself and the shooting pain in stomach as my lungs scramble to gasp in oxygen when I have stopped give me immense pleasure. I wonder why I can run so much. Is it because I feel liberated when I run or is it because I have found another way to inflict, however temporarily, pain on my body ? May be its a bit of both. Maybe, it is because I am so bored these day, that I would do anything to pass time. Most probably, it is because running allows me to set newer (farther) goals and feel the flush of pleasure as I achieve them everyday. Or may be its because I like the wet, tingling sweat trickle down my neck and beads perspiration form on my flush hot face. Who cares what it is!!

My IIT and the IIM

2006-05-20T06:28:00.000+05:30

The other day the MD of my desk introduced me as a graduate of IIT and not as an IIM student. I was vaguely pleased. Since then, I have confirmed my hypothesis that there is more awareness about the IITs than about the IIMs. ( This one gentleman on the trading floor, upon being informed that I am from an IIT commented "The one that is better than the MIT!!" Anyway, as I said, I am vaguely and childishly pleased whenever the superiority of the IIT brand over the IIM brand is affirmed. And this has made me wonder why ? Perhaps, because IIT was the result of a youthful dream of "being someone" and not of the mercenary motivation of "being rich" , perhaps because IIT gave me my first identity, perhaps because IIT is where I met some of the most intelligent kids I have met (and I cannot say the same of the IIM). I do not know why but IIT has become a part of me while I look at IIMB from the outside as a detached observer. Perhaps, IIT has the lifelong charm that one's first love has for one. Or, perhaps, I resent the hype that the coverage that the IIMs attract becaus of their placements . It is like IIT Kharagpur is my poor, unsung family and IIM Bangalore the rich family that "I have adopted".I sincerely hope that by the time I pass out I start loving IIM Bangalore more. For I sincerely believe that It has give me much - as much, if not more, than IIT Kharagpur.

What have I been doing in London

2006-05-20T05:53:00.000+05:30

In the last post I tried to list some of the things that I have learned from the internship in Citigroup. Let me list out in this post what I have been doing outside work in this period.

took an open bus tour of London ---> a great concept; you can hop on and off the bus and visit many places in a day; had a ball with Arjun; our first day out in London and I was smitten by the city and its heritage
visited National Gallery ---> one of the best art galleries in the world featuring works of all the great painters; given my lack of interest in and appreciation of the nuances of a painting as well as the Biblical associations of the painitngs which I could not relate to, this visit is just a point on the "resume"
Imperial War Museum ---> High point; amazing, cannot be covered in a day
Natural History Museum, Science Museum, Victoria and Albert Museum ---> London is a city of museums and they cannot be missed
London zoo ---> a disappointment, the ones back home are much better
Watched "The Phantom of the Opera" in Her Majesty's Theatre---> My first musical play performance and an unforgettable experience, highest point of the stay
Saw Trafalgar Square and Leicester Square at night ---> London at night is extremely different from the one in the day; it's lively, it's joyous, it's vibrant
London Eye --> Disappointing

I have bought a very nice Samsung Digimax A 7 camera and an Ipod Nano.

I have had various things and

--> the Crispy Creme Doughnuts are amazing

--> I hate the cold sandwiches

--> the wraps here are delicious; my favourites being spicy tuna, cajun chicken and paaprika chicken

--> I have had more coffee here than in my lifetime and they, unlike me, like their coffee strong and sugarless here

--> Portuguese food is spicy and delicious

--> tha Thai and Chinese food we have at home are quite different from the ones you find here

Steep Learning Curve

2006-05-20T05:25:00.000+05:30

In the last six weeks (of the internship at Citigroup, London) I have

learned that Investment Banking is very different from what I thought it was
learned that the trading floor ( the Fixed Income trading floor commonly called the 2nd floor in Citigroup) has more than 2000 people of more than 100 nationalities
learned that the Black-Scholes model of valuing options is the most important model in Investment banking sales and trading
learned that Black-Scholes is not good enough but the best
become conversant with the Greek letters and know that you must know the alpha, amma, theta and vega of your derivatives
learned that there are the vanilla options and then there are the exotics - barrier, chooser, asian, rainbow, quantos, best of n, knock-in, knock-out
learned swaps, swaptions, caps, floors, collars
learned asset swaps, securitization, repackaging, credit default swaps, collateralized debt/loan/bong/mortgage obligations, single tranche portfolios, first to default baskets
learned you try and trade all kinds of risks - interest rate, forex, volatility, credit
come to know there is delta hedging, there is gamma hedging
learned that there is static hedging, there is dynamic hedging
learned constant portfolio protection insurance, option based portfolio protection insurance
learned what hedge funds are and what their strategies are to generate alpha

And I have been paid 960 pounds per week to learn all that and more that I am sure I have missed out and many that cannot be put in black and white.

Amazing, aint it?

Thank You Songs

2006-05-20T04:22:00.000+05:30

These have been my friends - true friends through thick and thin. With me in the darkest days of my life. I have lain in bed, lights switched off, eyes closed, listening to these, transported away from my worries and problems. In a world where sadness is sweet and lovely. But then when is sadness not sweet and lovely. Some songs (in Jagjit Singh's pristine voice) that have never failed to touch me. The songs I have lived.

Dhuaan uthaa thaa divaane ke jalate ghar se saarii raat

lekin vo khaamosh rahe duniyaa ke dar se saarii raat

(When I fought and lost)

Kaanton ki chubhan paayi

phoolon ka maza bhi

Dil dard ke mausam me

roya bhi hasan bhi

(Last year's romance with Kolkata, my season of pain and sweet memories)

Tere vaade par jiye hum

to ye jaan jhoot jaana

ki khushi se mar na jate

agar aitbaar hota

Ye na thi hamari kismat

ki bisaale yaar hota

(The promise of truth and purpose that is yet to be and perhaps never to be realized)

Unke dekhe se jo chehre pe aa jati hai raunak

wo samajhte hain ki beemar ka haal accha hai

Humko maaloom hai jannat ki haqueequat lekin

dil ke khush rakhne ko Ghaalib ye khayaal accha hai

(Ghalib's poetry, Jagjit's voice and my feelings better than I can put them)

Thank you songs!!

About London

2006-05-17T03:21:00.000+05:30

I have been remarkably silent about London on this blog....well may be not because I am mostly silent here and remarkable are the few times I decide to write something. Not that I dont have things towrite about, they are plenty. Its just that they are disjointed, random thoughts that I find very difficult to synthesise into a well structured, coherent essay. There have been so many occasions in the recent past when I have started apost and then crapped it midway. On most of those occasions, I felt midway that the posts were coming out contrived and not nearly as natural and fluent as when they were thoughts in my mind. Anyway this is another feeble attemp at describing my experiences in London.

Let me start by saying that what I attempt to do below is not a description of the city. It is beyond my limited abilities as a writer. What follow are my feelings about London and my experiences.

London, cliched as it may sound, is a complex organism. I sit on a trading floor where I have met more Indians and French than the British. And that is London for you. Travel in the tube, walk down the streets, enter the various shops and the one thing that strikes you between the eye is the mind-boggling diversity. It is as if the city assimilates everything. When I go to shop for food in the the department stores, I find packaged food catering to many nationalities. I could not believe it when I first saw rotis, papads, pulao and various other Indian food available in plenty. And this sort of variety is true for other cuisines too - Chinese, Thai, Moroccan - you name it.

Another thing I have noticed here is how well dressed most people here are. May be that is because I live in one of the most expensive areas of the city what will all thebanks around. However in my various forays outside Canary Wharf (the splendidly prosperous and therefore mind-numbingly drab locality where I am put up), I have observed that people here are very careful about there dresses and keep themselves very nattily attired. And they are very well mannered too.So, you keep getting surprised by these "thank you"s and "sorry" directed at you from out of the blue for no apparent reason. And while it is pleasing, it makes you wonder how people can be so polite all the times. Compare that with Kolkata where people manage to be rude most of the times without any reason. (May be it is the weather in Kolkata!). This manners are ingrained in people here. What it also implies is that these words soon become meaningless out of being used to death. And people just grunt out these false expressions of gratitude and regret mechanically. I have been advised by a few to take the praise from the English (rather the Europeans as a whole) with a pinch of salt for very often they are just platitudes; and be alert for crticisms for they will be expressed rather subtly and will more often than not be cloaked.

There is not the great divide that one finds in my country India. While there are very rich people, and the not-so-rich people, I haven't really seen a very poor guy around. I mean even the beggars here seem quite well fed and dressed with dignity. You will normally find beggars in the tube-station subways and they would usually be playing some musical instrument. Most people here have got the right to live with dignity unlike India where many live and indeed die in wretched animal conditions.

There are other things about London that may be worthwhile mentioning. However, I am feeling sleepyand its always a long day here. So, I'd better go to sleep. (Also i am bored of writing this.)

Good night!!

Daadi Ma aur Gaon aur Bihar aur bahut kuch…..Jadheen

2006-05-03T06:10:00.000+05:30

(Please ignore the mistakes – grammatical or otherwise. The following will remain unedited)

LONDON, 12:00 A.M

I have been trying to sleep but cannot. Faded, dusty images keep forming and reforming themselves, reminding me of a past not too distant yet very far – history disowning me, taunting me with amorphous, hazy images that wring my heart with nostalgia so deep it hurts. An old woman, very weak, drained of all life looks at me with strange eyes. I can’t make out that look on her ancient face criss-crossed with creases -signs of the passage of time. Is it pleading or surprised? It is lonely for sure. Are those betrayed promises in her eyes? Or is it fear of the night that is soon to come and then never go away – no more dawns, just the eternal night with its all enveloping darkness where she will not be seen nor heard. Perhaps it is just sadness – deep, profound sadness; perhaps she too is thinking of the past like me – of a long gone youth. Of a young 14 year girl, married into a large family…….

Chacha Ji called today. “Do you remember me ?” “what!! Ofcou…” My voice sounding strange to me. A very fair, handsome man. Doting Chacha Ji. Bhaiya is crying, clamoring for attention – the eldest child – had after many mannats. “Somebody, look at gelha also”. I stare at him with the mute gratitude of a two-year old. Gelha – Kabootar ka baccha – the young one of a pigeon.

Really dusty village – Mangwaar. I faintly remember a pucca house – one of the very few in the village. And the mango orchard with machaans where ghosts resided. Anchu bua – What was I then, seven ? I had a huge crush on her. She is no longer that beautiful and I have never had any crush since.

We would come to Mangwaar in Holis and Dussehras. In Papa’s government jeep. And urchins would start running behind as the jeep neared the village, trying to touch the jeep. Mummy would drive them away and I would look at them receding with wonder – not, as I do now, with sympathy at their barely clad emaciated bodies.

“Daadi shapath?” We could not swear on Daadi and lie. Or she would die. “Who do you love more ? Mummy or Daadi?” “Daadi!!” three voices in unison. And a pair of flashing eyes, somebody got up and walked away. Sounds of laughter all around. When there were fights between Daadi Ma and Mummy, the three of us would form a ring around Daadi – to protect her and she would hug us.

Mangwaar has electricity now. Four hours every day. And our pucca makaan has a toilet. I am relieved to see that. I don’t have to take a lota and go to the fields to defecate. Though, I am told the toilet is chiefly for the ladies. The men still use the open spaces.

The mango machaans are no longer there. The ghosts have been evicted. I wonder where they reside now.

The woods are thinner. And there he is – I hate him. We call him Kutil Baba. All children dislike him – he has a habit of showering affection by tweaking the ears sharply – very painful. He is bent now and walks with a stick.

Its been 4 years since I saw Daadi Ma. The accident has rendered her immobile. Now she just sits in a corner, staring at the kitchen with vacant eyes. The kitchen used to be her domain. She had worked all her life and now..

“Can I bring you some khaini Daadi?” She nods her head pleased.

St. Xaviers – roundabout the time Mummy took ill. And Daadi left to live with Chaacha Ji. All her life she had lived with us and now…

St. Xaviers has a huge library. Agatha Christie’s novels and those afternoons…Mummy would seat us in chairs in the sun in winters. I and “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd” – 8 A.M to 4 P.M….the book is about to finish and my pace has increased to the point where I am barely reading the sentences – just registering the story. Can’t wait to get involved with lengthy sentences, I can smell the murderer – should I just look at the last page.

The Father’s quarters is very peaceful and serene. When I come early, I can catch Father Horan pacing in front of his quarter with a book in his hand – he has a habit of walking and reading. “I want to become a Jesuit Father”, I had confided to Harsha.

You know how I landed in a hostel in standard three? I and Bhaiya. It was all his fault. Or the cap’s fault – the fateful Mr. India cap that we bought after watching the show from stolen money during school hours or “what went for a school” hours. Two or three huts, open sky – to get enrolled, you could come and start attending classes under the sky. And we met Papa on the way back – our topis nicely tilted and Papa looking incredulously at them. Off we were – bag and baggage.

So, there she is. Looking at me and I cant bear her scrutiny. She isn’t the loving old Daadi Ma. She is demanding answers now. Or may be I am just imagining like Macbeth.

Mangwaar –> Madhupur –> Birpur –> Hazaribag –> Patna –> IIT Kharagpur –> Kolkata –> IIM Bangalore –> London.

Where are you from?

Guilty as charged – rootless.
No Chacha Ji….You are right – I don’t remember you.

My first year at IIT Kharagpur – a Bihari, proud to be one and passionate about it. Very unsophisticated – a guy who had learned English by reading a lot of books. Very few people had read as much time. He had had time what with Mummy’s illness. Couldn’t speak properly, but wouldn’t take time to learn.

Very sophisticated. From the best of colleges in India. IIT, IIM. A potential Investment Banker. “Pseude” –yes the right word for me. Sometimes the worst of places throw the best of words. Now, can’t speak English nor write. Am in the country of English and find myself woefully inadequate. Can’t speak Hindi either. All those creative writing prizes in Hindi a souvenir or the days gone by when I was a Bihari. Now, I am no longer a Bihari. When is the last time I visited Bihar or thought about it? Can’t speak Bihari or act like one.

No, not a Bihari, nor a Bengali nor a Kannadiga – A creature of the metropolis. Everyone speaks their own language here. I have my own – a curious mixed accent – A mixture of Bihari and English and Lucknowi and IIT KGP lingo and….

I am not rootless because I am in London. I am rootless in Bangalore too.

And whose is that weathered old face peering at me through squinted eyes from the depths of my dream – Daadi Ma of course. But why does she not recognize me? She is calling out in Maithili. Now, how do you respond in Maithili?

The other day, the French guy on my desk, asked me – “How do you bid good bye in Hindi?” I am blank. What the heck..of course we say something…”we say good bye”. “But, that is English”. “No, that is what we speak…it’s a mixture of languages”. Is it Alvida. That is Urdu I suppose.

No, I can’t visit Jogbani. It is a small town and very far. No flights there, not even trains..well there are trains but only local trains..and I hate local trains. Infact nowadays I can’t even travel in an A.C compartment. Its got to be flight or the place is inaccessible. No, I know Daadi – you are immobile. Too bad, for I am too. I need to be carried in plane.

Don’t look at me like that. I don’t recognize you.

I will close all the gates. Who left the doors open? I always shut then when I go to sleep for it is then that I am most vulnerable. No, I will shove them all in their respective compartments, banish them to the inner recesses where they were for so long. I need a stronger lock. Or May be I need to change houses. Lock them all up.

Its useless. Its too late.

Guilty as charged. Rootless

I am in a rut....

2006-03-15T21:45:00.000+05:30

and I know it

Tyranny of the masses

2005-08-25T02:10:00.000+05:30

"How many of you agree with him", he looks around.

There is a general murmur rippling through the gathering; people shake their heads in disapproval.

He looks back at me triumphant, vindicated. The majority has given its verdict.

The "majority" that has made George Bush the most powerful person on earth.

The "majority" that returns Laloo Yadav to power in Bihar every general election.

The "majority" that allowed Hitler to rule.

The "majority" that is the elusive figure political parties in India are seeking.

The "majority" that is good enough to rule yet evil enough for rules to be framed to protect the "minority".

The "majority" that is made up of minorities.

The "majority" whose logic is "we are more numerous; hence we must be right".

The "majority" which, if he were to ask and had it been brave enough, would have told him that he is an ass.

IIT KGP as a psychic prison

2005-08-21T01:02:00.000+05:30

I am pasting below from my MO project where I viewed IIT KGP as a psychic prison. Psychic prison is one of the metaphorical lenses of Gareth Morgan through which one can view an organization.

IIT Kharagpur as a psychic prison
This metaphor in connection with a democratic and liberal institution like IIT KGP may look extremely inappropriate. IIT KGP, by and large, is very democratic with the students allowed participation in all important decisions pertaining to their academics or social life. Rules in the place are very flexible. It may be puzzling, therefore, to think that the members of such an organization are suffering in a psychic prison the system has built around them. The psychic prison to be described in the subsequent lines is not a characteristic of IIT KGP alone; it is, in my opinion, a tragic part of all the IITs and to a large extent of the IIMs as well.
IITs in particular and IIMs to a certain extent, by virtue of being the most prominent of the very few world class institutes in the country, attract a lot of hype and hoopla. These institutes have built an aura around them and have extremely tough entrance exams. The result is, students qualifying these entrance exams are automatically marked as super achievers and whiz kids. They carry an enormous burden of expectations of family and friends – it becomes their duty to succeed. These students are not always equipped to carry such expectations and many of them wither under the tremendous pressure they face. The large number of cases of insanity and suicide that IIT KGP has seen over the last few years are testimony to the tremendous mental strain the students live with. Quite often, the students themselves get caught in this myth generated around these institutions. So, a number of students come with the expectations of instant success; the entrance exam for them is the destination rather than the beginning of the journey. When these expectations are not met, some get totally demotivated. Others delude themselves into believing in the supremacy of the much hyped IIT tag. They abet this process of mythicising IIT by enthusiastically spreading the success stories of IITians and their immense abilities. They get caught in this self-perpetrated myth and find it difficult to come to terms with the reality. Some IITians are so confident and smug about their extraordinary abilities, that they find it impossible to survive in any organization after they pass out. They find it ‘mortifying’ to be working with lesser mortals from the other engineering colleges and are unable to build relationships with the outsiders. Often, the IITians in an organization keep to themselves and form exclusive groups. This, more than lack of ability, has been the principal cause of the downfall of many IIT KGPians (and indeed other IITians). Many IITians attribute their failure to the deficiencies of the system and not their own, so ingrained is the myth of their own supremacy. When this myth break downs at last, it is earth shattering for them; they find it hard to face their ordinary and normal versions as opposed to the extraordinarily intelligent beings that they were led to believe they are. Tragically, this psychic prison is no fault of theirs and is a creation of the Indian society that has a tendency to make Gods out of personalities and institutes.

More on Life .....and Lemon's Principal

2005-07-11T20:34:00.000+05:30

A guy on my floor just received a terrible news. A cousin of his father was on his way back from Tirupati, with family, when they met with an accident. The cousin died on spot and others of the family seriously injured. It reminded me that life is all of what I said in the last post and more. It is transient, temporary, and perpetually haunted by the spectre of death. As somebody said the ultimately aim of life is to die.

The other thing it did was to drive home the importance and beauty of life ever more strongly. I was reminded of the time when I came so close to destroying it. I can scarcely imagine the trauma some such action would have wrought on people who love me.

I just hope I don't come that close to the precipice again.

I came across an interesting principal called Lemon's Principal in my Financial Accounting book. It says that the presence of people in the market who are willing to offer inferior goods tends to drive the market out of existence. The theory was first stated by George A. Akerlof , Professor of Economics at UC Berkeley in one of the most cited papers- the paper won him the Nobel Prize. Could you explain how Lemon's Principle works ? One of these days I am going to write the explanation but right now I am feeling too lazy to do that.

If you go through the posts on this blog, it is hard not to notice the enormous swings in my moods. The posts range from overly optimistic and cheerful to downright gloomy. If you continue to visit the blog, you may find a number of contradictions too. Because if I am honest to the posts, they will inevitably reflect the state of my mind which, unless I get superhuman powers, will change much. And as my thinking evolves I may develop opinions contrary to those that I harbour now and may infact come round to my original opinion again in the course of time. I guess I have too much to learn to have many fixed opinions at this stage.

Life is Eminently Livable

2005-07-11T19:24:00.000+05:30

Life sucks
when you have to attend three lectures of one and a half hours each on trot...3 days a week.
when you go to bed lonely... every night.
when you wake up lonely and at seven...every morning.
when you miss the homemade food...every mess meal.
when your best friend is worried...every now and then.

Life is beautiful
when you rediscover that learning is fun.
when the professor makes a subtly witty comment...and it brings a smile to your lips.
when you appreciate there are many people who'd gladly swap positions with you.
when you talk to your family and feel how proud they are of you.
when you feel how happy your best friend is for you.
when you try cheering your best friend and succeed.
when you anticipate the coming holidays and the visits that you will make.
when you appreciate that you were in a much worse position this time, last year.

Life is beautiful when someone loves you selflessly and limitlessly.
Life is at its best when you find you love someone selflessly and endlessly.

On the balance, Life is eminently livable.

Of Classes and Depression

2005-07-05T20:13:00.000+05:30

Just to reinforce what I wrote in the last post and offer a food for thought, sociologists David Reisman and Nathan Glazer (1950) contend that in most cases, "people's real work -- the field into which on the basis of their character and their gifts, they would like to throw their emotional or creative energies -- cannot conceivably coincide with what they get paid for doing". In my case it is not coincident with what I am paying to learn. I found this in a paper published by Jaan Elias & Gregory Dees from Harvard Business School on "The Normative Foundations of Business".

We had an interesting class on Business, Government and Society today wherein groups were formed and asked to discuss an issue and then make a presentation. My group had to dissect the contention that graduates of the IIMs should be compelled to join "public service" for a fixed period fresh out of the college in view of the significant subsidy at which they are recieving their education. One interesting point that I raised was that the government is trying to withdraw from most spheres of our economy by privatisation and limit itself to its core duty of administration. So, are the managers from IIMs supposed to study management and then necessarily join as administrators (bureaucrats ) in the government? And is it practical to compel people to do so? Won't many people be tempted to give the IIMs a miss in the favour of foriegn b-schools - surely they won't find it very difficult to find sponserers, as it is most students of IIMs have to take loans ? What implication would that have for the IIMs?

Is persistent ennui symptomatic of a deep psychological disorder? Is it a precursor to acute depression where one is losing the will to put in an effort to enjoy? It is very tempting to let go of all responsibilities and throw oneself at the mercy of others. There is this nagging insecurity and loneliness--- I am not very good at fending for myself. I find myself looking for the comfort of pills. God Help Me.

Rambling On..

2005-07-05T07:30:00.000+05:30

I have always had this nagging doubt as to whether I am doing the things I want to in life. The four years at IIT were - for want of a more original phrase - the best years of my life. I had fun, made good friends, learnt a lot. But then, how often did I enjoy doing what I had gone there to do. I have, upon self introspection, always found that Civil Engineering was not what I enjoyed studying. Ironically, I did quiet well studying Civil Engineering (and most around me have done quiet well for themselves doing what they hate doing). One week into IIMB tells me I am not particularly going to like studying here either -I may be wrong here and indeed I hope I am. Maybe, I don't like studying at all. Or maybe its because of being at an IIT or IIM that I don't enjoy studying. I am more inclined to believe its the latter reason. I confess that the institutions which are supposed to be the apostles of learning in India put me off. I detest the pressure cooker atmosphere in these places, the intense competition here, the perpetual fear of being left behind and the compulsion to do things because they are being done by most of the others. Its like you may not be convinced of the utility of a course of action, but still pursue it for fear of missing out on some unapparent benefits. I suppose all these can be dismissed as mere excuses for weakness in the face of competition or as laziness. After all, these institutes have proved themselves as producers of quality manpower.

In IIT I managed to find of group of likeminded people who went on to become close friends and integral parts of my life. IIMB offers little hope in this direction. From what I have seen of my batchmates they seem guarded and superficial, not ready to let that barrier down. Maybe its the natural diffidence engendered by a new and competitive environment and strange faces all around. Maybe its my perception that is at fault, maybe I am not letting my guards down, allowing others to approach. Maybe it will wear off with time and I am waiting eagerly for that. I dislike being lonely.

The class today illustrated the kind of enthusiastic but thoroughly useless contributions (interferences ?) that pass off as class participation here. If this enthusiasm is not dampened considerably we are not going to make much progress in the class. The positive side is it was quite amusing in parts, so from a personal point of view, such doses of thoroughly inane participation are required to pass off the one and a half hour.

Well, things can only improve from here on. Or can they? Lets see. will keep you posted in either case.

After A Long Time

2005-07-03T10:56:00.000+05:30

Hi there! I know I have been missing a long time. But I am back and this time for long (or so I hope). This blog was created to feature some of the outputs of those moments of inspiration. Evidently, there weren’t many. The modern education system has, I discovered, added me to its list of victims, sapped the creative juices of my brain. The left brain has completed its conquest of the right brain; it requires far too much of an effort to be creative and the effort shows. Thus, the long silence.

I am breaking this silence however. Since January, when I last posted, things have changed considerably. And so have my needs. Then I had the company of my best friend, always ready with a friendly ear to listen, a sympathetic shoulder to cry on and a helpful hand to lend. Alas, I have these comforts no more. Time has sundered us. He is still my closest companion, yet we are separated by a journey of two nights by train or a neat sum of five thousand by plane. I have not the two nights, nor the five thousand rupees. And so I revive this blog, untended and ignored for the last few months – this time not as a recorder of my flashes of creativity but as a faithful listener to my periodic rantings and outpourings of thought. It is going to be my companion in this journey that has recently begun and seems so long and lonely.

And so I revive this blog, untended and ignored for the last few months – this time not as a recorder of my flashes of creativity but as a faithful listener to my periodic rantings and outpourings of thought. It is going to be my companion in this journey that has recently begun and seems so long and lonely.

Here’s to your reincarnation my friend.

p.s. The journey that I am alluding to began four days ago when I joined IIM Bangalore, one of the premier B-schools of

India

. I will write about my experiences here, during this brief period, in the subsequent post.

Perverse Verse

2005-01-10T22:23:00.000+05:30

I have not
one profound thought
or a point of view
to share with you
so what do I do?

I give up prose
and try and compose
a neat little verse
short, simple and terse

This I create
though nothing great
a silly little doggerel
ordinary and unspecial

so what was the aim
in heaven's name?
that things mundane
apparently inane
appear much worse
when put in verse.

(I can hear the strange gurgling sound the reader is emitting. I can visualize his blood curdling with horror, his eyes seething with rage. I can also imagine Messrs. Keats, Yeats, Milton and Shelley jumping around in their dark, dank, fungi-infested graves. But then when I mentioned in my last post that I am a pompous fart, I forgot to add that I am a sadist too.)

Expressing Unabashedly

2005-01-10T00:05:00.000+05:30

To express has always been a need with me and this need I have fulfilled adequately so far- primarily by the means of talking and discussing and sometimes, quite infrequently, by writing. The latter means, little as it has been employed, has been resorted to chiefly for self-criticism and self-analysis and as such has suffered from the disadvantage of being personal and thus unavailable for public scrutiny.

Now writing has certain very concrete advantages when it comes to expressing yourself. The one that that leaps to my mind is that you don't have to shout to make yourself heard. The writer has ample time to consider before he pens or rather types his thoughts down; the reader has ample time to consider before he leaps to conclusions. There is none of that acute self-consciousness on part of the reader which is so often manifested in a person being addressed directly, none of the usual problems of tone and tenor that so often emerge in a discussion clouding the real point of contention. Not that writing does not have a tone or tenor but they can be controlled better. And very importantly, the distance between the writer and the reader diminishes considerably the chances of the writer being beaten up.

These and desire to have a wider audience (pompous, self-important fart that I am, I assume unquestioningly that I have something worth relating) with a safe degree of anonymity and space between the readers and myself have convinced me to create a blog. Of course, people who read between the lines would have discovered by now that I have a fair amount of free time.

So gentle readers, let us hope that through this blog, I put this excess time (mine and presumably yours too) to a good use. May we form a long and fruitful relationship!