Abstract Writings

My Hero - Part One

2013-10-30T01:02:00.002+05:30

Year 1996.

I am a fan of suspense, I play Karvanti Daba-Aispais (something I have never understood the etymology of) and Chor-Police among other games. The latter being my favourite. I love suspense stories, I am fascinated by ghosts and all things supernatural. I rejoice listening to sci-fi stories and controversies such as the Bermuda Triangle and the Philadelphia Experiment from my father. I am a subscriber of Champak, a huge fan of the Mahabharata. I love my G.I. Joes and build houses with Lego, and when I don't want to conquer another planet or eat Pomfret Fry with an alien, I want to be the new-age Arjun and roam around Mumbai discussing my ideas with Krishna in a chariot.

21st February.

An Optonica TV is an attention-grabber of the time, and a cable connection is an elite serving on that unusual afternoon. A man, whose name I was told was Ravi Shastri, is shouting with an uncanny aggression. Lara is the word he utters the most. There's Harsha, a young, suave speaker who commands the English language with fascinating authority. And Sunil Gavaskar, who cannot stop talking about India and their chances of winning the cup. There are people at my place. We and some guests. Maybe some passersby too.

India were playing their first big game in the world cup they were hosting. "We are bowling first," said my father to me. The idea was to get Brian Lara, who had created a world record a couple of years ago, early. And somehow, someone, as Lara nicked one to Nayan Mongia, did the job. Lara was out for 2. And I screamed like a maniac, the eight year old kid that I was. West Indies were bowled out for a meager 173. And India were set to win the match. During the break, people discussed how the match was still not over. How a certain Courtney Walsh and the gigantic, accurate and fearsome Ambrose could clean us up. Then came out two men. Both short. Both looking simple in light blue. But that's it. That was the only similarity between them. From that moment for the next hour or so, both in the commentary box and in my house, and of course in the growling crowds in the stadium, what was audible was "Sachin". To me, all this was still unfathomable, however exciting.

He did not have a surname beyond the commentary box. He was just Sachin, or even Tendlya to some around me. And he was flicking length balls, well-pitched, on the off-stump or maybe just wandering about middle and leg by two fearsome fast bowlers with an ease that I would walk back from school with. He played a cover-drive off the back foot that was at worst spectacular and at best divine. That was followed by a glorious shot towards mid-wicket where he simply rolled his wrists over the ball. His bat lacked a sponsor sticker, it was an unblocked view of timber that created shapes I was to take many years to learn about. Whenever his bat ordered the ball to kiss the fence, the world looked to be on steroids. Tony Greg was openly jubilant in the commentary box, the street outside my house featured some boisterous Marathi. And "Masta! Shot!" my father would remark when Sachin attacked the ball. Although Sachin was run out for 70, India won that match rather comfortably. And I had seen magic - at least a few tricks - at an early age.

27th February

A similar afternoon. The buzz is bigger. The task is tougher. And the match is a monster. India are playing Australia about 25 kilometers away from my house. Australia have batted first. And with the sublime form that Mark Waugh has been in, he has smacked a fantastic 126 to set India a devilish target of 259. 259 of that time is about 330 of today. People are disenchanted. And their only hope is padding up in the Garware pavilion.

Over the last week, I have learnt as much as I could about the game and the man called Sachin Tendulkar, or rather Sachin. I am a fan in the making. And with all the excitement that an eight year old is gifted with, I am hooked to the TV that's crowded with remarks from both the inside and the outside of it. I watch on.

India are off to a horrible start. Jadeja gets out cheaply, Kambli goes for a duck. McGrath has bowled three maiden overs, Damien Fleming has claimed the wickets. India are 17 for 2 after 8 overs. Sachin has been calm so far. Azhar is calmer at the other end. Then suddenly, something happens. Something absolutely amazing. The ninth over - McGrath's fifth - changes it all. First ball. Sachin rocks back, takes the aerial route, and slaps one towards the mid-wicket boundary. Third ball. Sachin pulls, this time along the ground, the ball hurries into the square leg boundary. Sixth ball is over-pitched, outside off, there is no chance Sachin would miss that. The ball travels through the covers like a bullet. But bullets kill, this brought hopes alive.

Mumbai shone. I was jumping on and around my bed. "Sachin, Sachin," I howled. Then came Shane Warne, another of the most talked-about young cricketers of the time, I had heard, and zoom! Up went Sachin, straight over the bowler's head. This was four. Sachin Tendulkar was on a rampage. The 22-year old was an exhibition of unearthly talent. A kind Jahangir Art Gallery was jealous of. A kind Prithvi Theatre had never staged. Wankhede was leaking art. There was reckless aggression in Sachin's batting, an ability to take on any challenge the game might bring him. At the same time, his technique, timing, balance, poise were such that they might have got an Englishman of the 1930's writing him a eulogy.

To me, he looked like a man who represented the ability of my country that rested on the world map like an insecurity. Indians either looked up to the first world, were obsequious with them, or totally dismissed them as part of some inexplicable xenophobia. But here was a man taking on the people such as Glen McGrath, Shane Warne - the best in the world - seeing them eye to eye. Establishing his, his country's superiority over them in a fair battle. My city, my country, my family, the watchman of my school, our milkman, our fruit-seller, my teacher, everyone was backing him. And how he deserved every bit of it!

It was an electrifying night. Wankhede was lit in floodlights for the first time, and the man Mumbai loved the most was glittering like a neutron star. Everything Sachin did was an event. Even the odd bad shot - one that almost got him - was followed by a "Ganbati Bappa Morya" by the crowds. People were literally praying for him. Maybe I did too. My father, who wouldn't easily be in awe of people, too, was watching this man with phenomenal joy. My mother, who has never been much of a Cricket fan, occasionally came into the room, looked at the TV, smiled and went away. My grandparents had an idea that something absolutely thrilling was happening in the other room.

Sachin continued. He had scored virtually all the runs that India had scored, and it was evident in the 2-3 hours that I had watched of him that without him, Indian batting was like Butter Chicken without the chicken. He went on to score a 90 in that game before dancing carelessly down to a wide ball from Mark Waugh only to get stumped by the astute Ian Healy. When he got out, I was in the greatest extent of depression an eight year old boy could be in. The whole stadium went silent. My father uttered a dejected "Aai ga!" and shortly lit a cigarette. Me and my father did not talk to each other for the next ten minutes at least.

India went on to lose the match. I was disheartened, the could-have-beens started crowding my young mind, little did I know about the ifs of life then! I followed India and Sachin right through the tournament and for years there after, but that day, an eight year old had found his hero - a fascination that would last as long as he does.

(To be continued...)

Alibaug

2013-07-30T23:03:00.006+05:30

I owe you a prawn-shaped poem,
Alibaug, and I will serve it to you
on a sand-sprinkled plate – sticky
and smelly and at best reflecting
the mild light of the retiring evening
that rambles over ice cream candies -
melting quickly like a teenaged heart - and
over the beach where breath is damp and
towards footprints that are structureless
like rain drops on windowpanes, fondles with
the bare legs of the woman who is unfolding
herself like a short story, and scrambles
for the night through the sudden and
unusual density of pine trees like that
of one-room houses in central Bombay, to arrive
injured and humid at the back of the hotel room
where whiskey has just begun to flow like a river
to some long-lost love via rare verses
of fifteen-year old songs that
have faded from our memory,
only gradually, like the skyline
of Bombay from the Mandawa ferry,
sketching us a portrait, painted
in colours that the clouds throw up
as they clash with celestial sorrows.

The Puller of Mumbai

2013-04-27T16:00:00.003+05:30

Who is the best puller of the cricket ball in Mumbai? Without a doubt, it’s Ricky Ponting. His pulls are breathtaking and they come to him as naturally as sleep comes to some of us. His drive through the covers is no less picturesque than a rain-trodden July evening at Bandstand. And every time a ball is bowled to him, his unique back-lift exudes a natural hunger for runs. Ricky Ponting is a very, very special player, and he is in Mumbai right now.

Ponting’s talent was evident in the flings that he had at the crease in the ‘96 World Cup as a 21 year old. And although a star-studded Australian line up of the day would not allow this flaring young man to steal the limelight away, the scrutinous cricket fan had immediately seen something special in the boy. Ponting has come a long way from there, going on to become one of the legends of the modern game.

His career has been a spectacular mountain. His batting is a spotless star. His captaincy has been a notorious yet famous child. And with supreme reputation, he has come to a city that has given the world some of its finest batsmen. How does Mumbai treat its new captain? He is a legend all right, but it’s still a tricky question. Especially when he is someone who, although briefly and statistically, came close to Mumbai’s cricketing god and at one point openly went around the world as the primary rival of Indian cricket. Another lingering question is the tough choice between his showmanship and utility. Does Ponting actually fit into the current scheme of things or is it only his legend that has earned him the new role? There has been much debate about this. And some matches into the season, most of his critics have been proven right. He hasn’t done much with the bat. Yes, whatever he has scored has looked graceful but IPL and T20 are not those arty-type blokes. They lack aesthetic sense. They crave for power, they want big hits and sixes. They want something mind-staggering happening at every moment. And a 38 year old may not be able to deliver that.

Ponting’s glorified opening partnership with Sachin Tendulkar has not lived up to the hype either. And that’s been another area of concern for him. Does he walk out to bat with the intention of outscoring Sachin Tendulkar? Is he quietly competing with his new partner who is also his oldest rival? Well, honestly, I don’t think so. He is too experienced a cricketer to think like that. But at the same time I don’t doubt the fact that all this must have poked him time and again as he set out on his little walk across cricket in Mumbai.

Mumbai accepts everyone. It always does. That’s what makes it the great, ruined city that it is. Ponting is a cricketing legend and there is no doubt that Mumbai has already accepted him wholeheartedly. Now the challenges are for him to take up. The fans are for him to earn. And the point is for him to prove.

As far as I am concerned, Ricky Ponting has always been one of my favourite players to watch from the times when he was an almost nobody. And my love for Mumbai is sometimes jealous of my love for cricket which makes the unwitting Mumbaikar in Ponting all the more interesting. Mumbai will undoubtedly fascinate him for one reason or the other. I can confidently say that about my city. On one moment, it might blatantly remind him, just by making him glance at his new opening partner, why he could never be the best batsman in the world. On the next, an indulgent stare into Marine Drive might help him forget all of that and teach him to accept life as it comes.

Julia

2013-04-13T21:43:00.000+05:30

Fondled by the E-minor

of a Gibson guitar

Residues of laughter, particles of old air

The rain is measured and gentle,

drizzling down

The wine is a minute older

The meat, a tad colder

Julia is dreaming, awake.

The Jack London book

that she never read

angers through the violin

which is intent on outdoing the guitar

at least once before everything ends, while

July’s fragrance mingles with

the soggy biscuits in the unheeded packets,

the exterior reduces to an insipid story.

Julia wakes up, and

looks at the old wall clock -

a stack of silences collapses

like a pack of cards.

Nights collide with each other, and days

tear the sun apart to scream:

“Julia, Julia, wake up, Julia;

Julia, Julia, wake up, Julia!”

The wall clock checks

the sequence of her memory.

Julia has skipped a long minute,

or maybe a diminutive lifetime.

By the Sea

2013-03-04T01:19:00.000+05:30

The sea bounces off the rough edges of the rocks

A mild breeze unsettles hime-cuts and mohawks

The afternoon aspires to be an evening

The sun has roasted the long footpath

Sudden as his hand mounts

On her expectant shoulder like ethereal comfort

And two birds fly into the depth of the sky

A cone of ice cream slips over her lips

And draws across them an abstract line of a thick brown

Ocean drops spattered on the dying afternoon

Watery patterns on the endless film of the sky

Between the two of them sways a young joy, steam-bathed

In the moment evaporating above the humble cutting chai

The Valentine

2013-02-14T21:41:00.000+05:30

In a typically chirpy gift shop somewhere near the centre of the city, on an afternoon that habitually celebrated the dullness of a middle-aged sun, was a lady who looked to be anything but in a hurry. Her body, combating against the extra fat that time had been forcing upon it; her mascara, covering the sour truth of age that had climbed up to her face; and her walk - that perfectly aimless walk of a wanderer – suggested that she was a woman evidently uncomfortable with being in her mid-thirties.

The shop was crowded with youngsters, typically teenagers, for it was the Valentine’s Day of the year. Yes, that dubious day of life when the frustration of being single in more than half the youth and that of being otherwise in the rest are both emphatically pronounced, rather cruelly invoked from deep within, by a plethora of gifts and greeting cards that are exchanged in an attempt to celebrate the most abstruse and abused word in the English language – love. The young energies were enviable nonetheless; and their excitement, which had its roots in their characteristic immaturity, had furnished the place, although momentarily, with a lively buzz that only youth could produce.

Through the ranges of the racks, where the greeting cards were placed, was walking at her own pace the woman. She journeyed through the greeting cards, not caring the least she could for them. Love you forever, Without you I am nothing, You and I are a world in its own, You are the kiss of my heart were some of the lines on the greeting cards that most uselessly portrayed affection. All the gifts - the coffee mugs, the perfumes, and most poignantly the greeting cards - that she once received in bundles were conspiring to send her on a sordid nostalgic journey that she refused to embark on. What remained with her after a bit of angst and a personal rebellion of the most ordinary kind, however, was the pain which happened to be the truest part of the afternoon.

She would be an attractive woman back in the day. Her beauty was acknowledged by the opposite sex as frequently as the sunrise, if not more. She had become a festival in herself – one that many attend. An ego was the most natural byproduct of this process, and she had developed one as big as the size of Jupiter. Men were like visitors to her. For as long as she remained at the peak of her beauty, she attached no permanence with her relationships. Some of her relationships lasted shorter than what it takes for a lousy song to get on your nerves; some others were longer but as placid in essence as the water in a lake. She slept with many men, flirted with even more. Attention was an addictive drug that she kept craving for. Nothing did she love as much as her body, not even herself for that matter, and everything that she did remained skin-deep for almost a decade.

Yes, she had had her time. Days as bright as the sun itself and nights as mystifying as mystery could be – she had had her time. But all that after all was the past. She was now in her mid-thirties; the number of men in her life had been on the decline. Her age was an incongruity in the gift shop like the Christmas card that was being sold on the Valentine’s Day. She was walking around the place to battle the subtle threat of being alone on a Valentine’s Day for the first time in the last fifteen years.

However, she remained collected through the implicit yet caustic attack of memory as if having developed a robust internal resistance that only failures could equip you with. But the moment she saw that greeting card – the faint green card with a message that read “Some things are better left unsaid” – she was taken aback. She stared at it for a couple of minutes, then reached out to it, and then picked it up from the shelf as if it were always hers.

“How much would this cost?” She asked the attendant.

“50 rupees, madam”

“Could you gift-pack it for me?” asked the woman.

“Sure madam. In a moment. That would cost you 10 rupees more.”

“Not an issue. Please do it.” She said.

“We also have other cards, madam. The blue one is particularly lovely. And the red, heart-shaped one is the latest arrival.”

“No, thank you. I am good.” She said quickly, picked up the greeting card, and went home, leaving the world behind and alone on the Valentine’s Day.

She reached home and went straight to the gallery with some coffee and the greeting card, expressionless like a stone. It was a quaint Shivaji Park house. The gallery faced a plethora of people. Apart from upwards, wherever she looked, all she could see was people. It was around 5 O’clock by then. And she preferred the sky to look into to the bundles of people she would find nothing in common with. The taming sun and the woman shared something intimate for a while. Coffee was a constant indulgence to her. Cigarettes were accompaniments. A soliloquy or a conversation with the sun, whatever it was, took some time on her. And then, sudden as an epiphany, came out the tears that wet her cheeks. Maybe she opened up. To herself, that is, but she did and delivered the result of an introspection that she was pregnant with for years and years together.

The greeting card was open and wet by now. She got up and went hurriedly to the store-room where among broken tubs, old tables, and deteriorated chairs was a drawer that seemed to have only a past. Although a metallic rod peeled her skin off once or twice, her search stopped only at a letter and a photograph which were buried under thick layers of dust that only incessant negligence could create.

Some things are better left unsaid, read the letter. The picture showed two faces – happy, young, and innocent. She dwelled on them for a while and reached the telephone. The number she had dialed was unavailable. She tried again. Unavailable still. She dialed another number.

“Hello, how are you?” the man asked.

“Good. How about you?” she said. “Sam, I need HIS number. Do you have it?”

“HIS? Whose?” asked Sam.

“Sam, HIS!” she said.

“Oh, I..I’m sorry but I’m not too sure,” he said. “I have not spoken to him in a long time.”

“Oh, all right, Sam,” the woman said. “Thank you anyway. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Sure, take care,” he said and hung up.

The woman ran through her telephone diary. Halted at a few names, tried to link them to someone and then kept going ahead. She dialed a number as if she had found something useful.

“Hello?” the voice on the other side said.

“Puja? Hi, how have you been?” said she.

“Hey, I am good. Long time! How have you been?” Puja asked.

“Good good. Listen, I need a favour,” said the woman.

“Yes? Tell me,” said Puja.

“Do you have HIS number or any way to contact HIM?” she asked anxiously.

“Hey! Are you all right? You want to speak to HIM? - Now?” asked Puja.

“Well Puja, yes! I have my reasons. Do you have his number?” said the woman.

“I am really sorry, lady. But I don’t even know if he is in the country. To be honest, I don’t know if he is alive. None of us have heard of him, you know. Not in the last eight years. Not after he left everything behind and went to Italy,” said Puja. “Not once did he come back. Not once did we hear anything about him. I thought you’d be the only person who could find out but you didn’t care enough back then, did you? ” she completed.

A loquacious silence prevailed.

“Bye Puja. I will have to talk to you later,” said the woman.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, sweetheart. It’s just the truth. You asked for it,” said Puja.

“I am sure. I understand. Let me call you back anyway. I need to be alone,” the woman said. “Take care.”

She hung up and looked out the window, dejected. She glanced downstairs from the gallery in an optimistic attempt to spot the man she was looking for in the crowd. He was the only one who understood her. She found many faces familiar. They looked ordinary and bastard-like as all the other men she had dated and flirted and slept with. She wanted to abuse them, blame them for being the bastards they had always been to her, blame them for the state she was in at that time. “Skin-hungry vultures!” she screamed to nobody’s bother and broke down under the temperate sun. She felt used, forsaken and trivialized. She thought as if a fifteen-year old vacation was over and she had come back home. This was her home. Shivaji Park. The crowd. This is where she grew up. This is where she established an identity. The faint memories of being a lovely, caring girl were reflected by the sun light on the old tapestries that were tattooed over the walls. The only man she did not – could not – think negatively of was HIM. And the guilt of having betrayed him back in the day, ruthlessly walking over his face to a specious lifestyle was enlarged inside her body like a monster sent out to destroy her.

Nonetheless, she did collect herself a while later. After all, she had seen thirty-five summers and none had gone away without teaching her a lesson or two. She did collect herself indeed. Changed her clothes; got all the make-up off her face; left her hair open; did not look into the mirror once before venturing out of her house. Not a fancy purse, not those high-heeled shoes, a greeting card – the greeting card – and some cash were all that she carried.

She took a taxi to Worli. Just off the Haji Ali circle, towards café Noorani, inside a lane was HIS house – a house she had so many memories of togetherness, truth, and comfort in. She sped up to the place as if chasing a twenty-five year-old self. There stood a building.

“How about Shanti Niketan, bhai sahab?” she asked at a shop nearby. “Where is the house?”

“Shanti Niketan, madam? That house was reconstructed. Now it’s a building,” said the shopkeeper pointing towards the structure. “It’s been five-six years to that.”

“Oh,” said the woman, losing whatever tiny bit of hope she was left with. “All right. Thank you.”

She walked towards Haji Ali and stood next to the Haji Ali juice centre. The dargah in the middle of the sea was a distant spectacle.

She stared into it addictively before starting to write on the greeting card.

Hi, I am sorry. I am genuinely sorry. I know I am late – eight years are a little too late for things to be any better – but I have realized that you were my only HIM. Happy Valentine’s Day, my love! You are my Valentine.

She took a taxi to Dadar but stopped somewhere in Worli near a post-box – a post-box HE would drop letters to her at. She dropped the greeting card in it without writing any address on the envelope. She did not know of any, of course. It was her 35th Valentine’s Day. Never before had she been gifted an epiphany; never before had she felt so true to herself; and never before had she spent the following night alone on a Valentine’s Day, bombarding herself with ifs and what-ifs, wiping her cheeks every once in a while standing above a crowd she could never relate to.

She lit a candle on the table, switched all the other lights off. Reflected on the walls now, superimposed on a photo-frame, was a picture that the two of them made. The two of them - an ageless mirror-image of an aging woman and the shadow of a photograph that was blank as most love stories in the city were – together celebrated the Valentine’s day.

Whatever the Title may be

2013-01-13T16:36:00.003+05:30

These things will go away -

the photographs,

the sunsets,

the greeting cards,

the hair bands,

butter chicken

naans, rotis

dal fry, jeera rice

rajma chawal

jackets, overcoats,

coffee mugs -

they will all go away,

all someday.

The Tallest Man

2012-12-24T00:40:00.003+05:30

The clock ticks, regardless of anything else. And with its hands, so easily, changes everything. People come and go, live and die, play cricket and retire from it. There isn't much one could do to stop all this from happening, not even if it's the love of his life that is going away; it's his best friend who is dying; or it's Sachin Tendulkar who is retiring from cricket. We could really not do anything about this. These are moments when you feel helpless. You begin to think of all your limitations as a human being. You tend to question any power you ever thought you had to change things and make a difference. These are tough times, really really tough times.

However, the trick is that we are enough smart and delusional to find a remedy for everything. At least, a mental remedy. Optimism is a funny thing. And it leads me to think that I have been exceptionally lucky to have been born in the era when Sachin played. I am luckier that I could develop a keen interest in cricket at an early age and a fairly decent understanding of it as I grew up. Just as it must be special to have spoken to Aristotle, it must be special to have shared a joke with Oscar Wilde, it must be special to have seen Beethoven performing live, it is special, incredibly special, to have seen Sachin Tendulkar bat.

The fact that he is the best is an aphorism. Only the unfortunate or the ignorant would doubt that. I pity them. Their life must be dull. The idea of there being a better player than Sachin in the future reads like a flimsy tale of popular fiction. Sachin's technique, hundreds, stroke-play have dominated a tremendous amount of both verbal and written communication that I have ever been part of. Conversations about him have been the background music of my life.

The sheer amount and quality of joy that Sachin has given me, given us is unparalleled. He could take someone out of depression with a straight drive. A paddle sweep might encourage you to always look for a smarter way out of trouble. A backfoot punch might be enough to revive the optimism of a generation. And a cover drive, in a moment, could win more hearts than the most gorgeous woman you know can. Sachin Tendulkar's batting is the closest the human race has come to perfection of any kind. There is abundant art in everything that he has ever done with a cricket bat. He is the only piece of poetry that is not written. He has, after all, been Sachin Tendulkar.

The first thing I ever wrote by choice was a letter to Sachin Tendulkar. He has lit up my childhood better than most of my friends. Personally, the memories of his various knocks, strokes, cricket battles are some of my best ones. I haven't read and discussed more about anyone else. I don't believe in idols, but if I did there would be no two ways about him being the one for me. I don't believe in god either, but if I did I would be convinced that it is Sachin. I do believe in admiration though. And I have admired Sachin more than anyone else. He has influenced my life, constantly given me a reason to smile and rejoice. It's surprising that someone you have never met or interacted with could play such a huge role in your life. I have not done anything for him in return. Yes, I have NEVER doubted him during the worst of the phases of his career and have occasionally been stupid enough to hope that he would never retire. But all that came to me naturally. It was more of natural admiration than something that sounds as grand as standing up for someone. What use has he been to me? Well, no use at all. As Oscar Wilde said, all art is useless.

Sachin is now gone, from a game he defined as much as the game defined him. I don't want to make this sound like an elegy. It's not one. In the language of cricket, Sachin Tendulkar is the longest and the most brilliant sentence ever written. Cricket has punctuated it today by adding a full-stop. Cricket is a great sport. The show must go on and it will. The sun will rise on a cricket field again tomorrow. It will find thousands of fans once again cheering for players who walk out in colourful clothes to battle it out for a hundred overs. It will find the sport being played in different formats. It will find cricket more evolved as time progresses. And it will find the game played as frequently as it would love. What the sun will not find, however, is a tiny man who raised a bat towards it each time he scored a hundred and gave it its best reason to rise again.

Two Sunsets

2012-10-06T21:56:00.003+05:30

All that you owe me
is a couple of sunsets.
Not a ray more, not a ray less
all that you owe me
is a couple of sunsets.

Two incoherent stories
wrapped around a coffee mug
A kingdom of two rooms
expanded to a hug.

A cake cut into
pieces of time,
savoured over
A private rhyme.

All that you owe me
is a couple of sunsets
Maybe a ray more, maybe a ray less
all that you owe me
is a couple of sunsets

Andheri

2012-03-26T03:36:00.002+05:30

You silly suburb
Of eventualities!
Your derelict streets,
Betrayed bars,
Your rotten corners
Of loss and dismay,
Your ephemeral love stories,
The escaping smoke
Layered uncomfortably
Over your malls and markets
Scream for justice -

That died with the death
Of your truest lover.

A Hundred Hundreds and a Million Salutes

2012-03-17T18:35:00.013+05:30

When Sachin Tendulkar scored his first international hundred, Nelson Mandela was in jail, liberalization was yet to dawn on India, Croatia was not a country, and the internet was a captive of a few computer labs.

The world has changed since then. Sachin has journeyed to the age of 39 years. The body is not as swift on the pitch as it used to be. The back foot punches, the pulls, the hooks have reduced in number. What remains unchanged, however, is the hunger that Sachin walked down to the pitch with, his flawless technique, and his Cricketing genius that is rarer than the twenty-ninth of February. And yesterday, as all of us know, Sachin created a record that wasn't even thought of till the last decade. A hundred international hundreds are a record second only to Bradman's average of 99.94. It will survive the test of time. It will last for years and years together, through different ages of Cricket, just like Bradman's has.

Over the most illustrious career in the history of the game, Sachin has climbed several heights, some of which are so high that nobody knew of them before Sachin reached there. He has ruled the game, and ruled it like nobody ever has. Not only has he been the greatest Cricketer of the modern era but he may also be the greatest sportsman of his time, for nobody has dominated a sport for more than two decades.

Yes, Indians have a habit of glorifying the ordinary. The nation is known to overdo things. We are fanatic about India and Indians. We are never objective, we fail to believe that we could be the best in the world. It took some of us years to accept that Sachin was the best because they had almost given up all hope on anything Indian being the best in the world. We needed that to be told by the others. We read the Sydney Morning Herald in 1992, we read the Daily Telegraph time and again in the nineties, and then we saw the cover page of the Time magazine. That was when even the most cynical of the Indians accepted that Sachin was the best in the business.

Now it has been 23 years since he batted for India for the first time. All the discussions about Sachin's greatness are over and done with, the world knows that he is the best. Sachin is someone who has given us, as a nation, a reason to believe that we could be the best in the world. He is an inspiration to me, to my city, and to my entire country. As the youth of India, rather than looking for some virtually non-existent poor sections of his sublime career just for the sake of some specious arguments, let's stand united in admiration for someone who has deservedly been the best in the world in what he does, and remains as one of independent India's priciest possessions.

Cricket is as lucky to be played by Sachin Tendulkar as Sachin Tendulkar is to play Cricket. He is one in a million or more, and nothing can change that. Take a bow, Sachin, and take more.

Art and Artists

2012-03-04T12:19:00.007+05:30

Nothing can define art - nothing. And that's the beauty of it.

Art is an uncertainty that lingers in all sorts of by-lanes in the walk of life. Art goes beyond all the worldly jazz. Art is free, art is courageous, and art is boundless. Art is divine.

Art surpasses the barriers of cultures, traditions, and time. Art knows no limits. It could exist in anything from the extravagant to the mundane. Art is omnipresent yet esoteric.

Art is a friend one could fall back on in abject loneliness. Art doesn't betray its lovers. Art is what remains when all else fades.

Art is an interpretation. Art is an expression. Art is a perception. And again, art is divine.

Art is not skill. Art is not craft. Art is only art.

An artist is he who can create.

An artist thinks differently from everyone else, and that is what allows him to create. An artist is often insane and eccentric. An artist understands individuality, and always upholds freedom. An artist is often a narcissist for the fact that he is the source of his art, and art is his only pride.

An artist is a rebel, for he feels the need to create a world of things that does not exist before him. An artist is an observer, an analyzer, and an expressionist.

A bastard is the last thing an artist could be, for he is free of societal expectations, and is usually unbothered about the world's perception of him. An artist may be indifferent but never resentful. An artist is extremely honest about life, and is always a gentleman at heart.

An artist often faces strong disapproval, for the world around him is not as quick as him in accepting and acquiring his creation.

An artist is married to struggle since forever, and the marriage lasts a lifetime. An artist is never content, and that instability fuels his art.

No two artists think alike, for every genuine artist creates something that has never been done before.

An artist is he who journeys through life like a roller-coaster, befriends discordance and animosity at regular intervals, is possessed by tragedy for long spans of time, yet refuses to trade his art for a happier life.

Happiness

2012-02-19T01:23:00.000+05:30

I am happy.

Sounds childish, right? Not Abstract Writings material? This is a blackmagic special. This is what I - Mihir Chitre - call a Game! You will know soon; you soon will.

Kala Ghoda

2012-02-09T10:52:00.001+05:30

Not by the absence of the dark horse

Nor by its history that overlays your fortified stones;

You are known: by your antiquity that treats you like wine

And by your magnetic connection with the mundane;

By your musical and multilingual corners,

Your libraries and lawns, and streets that trifle with them;

By lanes turned towards sandwiches and sev-puris,

And by your compassion wet with cold sugar-cane juice.

You paint self-portraits

On arbors of daily chaos and nocturnal silences

Inspecting the anatomy of Bombay

Through the city’s inverted lenses.

Players (Haha) - Review

2012-01-10T19:29:00.005+05:30

If you are fond of absurdity, especially of the kind that is endemic to Bollywood, you must watch Players to have what probably is going to be the laugh of the month for you. This is a comic-thriller. That is to say, an intended thriller turned out to be an accidental comedy.

The Players are an assembly of retards who roam around the world as if their fathers have the authority to issue visas to any country. The places they go to are random and have no geographical or historical or logical connection with each other. Most scenes in the movie have got nothing to do with the others and enjoy a kind of freedom that is beyond what a coherent story could ever offer them. For instance, in a scene Aftab Shivdasani is murdered in the snow of St.Petersberg and in the next one Sonam Kapoor shows the middle finger to a drunken desperado in Sydney, and in the next one, Vinod Khanna, a prisoner, shares his apparent wisdom on the art of theft with the police commissioner in Goa. This is when one realises that Abbas-Mustan have finally given up on even attempting to sound intelligent.

The plot has so many twists, none of which are exciting, that I shall be wasting my time if I write the summary of the movie. The point is that Romania is supposed to get back some gold that they had entrusted Russia with during the second world war, and our players, try to steal it. It is Aftab Shivdasani, who is dead for an unintelligible reason, who suggests Abhishek Bacchan to make this plan. It is Vinod Khanna who designs it. And it is our players, who, forget being the best thieves in the world, don't even look like people who have a clue of acting, execute this plan.

Then there is the betrayal that comes from Spider, Neil Nitin Mukesh, which is directly copied from the Edward Norton starrer - Italian Job. Basically, this movie is a combination of three things. The Italian Job, Ocean's 12 and relentless absurdity that people like Abbas-Mustan, who, after watching this movie one would believe, have a collective IQ of 100, have topped it up with.

The robbery takes place in the first half. Second half is when the revenge happens. Bipasha Basu seduces a Russian military general at a place that looks like the Russian counterpart of a dance bar. Neil Nitin Mukesh has hacked into Russian satellites in the past, Sonam Kapoor changes the colour of the signal by wirelessly connecting to it from her laptop while driving a fancy car and trying to look good, and after these and many other things we know what we are up for.

Omi Vaidya is annoying in the movie with his dirge-like voice and non-existent sense of humour. Sonam Kapoor makes many attempts to look good and those attempts are not as big a failure as her attempts at acting. She is dull. Bipasha Basu is hot in the movie and acts; not very well but, at least, acts. Abhishek Bacchan is intolerable for who he is. Neil Nitin Mukesh is the best of the players on screen but standing out in such a crowd is not an achievement at all. Johnny Lever is so annoying and so trite that after looking at him I felt as if the world hasn't changed one bit in the last twenty years.

While watching players, each time when a cacophonous sound sings "Players...Players...aye aye aye...Players" in the background, you know you are up for the next level of retardation in the plot. Players will play a huge role in making the absurdity of the commercial Indian cinema known across both the hemispheres. From Bucharest to Wellington, St. Petersberg to Sydney, and Amsterdam to Auckland must be laughing their balls off at this epitome of retardation made in India.

Yes, as I said, if sensible is not your way of living life or absurdity is one of your fetishes, you must watch this bunch of clueless retards who think of themselves as some of the best players in the world. And they must be, I am sure, only if the game is idiocy.

Identity

2011-12-16T16:36:00.001+05:30

You are the light.
You are the boundless.
You are the madness of a cyclone.
You are the piquance of creation.
You are the horizon of beauty.
You are the fragrance of an arcane flower.
You are the flavour of the creator's taste-bud.
You are the fight in the phoenix.
You are the hope of the deprived.
You are the wildness in every street.
You are the animate.
You are human.

You - do not walk -
Fly!

Puke That Out

2011-12-15T16:36:00.001+05:30

It's a shame.

It's a savage insult.
It's an egregious mistake.

So far, so bad.
So what?

Fuck off!

The Beggar

2011-12-13T01:54:00.023+05:30

I saw a little boy on the road.

His eyes, sullen and blood-red.

He begged by a signal uttering God's name

pocketing some change and stale bread.

He ran through the vehicles, like

a dexterous snake on prey.

He incurred insults, drenched

in the road-side dust and spit.

Below the flyover lay a ragged man, who

was the boy's father, smoking weed.

He lay in the dirt, dismantled

like a demolished building.

His shawl aged with penury -

a skeleton of his decrepit self.

The signal flashed three lights,

one by one, into his frail eyes, periodically.

He sputtered. And spat at the signal -

an inebriated indifference that bred inside him.

And recited some infernal chants that

rang harmlessly through the stale air in the vehicles.

The boy did a snake still -

that infamous artistic sprint.

Placid, he battled the heartless sun

that watched his childhood being undone.

The world moved ahead

as the signal turned green.

I moved, too, like an impotent spectator

interrogating a transitory superiority, ashamed.

The Crazy Bird

2011-11-25T11:17:00.023+05:30

And I followed him -

that odd little flying object

traversing oblique paths in the sky,

in search of something unintelligible

against the winds that blew him away,

against the birds that went the other way.

The crazy bird.

Higher and lower, and

straight and circular,

and almost random - he went

like an animate cyclone in the sky.

Impeded by monstrous branches

of envious trees

Quarantined by the flocks

of the birds he flew with

was the crazy bird.

And as fell the rain -

harsh and fast,

the homeless creature -

stood all aghast.

Marred by foes, and

betrayed by friends,

he flew alone -

battling tough winds

and demonic clouds.

Alone. The crazy bird.

Thirsty, he flew.

Hungry, he grew.

In search for self, and

answers that the sky had

enveloped in many a million voids

that nobody knew of but him.

And he flew -

attacked but survived

murdered but alive.

Alone he flew -

that crazy bird.

He dotted the sun

over a crowded mosque;

attended bhajans

from a temple's edge;

and wept on a church's tall tower

to enshrine himself in god's own den.

Flew he once again,

high and higher,

bustling with desire,

soaring the sky.

Into the frayed ends of day,

and arcane realms of night,

into the voids enclosed by the sky

lingering upon the suspense that grows in them.

High, went he

staging a worldly escape

with his sparkling flight.

And higher he went -

the crazy little thing -

fading into a place, where

the day meets the night

beyond the fringes of the world's shadow,

to a surreal layer of the universe, where

there is no pain and no tomorrow.

Just Another Day

2011-11-17T01:10:00.013+05:30

Today is just another day

when she wakes me up

from my disgruntled sleep,

to a series of unanswered whys.

Today is just another day

when with the foam of the toothpaste

I try to spit her out of myself

only to be belittled by the mirror.

Today is just another day

when she seduces me

like a distant memory

into a world wholly undone.

Today is just another day

when I see her sway

to our private tunes

that are trapped within me.

Today is just another day

when through the window

of the car I travel in

I see her on a secluded cloud.

Today is just another day

when I lose myself

in an inescapable void

that looks like her.

Today is just another day

when she crowds my mind

with three and a half years

that make me puke tears on my desk.

Today is just another day

when I find absolutely no escape from her

as she dissolves in me

like a saddening drug.

Today is just another day;

her twenty-third birthday.

Just another day, when

all my rationalism fades

and I long to be with her.

The Shady Bar

2011-10-23T12:38:00.013+05:30

Tables, small and congested, populated by,

black, brown and colourless drinks,

that are reached by narrow lanes and secret doors,

seat a conglomeration of people.

Hazy eyes. Haywire tongues. Husky voices.

Zonked faces release unintentional glances.

Some go on a rampant monologue;

the others in uncanny trances.

A man talks of his lost love,

another throws a diatribe at the world.

A group in its mid-forties contemplates

over superfluous alcohol.

A lone drinker breaks down at the wooden table,

staring at the neglected indicator of time that hangs here

while a group of youths live the thrill,

of the new-found euphoria it has begun to wear.

Any woman is a seductress here, for

there are almost none of them around,

they are all asleep in other corners of the city,

sleeping someone else's sleep,

having robbed of their own by one man or more.

The waiters are swift and skilled, and

are continuously called out to,

with a third-world politeness, or

a pseudo-sophisticated arrogance.

And both prevail with their own flavours,

dissolved, as everything else, in alcohol.

It's 3 A.M and it's a bar, which is

drunk-enough to be cut out from the outside, and

rich-enough to buy the law.

And it is Bombay.

It is Bombay escaping -

from its own ruthless reality,

to an underground arena,

one of its secretly treasured avenues,

at a place where all enjoy a surreal equality,

in being intoxicated.

It is Bombay compensating -

for the million struggles hiding behind the glasses,

from one break of dawn to the next one.

And it is Bombay accepting -

what it is.

And trying to free itself, for

at least a matter of minutes.

The Agony of being Different

2011-10-16T10:49:00.013+05:30

It is pointless to roam around as an intellectual on the streets of Mumbai. You are just being pathetic and leading yourself nowhere if you think differently from most people you meet. Gradually, will you be eaten up by the impish society that looks after its double-standards like a mother to a teenage-daughter.

The best of your friends, your lovers, your family will one day push you away for the very fact that you have cherished thinking differently from the rest, you have attempted to murder traditions, you have acquired iconoclastic tastes and formed esoteric opinions in an attempt to understand and define art in your own way, you have been asking yourself questions on the creation of the cosmos since you began to think and you think that those are fundamental questions that influence every aspect of your current life. In short, you are being cruel to yourself if you are being original in any way and if you think art and intelligence are two of the greatest aspects of life, for the very fact that being this way will lead you to seclusion. You shall be increasingly unacceptable to the society and, in all probability, will you incur the hatred and wrath of most around you, most of which will be hidden, hypocrisy being the hallmark of sophistication in our society.

Here are a few pointers that I think I could have considered and some of you should consider to lead a happy a life and to be one with the rest around you.

1) Fuck Pink Floyd, Dire Straits, Led Zeppelin and the likes. Listen to Pitbull, Justin Bieber, Jay-Z. Swing to their tunes. Play it loud.

2) To hell with Kishor Kumar, Mohammad Rafi, Lata Mangeshkar. They are 'boring' and 'dull'. Punjabi and Bollwyood are the 'coolest' types of music. "Just check out the beats, man!". Jugni Jugni is the new-age holy chant.

3) Start watching every American TV show. That is the easiest way to get involved in a public discussion. You are an omniscient dude if you know what the fuck happened in the 7th episode of the 4th season of a show on how somebody met somebody else's mother.

4) Accept that poetry belongs to about ten people in the world and our generation should not care a flying fuck about it.

5) Very importantly, do NOT quote Prufrock to anybody on your table while getting drunk. Everyone is far from it. People will start cursing you as you leave. T.S. Eliot, Edagar Allan Poe, Robert Frost, William Wordsworth and several such are names that are not to be ever uttered by any 'cool' youngster in Mumbai. You shall be dubbed old school.

6) People will detest you if you ever talk about history, socio-economics of the world and different countries and cultures. For any worldly pleasure, please avoid discussing all this. Because a discussion on the dark ages of Europe might contribute to people making sure that your life turns out to be a dark age.

7) If you are a man, or so you think, think of women as a commodity. Consume them. There is nothing that a man should expect from women apart from sex. If you are one of those who believe that there are many greater aspects to life than sex then you are both anachronistic and incongruous. Worse, if you miss an opportunity to score for your loyalty towards someone else, or if you refuse to take advantage of a drunken girl talking of some kind of morality, then you are a fucking loser.

8) Remember that politics and current affairs are only for the elite. Do NOT ever give them any importance. The hallmark of general knowledge is discussing commercial movies, specially Hollywood. Not knowing who Pranab Mukharjee is alright but not knowing who Russell Crowe is will attract opprobrium.

9) You are an outright 'chutiya' if you think you are a man of integrity or you want to be something like that. If morality, commitment, honesty are things you think about or things you even consider then you should sulk with the fact that you were not born in the Satya Yuga.

10) Oh yes, never discuss mythology or ancient literature. Never read the epics. It is derogatory and completely 'uncool' to have read books like the Mahabharata. However, it is a symbol of class and sophistication if you have watched Troy which is based on a book that is now considered a lesser epic to Mahabharata in most of the western world.

12) There are two major classes of youngsters in Mumbai - the wannabe westerners and the orthodox fundamentalists - and you must belong to either of them. If you are one of those pricks who think of a crossover of cultures and accept a lot of the west while not losing respect for their origin then you are just wasting your time. You will keep arguing with both the classes all your life and shall be labelled as a 'chutiya' by both.

Well these, and several others that I have missed out on, are easy escapes to a happy social life. Following all, or most, of these will promise you a healthy interaction with people and a lot of easy smiles on your journey across the streets of the city. I suggest, it is best to be normal and pretty similar to people around you since the trade-off between being different and going through all the pain is not just worth anything.

If you are someone like me who, despite understanding the obvious benefits of being common, has made an irreversible journey to weirdness, I have only my sympathy for you. Because, you are the underdog. You are the only red in a green basket. You are going to be betrayed frequently and will have to be crying regularly. And hence, as I said, I have only my sympathy for you, and a quote that might light a tiny candle against the plethora of darkness spread all over.

"To be what you are, in a world that's trying its best to make you somebody else, is to fight the toughest battle you are ever going to fight. Never stop fighting." - e. e. cummings

Choose what you want to be, wisely.

Numbers

2011-09-25T15:55:00.005+05:30

Numbers had me fumble

when she told me we were one,

and extended my existence

from a walk to a run.

After that never ever

was I less than two,

No day will pass softly,

I told her, without you.

In the jumbled numbers

I found her to be one with me,

one was two and two were one,

as I could see.

From zero I started counting

and had just reached three

when she ran away,

with my numbers to an infinity

Since then I find her

in every number thrown,

Two are broken, one is gone

and I am less than even alone.

The Shirt

2011-09-25T12:47:00.016+05:30

The cloth that hangs,

on the door of my bedroom,

is an anachronism

that once was a fancy shirt;

that once was flaunted;

that once was unbuttoned

by the loveliest hand in the world.

Now has ended its glory, by

a wicked pun played by time

that has left the shirt in tatters,

infested with a nefarious fungus

that slowly reduces its existence

to a nothingness.

The cloth hangs on the door still,

untouched and neglected,

through the brightest of the afternoons,

and through the darkest of the nights,

longing for its lost glory,

longing for another pun

to be played upon it,

longing to be worn again,

and to be frisked and unbuttoned,

by the loveliest hand in the world.

Also published in the October 2011 edition of Kritya - available here.

The Diatribe

2011-09-14T00:52:00.008+05:30

Time is nobody's bitch,

and often anybody's whore.

Caged and tormented like a medieval slave,

and smothered by a million woes,

I lived a week sulking alone.

With sullen eyes I went to work,

in silences elongated by a native pain,

in melodies converted into dirges,

I abused the fuck out of myself,

to nobody's bother.

I was a loner.

A loser. A bastard.

I was the last moment before the sunrise,

waiting for the last tear in my languid eyes.

I was suffocated like a Jew in Warsaw,

and split like two ends of hair,

dissolved in a time-bound misery,

that perhaps, time could only bear.

I hit the walls but whom to blame?

I banged the keyboard but whom to blame?

Blame it on the bastard of the night,

Blame it on my dullness.

Blame it all on her laconic eyes.

Blame it on my shameful self.

Blame it on the reciprocal mistakes,

and on the smiles we did not share,

and on the love that left me alone.

Blame it and just blame it,

and blame more!

This is a blame-game,

and melancholy galore.

No rose blossoms, in this rhyme

no star shines and no moonlight spread,

For this is a diatribe, my love,

and not a fucking serenade.