Allen's Grey Matter Inc ©

In the 'Fairness' of things

2011-07-13T03:05:00.002+05:30

Somewhere in the vicinity of 10pm.

Barkha Dutt speaks about today’s cabinet reshuffle as she approaches a break. “Stay tuned! When we come back... blah blah black sheep”

Commercial: “…New Nivea whitening deodorant for fairer underarms!”

Come again… Fairer what..!? “New Nivea Whitening DEODORANT FOR FAIRER UNDERARMS”

Instant Thought (IT) 1: Think of Salma Hayek or Capt. Niobe, using the New Nivea Whitening Deodorant For Fairer Underarms (NWDFFU).

IT 2: How do you ask for this ‘product’ at the store... “Arrey, woh fair underarms wala deo dena(or deejiye)!” Like, you know, for places where you don’t really have something like a Big Bazaar and the gali wala cosmetic store called Ladies Paradise is the only place where you get this stuff. Interesting people might as well call it Ladies Parasite.

IT3: This is awesome shit!!

I’m mean, seriously. Fairer underarms! That’s the new thing after the natural nikhaar!? Its hard to believe. So... ahh…well… I went on to go check it out. No. Online. By no means a minor feat people… you know, for a guy to lurk around a website that is completely pink; filled with hearts and stars; Tiny, chho_cute li’l awww hearts and stars. www.makeupalley.com Those interested can visit. Surprisingly, there is a considerable amount of statistics available on the website. NWDFFU is not doing too well with a lowly 2.7 lipsticks out of a max 5. And I am not fu***in kiddin you man. This is too damn funny to make up; this one comments says, “…As for the whitening, I did see a little, but not enough…” Not enough..!!? What do you mean “not enough”. Bleach yourself lady and hope you shine like a goddamn CFL. Given a chance, of all the things, you would want to brag about your fair underarm..?! Really?

Enough crap. Truth be told, I never really pictured Colonial hangover get this far. Never. I’m dark; but then I’m a bloke and I’m not really expected to compete in the marriage market. Okay some competition in the dating market. But what the heck... this is absurd! Shameful; not to mention. In this part of the world you could insult someone calling her dark. I mean, ‘Ja Kalmoohi’ is just not the same as ‘Ja Chudail’. NWDFFU is a surprising new product but in some ways not surprising the entirety of the way our society thinks. It is sad. And that is to say the least. Six and half decades have not been enough to clean up the Gori mem psyche. I’m but a nobody to impose my ideas. But ‘Fair is beautiful and dark aint’ That’s an idea I have a problem with. I do not want to start with Halle Berry, Beyonce, Nandita Das and some of my own dusky friends who are just as lovely as they get. This whitening thing almost freaks me out.

New Complan with fairness additives.

Gillette shaving gel, advanced bleach formula.

L’Oreal fairness lipstick- because you’re worth it.

Shalimar Basmati – Now genetically modified for The Indian Skin.

Who knows! Some day Dell will come up with an India special version of its laptops with lower radiation, lower brightness, lower whatever LCDs for reduced skin tanning for the sensitive Indian.

Dark is just as good.

Women, Get over it.

More importantly: Men, Get over it too.

Did I mention ba ba BLACK sheep anywhere?

Have a nice day. Outdoors.

Mrs. Dalloway - Let it sink in.

2011-03-11T17:16:00.002+05:30

Given my credentials of not having attempted a single review in my life, I think a ‘Mrs. Dalloway review’ is almost at the edge of travesty. To be frank, I believe there may be very few among us, who could

actually do justice to a book as compelling a Mrs. Dalloway.

I was drawn to the book following the film, ‘The Hours’ based on Michael Cunningham’s novel by the same name and Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf. While The Hours (film) left me shell shocked and jolted to the core by its sheer brilliance of screenplay and acting prowess; Mrs. Dalloway left me speechless, literally. I feel so utterly handicapped over words and ideas to describe it, let alone critique it. This is but a very humble attempt or perhaps even a tribute to a great book by a greater writer.

First and foremost, you need to forget any and every preconception you have about how to write or read a novel before you embark upon the Virginia reading experience. Woolf does not comply or confine herself to the structures of chapters or volumes. No chapter, no volume in the entire book. Woolf does not feel the necessity of a central plot to bring forth the very core of our emotions. She does not feel also, that it is so awfully necessary to terminate sentences with a period because she wants one to flow into the other. She therefore, is undoubtedly, a maestro at the usage of the semicolon. If you ever lecture to a class full of English literature students and wanted to cite an example of the ‘stream-of-consciousness’ style; Mrs. Dalloway is the piece.

Woolf accomplishes, with almost eerie and spectral freedom, movement in and out of the heads of her characters. She meanders (for that could be the only possible word) through Clarissa’s (Dalloway) thoughts about a black car with royalty inside, Sally, ‘her’ Elizabeth; husband Richard, her lover of yore Peter, her parties, her ideas of life and freedom and inexorably … Septimus. Septimus, is a character that went on to become my personal favourite due to the absolute lucidity with which Woolf portrays the horrors of war through a man ripped apart by voices, daydreams, hallucinations and finally death. But even death is put forward in such sobriety that it shouts out what were but hidden words of Septimus. Virginia’s characters in the book are never larger than life. All placed rigidly in the post World War I era, each having their own unique, queer, yet ‘real’ niceties, opinions and prejudices of the English elite society to which they belong.

In ways more than one, it is a work on social issues through inner sentiment. It is a work on mental trauma, its obscurity and stigmatization. It is also, to a large extent a work to the cause of feminism. It is also a work on death, its various forms, its precursors and consequences. Mrs. Dalloway is not your regular novel to be read once and put back to the shelf. It demands re-reading; because the more you read, the more you realize what you missed out. It glues you and you live with its words.

Woolf once quoted, “A good essay must have this permanent quality about it; it must draw its curtain round us, but it must be a curtain that shuts us in not out.”

This is an excerpt from the book.

“Death was defiance. Death was an attempt to communicate; people feeling the impossibility of reaching the centre which, mystically, evaded them; closeness drew apart; rapture faded, one was alone. There was an embrace in death.”

I think she proves her point.

Love and Hate

2011-03-03T17:45:00.004+05:30

I’m writing this for one: not to forget that I can/ I do write some spiteful stuff. And secondly, to vent out this sense of limitless frustration credited to a harrowing time I have had off late. Some related, some not. My head is such a storm its probably stupid to bind it in words. Stuffed. Stifled. Enraged. Bogged. My head is such a storm with so much of random annoyance that I can’t seem to figure out a structure to this piece that would even start to make some sense; So much that you don’t want me to get started. Or maybe you do, because you all, like half a billion other people in this country, me included, put up with so much of ridiculous shit everyday with no accountability or justification or even a basic wakefulness of shame on the part of the ones we rely on: Government, Brethren or Ourselves.

1. Recent Rambling

The Bangalore Metropolitan Transport Corp makes roughly 1.5 rupees as profit for every kilometer it runs which I hardly need to tell (unless you are a complete imbecile), is an awful lot of money. I pay 20 rupees up from my flat to my office and 20 rupees back. It’s a distance just over 8 kilometers at the other end of which I reach my office at 9. Strikingly, I would now have been one and a half hours in traffic, jostling human beings, human-like beings and outright devils, all damned to a fate similar to mine. I deserve better. Enough said..? No! I stand; Almost all the while, almost all the days. I can’t hand over a ten rupee note to pay the bus conductor five bucks. Lest, Lo and behold: the over lord yells, snarls, grins, swears, (farts?) among other gestures repeating the phrase ‘change daena boss’ at least three times to reemphasize his authority and my stature as a monetary retard. All this in return to the crores and crores of rupees we contribute to the exchequer. All this in return to a requirement of paying 20% more tax if you don’t possess a PAN card! Very particular don’t you think. Inflation, Taxes, looting auto-rickshaws with meters as decorations, bribes: Nothing ever seems to get the constructions to finish, the dust to settle, the crowd to diminish, spay the littering stray dogs, calm reckless raging drivers, stop the air to literally stink from the open drains, stop every single day from being a maddening adventure to keep oneself in one piece. And I’m still talking about one of the most ‘cosmopolitan’ cities in the country. How do we manage to put up with all this? Wrong question. Why? Be extra cautious; you might just land up in shit here, in every sense of the word. Not trying to paint macabre images into your head, giving you an objective view on reality; if you didn’t notice you know.

2. Religion, Region and the Rest

I don’t hate India. I’ve been a passionate Indian all my life. I wear blue for an India match: hockey, badminton or cricket. I cheer for Force India, even though there is so little Indian about it except VMallya & NarainK, debated and sometimes even fought with foreign nationals, mostly white guys (no offence) for my national pride. I’ve been a big ass lover of India. I will remain so because I choose so. A bit too passionate sometimes. Although even in a secular country like ours, you sometimes need to wear your patriotism on your sleeve if you are not a Hindu. No No! Don’t give me that! No communal jargon here. I know better ‘coz I’ve been asked once to address my problems to Bill Clinton. I know better ‘coz my parents have been notified, more than once, that their Hindi sucks because well, they are Christian. Yes! To clarify however, both of them are Keralites, or popularly/derogatorily Mallus. So as per me, they can speak much better Hindi than most of Hindi speaking India can speak Pashto, Cantonese or Bulgarian. Dodge this: “Teri Englisss toh achi hogi… tu Christian hai na !” I mean, where do I start to explain things to someone who starts a dialogue with a statement like that? With a punch to the nose?!

I’m a rather dark skinned; malayali Christian who’s lived almost his entire first eighteen years in Varanasi; home to a so called ‘fairer skinned’; demographically Hindu and linguistically Hindi dominated ancient civilization. So word for word, I’m a fairly rare breed, having quite some hands on experience on the famed Indian diversity. The great melting pot of history, today I feel, is boiling to the brink. We have seventeen languages written on every Indian currency note which I once proudly explained to a German who said Germany was an extremely diverse nation. What is pride in an alien land is the source of political plundering back home. Demand for as many as 10 new states presently exist: so much so, one could make a famous, historic, founding father kinda political career out of a regionalist agenda: I don’t even want to get started with religion. I wonder how long it will take them to pillage this nation over region and religion; I hope it takes a wild blue yonder in eternity. But why point fingers at the ones who are always pointed at. We ourselves are no mean replicas of the devil himself. ‘Saala madrasi’, ‘jahil bihari’, ‘UP wale bhaiyya’, ‘a complete behenji’, ‘illad hi rahega’ are perhaps a few examples of a ‘tolerant, civil India’. Although proud of its better faces, it’s a dirty diversity in some ways, which in no measure rises above the level of racism over which the western world is so brutally patronized. In a society which still conforms to castes, religious stereotypes and even untouchabilty, we carry out the worst form of racism. Yeah, I heard you, “Common, no untouchability anymore. At least among educated”. Advice: Google ‘Doms of Banares’ and try speaking to one if you ever get a chance to. It will change your life. No one of the majority of India, dead or alive, can do without him, but no one will treat him human.

I have so much more to stab the rosy picture with. Cinema, respect for history-tradition, sports, language, the Indian typecast, friendship, love, intimacy. I will sometime, when I am overwhelmed again with a fit of rage for a nation I so love.

Bangalore

3March, 2011

Au Revoir TechTatva2010

2010-09-26T21:25:00.003+05:30

Its been five days of chaotic satisfaction. At least to me on a personal level it marks the zenith of the months of hard work and the sleepless nights of which most among us have now lost count (ref. TextTatva:D ). A bunch of days that would never be forgotten for each one heralded a new facet of the tremendous variety of ideas, discussions, fights and debates life could throw at you. You think you are brilliant and insurmountable with all the meticulous planning but then well all I can remember is what Roddick spoke about Federer: “I threw the kitchen sink at him but he went to the bathroom and got his tub.”

Its been a roller coaster ride for each one of us involved with this li’l fest of ours that has come to mean so much to so many. In the work list that filled the white board (and some great art work too), in the heap of entwined LAN cables, in all the missing pen drives, in the ‘abe printer nai chal raha $@@|#’ moments and some simple plain blond moments too; the ever increasing entropy never seemed more beautifully orchestrated.

Its nostalgia now, that reigns my mind, although its not even one complete day since I last said to myself, “Chal yaar sab ho gaya”. Its the hangover of contentment perhaps, both literal and figurative. To all who have broken their backs and endured the running; to all who sweltered in the sun and drenched in the rains; to all who did everything they could have to make TechTatva2010 and TEDxManipal what it was, this is one BIG BIG thank you, as heartfelt as it can get. Hope you all had fun.

That’s all for this edition. Let TechTatva2011 rock more than ever..!! All the best.

! ! NONE HOLIER THAN THOU ! !

2010-07-12T16:00:00.005+05:30

A tribute to perhaps the most beautiful urban sunset i have had the fortune to witness..!! Anything said would be an understatement.

With my gaze transfixed over the western sky... as the golden ball of fire, in its now diminished might slowly drowns into the horizon, nature reveals its painter within. It does not speak in words, but through elysian colours that have no rivals. Spread across the blue oceans above, the foam of clouds, with tassels of mauve and hues of peach; I cannot but feel, like a child - bedazzled by a carnival, lit up in his most fancied lights. A carnival though, so solemn, it makes him travel, and grow in thought; not of imaginary figments but in the art of an artist beyond compare.

The Chirping birds, the gentle echoing breeze through concrete settlements of lesser beings and the rustling leaves... all in a mellifluous harmony of sounds, resounding encomium to the greatest of them all. I feel everything around my being is celebrating its existence. Acknowledging its innate integrity with the universe; and thereby in some inexplicable way have intoxicated my self into a reality as blissful as paradise.

With each passing minute, I feel more and more dissolved its brilliance and enraptured by its benevolent presence. A gait so commanding of respect that it would be a sin not to notice such splendor. Sitting by the window, belittled and ecstatic, my words seem so unjust to the red rays of light that have traversed the vast expanses of space and time to illuminate a solitary eye into happiness and inspire a hand so unworthy. It has been a moment worth a million lives and a sight beyond expression. An evening that shall remain with me and a memory that will die only in the oblivion of my grave.

Nature ... Take a Bow..!!

FATE

2009-12-20T02:10:00.008+05:30

I almost thought i may not blog again. Fate compelled me. I hate fate. I like blog-ging.

iLike iLike.

Good Good..!

Let us say and sing, ‘Praise be to you, Oh Fate’

For all that you are: Mighty, Cruel and the ever so Great.

We, litters of the human creed: slaves of a greater plan

Stare and stand - oh you lesser sons of Misery’s clan.

What must I fight…? Whom shall I wrong…?

To the side of an unknown master I must belong…!

Shall I blame providence, fortune or an obscure destiny?

For what good is it, if doomed forever is my silent mutiny?

Tied and tamed in forged shackles of helpless Rage

Joys of the soul are but a generous Fate’s daily wage.

They say, our spirits are free: of bound and of boundary

But indeed, we shall laugh at a world stooped in vicious melancholy.

Of Pretence

2009-04-25T14:42:00.003+05:30

Squalling winds through a tunnel in my head.

Sometimes feels like a train racing past; flashing windows of light that leave an evanescent gleam in my contradicting eyes; and as it fades, daylight shines on my fake intellectualism, where facades over love and romantic hues become opaque in their mask of mystery. An inquiry into existing in a dark oblivious bliss pops up, looms over ones head and finally descends on you. Away from rational thinking, and the thinking of the ways of the world. In the dark where bats have their day- blind; and happy.

Other times it’s a ballroom, a regal banquet. Mindless clatter of mundane vocal chords in feigned ways royalty. Silvers plates beneath extravagant food for darkened hearts. Where formality is a way of life and true ardor a way of dramatic excellence. With a smile on the face most deceive and many an honest soul stands in reception- reception of disbelief and misunderstood faith.

Then there are times when it just feels a bit confused, anxious, and misjudged. Questions on ethics, truth, reality and who know what the human mind thinks. Vex perhaps is just another word for our very self. Who probably bothers...? Maybe just me or maybe the ones around. At dusk, as the sun set over the horizon; winds soothe with their now mellowed rage and new reflections take hold. We all act out our lives. Let’s just be actors then; at least live our acts.

...
???

Mortal lamentations

2009-03-28T19:42:00.003+05:30

The symphony of a soliloquy in slumber sheared the shallow stinging silence;
And Lost living left behind a lure of lust, known only to lonely limits.
As a bird flew through the underworld of dreams-
Trapped in the blizzard of gust-full thoughts;
A wild plunge into the final Poseidon of thoughtful vexation.
Strengths of mythical might and human disregard:
Souls of diminutive creations cry foul-
Under spells of ambiguity, a beast cried while its sinews scream!

People, Crowd and Me

2009-02-22T10:00:00.002+05:30

I know the date but I don’t know when I was born.

Its been a long time since I had water bottles round my neck, since we all fell down with “Ring-a-Ring o’ Roses” and since I wrote my exams through “four plus fives” and “three into twoes”. But who cares about it now anyway. It’s a mad rush and sometimes I wish I were Thomas Hardy. I’m not brilliant enough to write a book such as his, but “Far from the madding crowd” couldn’t be a better option.

I see people; people who’ve come here to be the solution to their family woes and people who’ve come over coz … well, they had nothing else to do; People who are dressed up in nothing less than Puma shoes, Nike socks, Levis Jeans, Reebok T-Shirts, Fastrack watches and Jockey under wear and people who write on their hostel wall, “Fuck this money culture”; People who would shoulder a tearful soul or would give it all for a smile on her face and people who walk hand in hand to advertise their pseudo-romanticized chivalry. People who would hang on to a charming departed past to fuel their hopes for tomorrow and yes, people, for whom departed is no better a word than non existent itself; some, for whom dad is the any time money, for some the hare-lipped kite runner and for some, “who gives a f**k”. I’ve seen by this time, ‘The genuine friend’, ‘The outright enemy’ and also the ‘The benign backstabber”.

So compelling is the intensity of this madding crowd that new men are forged every single day; some for the better, others, well … they just cease to be them. Its not too difficult to foresee the change, it’s the acceptance of it that is tricky; Many of us refuse it, others I guess get forged into new men themselves. Men designed to be efficient and just that, no emotional hangovers, no sentimental backlog.

Its a strange place; or maybe it’s just an instance of the terrible face of “The beautiful world” I’ve never seen or I guess I’ve never foreseen. I find it uneasy. Probably I’m just too young to grasp the complexity or probably I’m just too old to be comfortable with this transformation or maybe I just want to be reborn. Afterall, I know the date but I don’t know when I was born.

Malady of Discontent

2009-02-12T01:26:00.005+05:30

My skin's changing hues every other moment watching random males and females exchanging RED roses, teddies, chocolates and objects of eternal, perpetual, everlasting, undying, ceaseless and timeless fondness. (Yeah, i copied it from an online thesaurus)
I watched for the n-th time Tom Hanks standing on the cross-roads in Cast Away.
I fretted at my exam time table for the 253th time. Yeah, again..!
Bit Torrent’s f****d up … [shout]I want my downloads [shout]
I’ve got a tooth ache
I wanted to kill someone today but its both illegal and being Valentine’s week m not too sure…!
I got rated an average of 2.5/10 on looks… [scream]/[sob]/[beating my chest]

If you’ve read Gandhi’s talisman, you know now whom to picture..!!

A Trip in Time

2009-01-10T16:23:00.006+05:30

I now come to know, from a needle on my wall,
Seconds, days and years have passed.
Longing for the times I love,
A picture, a postcard and now myself at last.

In fond recollections of days gone by,
And thumpings of a reminiscent heart;
A breathless gasp and a saline stain,
For sure they reveal ; fate’s pungent tart.

I remember, innocent eyes that glowed,
And yes, the tiny nails I mowed;
I remember, inseparable sharpeners and broken pencils,
And also, feigned cries over fantasy tonsils.
I remember too, those colored school bags,
And skinned knees on spirited crags.

From days when my head was high
At a better toy or a flashing shoe,
Time has flown on fleeting sails
Now, toward forlorn lands I do not construe.

Forlorn lands they are,
Although here, a multitude is alive;
Each one in happy memories,
Holding on to shreds, of their childhood jive.
For we all, move on and march away,
But the eyes, the crags and the cries;
Immortal always and life itself, they always outplay.

Blood Sweat and Tears

2008-11-29T10:54:00.003+05:30

Its been long since I last posted, and now its necessary, not that my opinion would make a difference to the world at large but that if we don’t speak today, It might be well worth to stay zip-lip all our lives.

This very minute as I type my words out, I can hear Sagarika Ghosh, Arnab Goswami, Srinivasan Jain and the like, the top brass of the reporting world, letting the world know that scores have died, Mumbai’s heritage, its history has been burning and that officers have paid the ultimate price for valor. And then we also have the elite, the intellectuals sitting and debating. Debating in A/c rooms on how things could be better. One young lady blurting out clichés, one after another, as politically correct as they get, “We have got to be more cautious and its our collective responsibility.” Tell that to Hemant Karkare, tell that to Akshok Kamte, tell that to Vijay Salaskar, tell that to their children and tell that to a young 20 something men who bled for debates such as these and tell that to their mothers whose tears have no end.

So after over a hundred have died and a manifold more injured, what does the PM say, “We condemn this act of terror.” Mister Prime Minister, who does not..? “We shall consider larger funds for the police department”. After what has happened, all of these dastardly acts, the government shall only consider. This is the value for men of greatness, their lives and their death. Knowing this, the fact that India as a nation is under siege; does it make you even a touch surprised….?

For years on end now, the poor and the downtrodden have suffered the scourge of terrorism. Kashmir has been at proxy war for years now. I guess the PM could send some of his fund there. We wake up only when things go out of hand. Terrorism is no exception. Its like the terrorist are begging for attention now. For when the aam Indian died, in Assam, in Delhi, in Bangalore, in Varanasi, in Akshardham, in buses and in by lanes not many pay heed. I’m happy that there are rich in the world.

Islamic fundamentalist Jehads, such as these, need to be uprooted with the severest of action plans. Afterall, we always have one of these two to wreak havoc, the terrorist or the politician. The Purohit, the Sadhvi, the Mullah or the Jehadi, bottomline is, our nation is falling into tatters. It’s a shame and the government has been shameless. Shameless to ‘condemn’ the acts of terror, again and again and again. I wonder when it would be for the last time they ‘condemn’. For god’s sake, innocent people are dying on the streets of India’s most cosmopolitan city. Ah..! And what do they say, it for God’s sake. Jehad. Huff..! If killing the innocent is the confirmation to a ticket to jannat; I’d have to say, Allah needs to raise some standards.

It’s not just a sorry picture; it’s a grim one too. And to make dying people sound patriotic, we use phrases such as ‘spirit of the nation’, ‘India will be united’, and ‘we shall not go down’. Well, if India is limping, it has to use crutches. Its not about its mighty spirit, its about that fact that its spirit is bruised. To a point where, it has become susceptible ever more to fall under its own callous greatness. It’s easy to put on rosy glasses and say ‘East or west India is the best” or “Mera bharat mahaan”. Only hope that by the time, I’m 40 year old middle aged man, I’d belong to a faction of men who could proudly say, “Yes, India has risen. Mera Bharat mahaan”

The Interpretation of Dreams

2008-09-04T03:45:00.007+05:30

Under the spell of Sufi strains, I soaked in; the melodious tales of both, new found love and long lost ones. In its intoxicating ecstasy I soon found myself transported to the underworld of dreams. Some beautiful, some, not as much.

Amidst an alien crowd of people I was gazing at an unfamiliar face. Swooned in it, my days seemed to fly past, etching indelible pictures on the Wall of memory. Time warped and to that face, I felt belonging, more than to the one I saw in my own mirror every single day. Her old metallic watch, the brown earring and the purple hair band; inanimate objects found place in the inside of me, in the most animated way. Her fingers were warm to touch, warmth that shunned the chill of lonesome existence. Rapture and elation filled my slumber the way it never had.
My dream found me new found love. It was beautiful.

The night moved on, slowly revealing its sly conspiracy. The now familiar face that I so cherished, waned in its oneness with me. The needle stopped and I saw the watch being consumed in rust and the earrings were brown no more. The warmth of her fingers was there, but only to a sense in reminiscence, not to feel the palpable touch. It was no longer mine. Someone else, now, owned the metallic watch, the brown earring and the purple hair band. But the pictures on the Wall still remained, they were never erased.
And now, my dream had found me lament. It was grief; grief that had stealthily settled in me.
With a heavy heart I turned the morning alarm off. I rubbed my sleepy eyes, perhaps only to find them moist.

Maybe, not everything in life is a dream.

Love-ly tears

2008-08-16T21:53:00.006+05:30

I do not have a sister. Neither a younger one to cuddle, nor an elder one to feel cuddled. Sadly, hence, I may never understand the mysterious equations of sisterly love. Its Raksha Bandhan today and…
For a friend who cried for her bro-

Her voice sounded a heartfelt choke;
Teardrops they where,
In which her eyelashes seemed to soak.

In the last hour of the day,
Under blurred stars and a sullen dark sky;
Yearning for her brother’s presence,
A lonesome heart sobbed into I lonesome cry.

Thinking of a pastry or a plum,
Sharing its sweetness, well, fighting over some.
Stuffed teddies to a laser gun,
They brawled over them, with others they had fun.

Underneath the torn quilt of rivalry,
The warm sense of belonging grew.
Streams of recollection rolled down,
Before her dampened eyes ever knew.

And my heart sunk into its melancholic depths,
Depths of unimaginable gloom.
But sadness never spoke to me so gentle,
Strangely it spread Love’s perfume.

Realization had struck me now,
Struck me with a decorated thread.
A craving sister in my bosom’s fairyland,
But its splendor I may never understand.

The Indian Cow.

2008-08-13T21:56:00.005+05:30

Note: Laughing without reason is said to be a sign of madness. You'll find enough reason here..!
This is the essay on "Cow" which was (supposedly) written by some student in the course of completing the "Indian Civil Services Examination" :-)

"The cow is a successful animal. Also he is quadrupud, and because he is female, he give milk,but will do so when he is got child.He is same likeGod,sacred to Hindus and useful to man.But he has got four legs together.Two are forward and two are afterwards."His whole body can be utilised for use. More so the milk. What can it do?Various ghee, butter,cream, curd, why and the condensed milk and so forth.Also he is useful to cobbler, watermans and mankind generally."His motion is slow only because he is of asitudinious species. Also hisother motion is much useful to trees, plants as well as making flat cakes inhand and drying in the sun. Cow is the only animal that extricates his feedingafter eating. Then afterwards she chew with his teeth whom are situated inthe inside of the mouth. He is incessantly in the meadows in the grass."His only attacking and defending organ is the horn, specially so when he is got child. This is done by knowing his head whereby he causes the weaponsto be paralleled to the ground of the earth and instantly proceed with great velocity forwards."He has got tails also, but not like similar animals. It has hairs on theother end of the other side. This is done to frighten away the flies whichalight on his cohoa body whereupon he gives hit with it.The palms of his feet are soft unto the touch. So the grasses head is notcrushed. At night time have poses by looking down on the ground and he shoutshis eyes like his relatives, the horse does not do so.
"This is the cow."

P.S.: We are informed that the candidate passed the exam.

Mechanical Love: Blind Deaf and Dumb

2008-08-12T09:25:00.002+05:30

For a mechanical engineering student, workshops are what a public loo is to a person in need of it. An unavoidable obligation to say the least. The usual Wednesday post lunch workshop returns you in post mortem status: Ghosts. Pale, exhausted, livid with life and its choices. The walk back to the room is not easy…especially when there are a whole bunch on non-mech ‘humans’ roaming around hissing at us, khakhi clad ghosts, and announcing, “Boss, T.C. chalega..?”
The slow march back, under trembling thigh bones and unsteady calf muscles is just as pitiable as it sounds. The world does not seem to matter and it gets quiet when all seems futile: I could hear even the rubber sole under my canvas squeak. A feeble female count in the department and our behavior towards that small number, have rightfully earned us some queer titles. But Wednesday evenings, even our fundamental traits seem to lose vigour. As we pass by the 13th block; like Pavlov’s dog, our heads swivel around towards what normal guyz call eye candy. But mathematically, figuratively or genuinely Mech ≠ Normal.
And as we inch our way towards our shelters, the want for a soft comfy bed consumes our physical self. Climbing stairs is never more difficult. The knock on my door is then attended to. The door swings open and my roomie welcomes me with a smirk, gazing at my sweat drenched khakhi. A normal reaction in college life. I have done it too and hence shall not hold him guilty. After traversing 4 meters of my room in 20 seconds I look at the shelf, second one from the top. A piece of cast iron, once cut with a hack saw in my hand…
I turn a blind eye to my wet shirt, I turn a deaf ear to the mockery 15 minutes ago and I become speechless. I hold the piece in my palm and sit on the bed. With my back rested against the wall, my eyes plunge into sound slumber.
For all the blisters it presents me and all the joys it denies. I was blind deaf and dumb. I was in love, with gears, casting moulds, nuts and bolts. Love nonetheless.

Desolation of Loss

2008-04-27T08:43:00.001+05:30

Its been more than a month i presume since i last posted... amidst the chaos of examinations and the lure of slumber ... the blog was left alone for a lonely walk.
This one is a sonnet.
College life has brought forth a variety i had never seen before... most pronounced being the variety of natures people can possess. The friendly and the indiffernt, the boasting and the lowly, the smart and the "not so smart", the lovable and the backstabber. The canon can go on and on ... but then have to mention, the last one of them all is one which spears you the most.
Dedicated to myself ... lying in the thought of a friend who was not one..!

In the desolation of a solitary loss,
Past glories I see;
Cloaked under murky green moss,
Its a distant wrench I hear,
From the depths of my inward self,
Chained yelling, in voices gross.
In its deep trenches,
I have found none but myself,
A friend that does not lie,
Wiping the tears of my lonesome cry.
The souls of mere mortals,
Look down from their triumphant height
Indifference they met out,
At a companion’s painful plight.

Fragrance of Heaven

2008-03-27T19:42:00.009+05:30

The recent spell of rains after the blistering heat inspired me to jot down a few lines... nothing great, but then... thats me and my thing ... nothing gr8...!!

Sitting by the window
Gazing into sombre sky
The world is a joyful bliss
Testifying its beauty
The winged ones fly.

As the gods begin their heavenly chant
Sounding their rumbling drum
Thunders are what I here,
Intoxicating majesty, as if ageless rum.

Through my hair the winds tunnel through,
Magnificence incomprehensible,
Explanations I have few.

Failing in my quest,
In search of nature’s soul.
So opulent, so divine.
With joyful disbelief in my chest
I shun my weapons of intellect
Only do I watch
Satiated, I take my rest.

And solitary drops fall
Tears from clouds above
Parched and dry, for rescue they call
Answering the prayers of the land
To be seen is no more the sand.

Now, the slaked earth breaths out,
Its a warm sigh of relief.
As raw as dough unleaven
My senses drown in a blissful swoon,
Wet mud afterall, is the fragrance of heaven.

2008-03-20T16:49:00.008+05:30

Melancholy Shall Flee...

When the mind journeys,

Through sylvan gardens and deep dark trenches;

Its my soul that sobs,

In silent, cold and unseen wrenches.

In the cloak of a simple smile,

Fate devices conspiracies vile.

It has been revelry for matter,

Joy for the mind is far,

Far away, many a mile.

Tongue tied is my grief,

From green to yellow to crimson;

Fading colours, of life as a leaf.

My mind travels through the doldrums,

Thirsting for the light of glee;

But I shall pick up the scattered crumps,

Hopeful of the sylvan gardens,

I shall ask Melancholy to flee!!

2008-03-09T03:34:00.013+05:30

Music: Linguistically challenged..!!

It was perhaps when I was a four year old boy and Doordarshan, probably the only channel on TV. Coming back from the Sunday morning mass at church, I stood in front on the scooter as dad drove through the congested roads of the early ninety’s with mom sitting at the back. Feeling the cool morning breeze on my face, I believe the only thing that I thought about was ‘Jungle Book’, ‘Bible ki Kahaaniya’ and ‘Mahabharat'. With no offense to my Hindu friends, I never did like the latter of the three much. I found it confusing with so many characters, chariots and strange looking arrows that blew up in mid air. But, more than anything else, more than Mongli, Noah’s ark or Sri Ram, what I remember the most was a string of contemporary musicians and vocalists... Lata Mangeshkar, Shiv Kumar Sharma, Bhim Sen Joshi, Bala Murali Krishna, you name it, all singing or playing what one would call the essence of diversified unity, “mile sur mera tumhara, to sur bane hamara”. It was then, when I first happened to hear the phrase... “Music has no language”, from a person I blindly believed, my father.

For these many years, I have been an admirer of music. And when I say music, it ranges from the droning of a bumble bee to the rhythmic clattering of the railways; from the khyaals and the taanpura to the opera and the cellos. The mysticism of Indian classical music has no rivals, nor do the enigmatic overtures of the Western classics. Be it Tansen, Bhatkhande, Beethoven or Byrd, they all have been proofs enough for me to believe what my father had said. As the years rolled by, with maths, science, social studies and language...the one thing that grew along with my age was the frequency of a few words... why, what, where and the like. Looking back, it is no surprise to me now. After all, the whole world follows the same path to greater knowledge. Nevertheless, the latest in the list was a question that came to me a week or two before, that does music really have no language..!!

It suddenly popped into my mind after I was taunted by someone about my choice of music. For those who do not know my choice, here is a crash course and it’s a crash course because its one line long. “I like anything that is melodious”. I believe it was Pt. Jasraj singing Raag Bhairav. He was a lean fair dude, pale would be a more appropriate word, hair grown out and wore a black Nirvana T-Shirt with Kurt Cobain written on it. He said, “Dude, what the f*** is that madcap singin? And by the way, how the f*** can you listen to this nonsense?” An argument broke out, more out of insult and anguish than anger. The argument may have had no outcome but surly it gave me something to think about.

So, while we know exactly that Mike Shinoda was the one who put Linkin Park together, very few of us know the difference between a sarod and a saarangi. When I type Elvis with a small ‘e’... MS Word tells me its “Elvis” and not “elvis” with that irritating red line beneath it. But when I type Jasraj, I need to right click and “add to dictionary”; even Microsoft does not know who Pt. Jasraj is. Its not that I have something against western music, its that I cannot comprehend as to why it should be hailed so high that we treat our own tradition “unclool” and if I may take the liberty to say it ... even uncouth. We love and revere Jim Reeves, how many Texas guys would know about Kishore or Rafi. Too much for “Music has no language”.

I may be right, I may be wrong, but for the time being, that’s my stand. Music has a language; which one, I know not but surely as an Indian I can see clearly, it is none of the tongues we are born with. To some extend I presume even we need to do some introspection. After all, for me it goes beyond just music, its national respect at stake, not just a language.

2008-01-28T15:18:00.000+05:30

Oblivion Forever….?

India my Land,
A land of an everlasting spring,
Where soaring above the skies,
Here the Kokilas chirp and sing.

Where with its glorious glory,
The liths of time stand still;
Singing your praise the rivers roll,
Testifying your might,
Are high the hills.

Here is where the monsoons knock,
At the gates of a garden;
Where feeling the mounts, it could walk.
How nature’s Beauty herself, spies at her,
With the eyes of a Hawk.

Here is where knowledge found a glass,
For herself to look at,
Gazing at such splendour,
Here is where she found her throne,
Here where she sat.

But why do I speak in tenses of the past…?
Why do these lines crowning you,
Seem not sturdy enough to last.

Poets in the past,
Termed you many a time, a Harp.

Why, but today, thou art,
Unstruck forever, Unsung forever,
Speak if not sing,
What is it that I may do?
From you being forgotten in Oblivion forever.

2007-12-06T12:21:00.000+05:30

Child of the greater caste

Ever since man has learnt the tricks of a trade called exploitation, humanity has cried foul of socio-economic and political subjugation of the child of the lesser man, the lesser God or the lesser caste. And now, may I have the shameful honor of familiarizing you to the latest in this lineage of the lesser sons of my dear old India; Say hello to the child of the greater caste, for whom, as a consequence of the recent reservations policies, studies got just a bit more of a riskier investment of both time and money.
Once, reading the Bible, a verse from the gospel of St. Matthew seized my notice. It read, “You are the light of the world.” I was now in reception of my first ever spiritual insight that God, quite literally, never lied. As an engineering aspirant, at an hour past midnight, mine is the only window in my neighborhood, which bears light into a night plunged in the darkness of night and the silence of sound slumber. In the awe of an examination called the JEE, I happily sacrifice what an English poet once called, “O blessed barrier between day and day.” Not that I chose to do so but that I have no choice.
When in his book “Five point someone”, Chetan Bhagat wrote about the IIT that – “If you lock yourself up in a room for two years and throw away the keys, you have a chance to make it here” he was not using hyperbole. However I may assure you that this is a mere taster of the rigors of an engineering aspirant in this country of a billion brains. But then, why should the policy makers, who move from one air conditioned ambiance to the other, be bothered as to why I toil twelve hours a day, breaking me head on Physics, Chemistry and Mathematics problems with no electricity to power my ceiling fan.
Nehru, in his Independence Day speech, said, “Long years ago we made a tryst with destiny…at the stroke of the midnight hour when the world sleeps, India will awaken into light and freedom.” Possibly, he may, for a moment have thought that the shackles of the British Raj that left behind India as nothing more than a plundered colony, had finally been shattered. Nehru today, must be in heaven but rest assured, not in eternal idyllic peace in union with the almighty, for in the present day, politics is no longer patriotism personified. Welcome to the neo-modern age of vote bank politics. Divide and rule at its dirtiest best. What has haunted India since 1400 BC is today nurtured and fostered under the perpetual tutelage of hands who’s skin is not white but brown.

Allen Jose George

(wrote this an year ago, frustrated at the resevations made in Indian higher education institutes)

If I were a Teacher, I would say...

2007-12-04T14:23:00.000+05:30

On the need for innovative action in Indian Eduacation

To say that even in the twentieth century, millions and millions of years since the first humans appeared on the face of this planet, ours is still a very imperfect world, would perhaps be, usageof rather mild language. Be it social, political, economic or educational, each and every aspect of human life has a far way to go into becoming an ideal reality. A ‘perfect world’, practically speaking is probably a ‘dream world’ but to put forward a hypothesis that our world, even today, is an unjust and hard world for the majority of mankind is not what one may call, ‘risky business’. What major countries, spend each day, on waging wars against one other, is in fact more than sufficient for a daily wage laborer to live his entire life, which he might have only dreamt about and thought to be fitting only to kings, to say the least. The unreasonable and unjustifiable system of discrimination of fellow humans on the basis of caste incorrigibly lingers in the society, haunting us of its presence, even to this very date.
Presenting forward and pondering over the problems of the modern world is an endless issue of consideration but the larger point is that the more we discuss this subject, the more we come to understand why nature made us humans, different from the rest of the animal kingdom. Why God made us the most curious of all living species. Why he provided us with a mind that has an insatiable thirst for knowledge and an unquenchable zest for solving problems. Why he gave us a mind that is able to “Innovate”. A famous English saying propounds that “Necessity is the mother of all inventions”. If this is true, may I also state, that it is socio-political predicaments that breed the innovative action of the human self. Ever since the human mind has become conscious of its own future, it has realized the necessity of a powerful and socially aware youth. As Tennyson rightly pointed out, “The old order changeth, yielding place for new”, it is the younger generation that lays the foundation of a progressive society, nation and the world at large. Having said the above, one cannot deny the fact that to a certain extent, what is wrong with the society today is the result of the fallacy of what is taught to our students. For change is the only constant in the world, it is the very profession of teaching that needs the greatest extent of innovative reconstruction.
Consider this, every year, the best talents in science and mathematics in India compete and crack a plethora of engineering entrance exams for getting into the top institutes of India. However even with this creamy layer of students that the institutions manage to search out, if one looks at a list of recent inventions, discoveries or scientific patents, the most common country names one would spot are the US, the UK, Germany, France etc. Why ?? Why is it that the best talents in India, do not show up on the world scene. It is because here in India, students are taught “what” to think and not “how” to think. The “teach WHAT to think” criteria is not specific just to the houses of higher education, unfortunately it is a common denominator that exist in almost all the educational institution in India. From village open air schools at the grass root level to the very zenith of higher education in India. In our schools, a good student is only one who is good at academics. The word “studious” has now become synonymous with, say a, “bookworm”. Though a student may have the artistic hand of M.F. Hussein or the poetic inclinations of Byron, Wordsworth or Longfellow, unless and until one can solve physics Chemistry or Maths problems, he is a mere fool who knows nothing at all. And for this both the educational system and the teachers are to blame. Our systems constant dependence on marks as the sole criterion of judgment is mundane and illogical. Not only is it outdated but also one of the greatest threats to a progressive society. Max Muller once said, “India, what it can teach us”. Nevertheless, to believe in this statement today in totality would be to set foot into dangerous territories of ignorance and complacency.
Education in India has to change. We live in a world which is highly competitive, and our children deserve the best. In the present age, the way we transfer knowledge to our students would leave them almost nowhere. The very outlook of Indian education has to undergo a transformation of colossal standards. The system needs massive reformation for it is to a great extent, the system itself that ties down the flare in not only the student but also the teaching community in transferring their vast ocean of knowledge to the future builders of the world. And this reformation is not to be imposed from the top but natured from the very foundation. Leaving the essence of education hollow, one would just be creating an unsustainable and fragile future nation. Considering the amount of scope for improvement in the teaching patters of Indian schools and institutes of higher education it is needless to say that innovation is not only the need of the hour but the need of every single minute hereafter.

Allen Jose George
[As a teacher on the need of Innovation in the field of education.]

Blogger Amature...Fault Finding Forbidden to all Visitors

2007-12-04T12:50:00.000+05:30

Hi there all you guys n galz...uncs and aunts out there...
Its been a long time since i've been thinking about my own blog. Now that you are veiwing it, I guess, although not a dream, its weaved into reality now ! Thinking of it... its pretty strange as to how i haven't really had a blog; for basically I like to give out and recieve ideas. Anyways its past tense now ...
Here's the present tense status...

NAME : Allen J George
OCCUPATION : Blogger

For the time being..
CIAO.