Scribbles, Visuals And Doodles

Answers Are Never Easy To Come By

2011-12-19T01:36:00.000+05:30

“Why do people hate you?” he asked her.

“Why do people love you?” she asked him.

There was no answer either way. They decided to let this question rest till time offered them an answer that would leave them satiated. Time was a better master than most people were. A healer unlike any other.

They spent their time writing, searching for answers in what they wrote.

Answers were never easy to come by, but that never stopped them from asking.

Bad Poetry

2011-12-18T00:48:00.003+05:30

And when we talk to each other after so long,
I feel inspired to write a few words about you,
about the time we shared with each other.
And all I can write is bad poetry.

I have no sense of rhyme or rhythm,
pass my judgment through a prism
of trust, of love, and yet they produce no words.

All I write is bad poetry.
All I hum is bad poetry.

I strum all day this guitar,
two chords played all along
and I’m not able to come up with anything better.

Then you read my poems,
and you like them all.
You consider it good poetry
and I know you do like it
but I can write better.

So I’ll sit down with the guitar once again,
till I write something worthy of you.
Till I write better poetry.

Christmas Carols - Death Metal covers (No, really!)

2011-12-15T14:54:00.000+05:30

So since I have nothing else to do, presenting to you the gory, violent, death metal cover versions of (in)famous Christmas Carols. (For those who haven't heard the originals, the links are provided.) Enjoy. NOT!

Rudolph The Killer Reindeer (based on Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer)

Intro:

You know Loch Ness, and Yeti, and Jack and Zodiac,

You know all these killers, scary and their like.

But do you recall the most dangerous of all?

Chorus:

Rudolph the killer reindeer,

had a very bloody knife.

And if you ever saw it,

you would say he killed his wife.

All of the other reindeer

used to call him ‘You-Know-Who’.

They never let cruel Rudolph

crack his head up into two.

Verse 1:

Then one gloomy Halloween,

Santa came to say,

“Rudolph, with your knife so bright,

won’t you slit my throat tonight?”

Then all the reindeer feared him,

as he cut him open wide.

All of these other reindeer

then spent a sleepless night.

Verse 2:

Then one silent week later,

Dasher went up to him.

“Rudolph, with my sword so light,

won’t you suffer a dreary fright?”

Then all the reindeer rejoiced,

as they shouted out in glee,

as Rudolph the red-mouthed reindeer,

was buried deep beneath the tree.

I Saw Mummy Killing Santa Claus (based on I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus)

I saw mummy killing Santa Claus,

underneath the chili-limbu last night.

She didn’t see me creep,

her murder was very neat.

I was so shocked up in my head,

it took me some time to sleep.

Then, I heard mummy coming up the stairs,

and by that time, I hid under my bed.

She screamed; she went away.

Oh what a corpse I would have been,

had mummy found me in my bed last night.

A Merry Gory Christmas to you. (No, I'm not so evil in real-life.)

Folly Of The Fool

2011-12-13T23:52:00.000+05:30

Rusted, it lay in a corner,
wounding those who dared run their hands over it,
a runaway symbol from another era,
of their tale, now deprived of air to breathe,
all thanks to the Fool for flooding his house with water.

The sun's rays form a crack in the door.
Oxidised, it survives.
The Fool will not drown again.

Shakespeare, Or Not Shakespeare, That Is The Question

2011-11-17T11:17:00.001+05:30

With the film Anonymous coming out in the near future, which questions us whether Shakespeare wrote his plays (or was it the Earl of Oxford, or even Christopher Marlowe?), I came across this New York Times (Books) article on Twitter through @MatthiasRascher.

The article talks about Italian Romantic composer Verdi who successfully composed three operas: Macbeth, Otello and Falstaff out of Shakespeare's plays. It goes on to talk about drama in Shakespeare's time; how plays were written, how they were commissioned, so on and so forth, dispelling the theories that Shakespeare didn't write his plays, along the way.

The article written by Pulitzer-Prize winning author, historian and journalist Garry Wills can be found at this link: http://bit.ly/sBp9EM

Presented below are two paragraphs from the Shakespeare part:

Those who doubt that Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare are working, usually, from a false and modern premise. They are thinking of the modern playwright, a full-time literary fellow who writes a drama and then tries to find people who will put it on—an agent to shop it around, a producer to put up the money, a theater as its venue, a director, actors, designers of sets and costumes, musicians and dancers if the play calls for them, and so on. Sometimes a successful playwright sets up an arrangement with a particular company (Eugene O’Neill and the Province- town Players) or director (Tennessee Williams and Elia Kazan), but the process still begins with the writer creating his script, before elements are fitted around it, depending on things like which directors or actors are available for and desirous of doing the play. Producers complain that it is almost impossible to assemble the ideal cast for all the roles as the author envisioned them in his isolated act of creation. The modern writer owns the play by copyright and can publish it on his or her own, whether produced or not. None of these things was true of dramatic production in Shakespeare’s time.

Then, the process began with the actors. They chose the playwright, not vice versa. They owned the play, and could publish it or withhold it from publication. Each troupe had limited resources—often, nine to twelve adult actors (all male), and far fewer boy actors (sometimes as few as two). A Swiss traveler in 1599 saw “about fifteen” players handle the forty-five speaking parts in Julius Caesar.⁹An aspiring playwright had to bring his idea to these actors (or their representatives) with a plot accommodated to the number and talents of the particular troupe. The parts he was describing had to be so arranged as to allow for multiple doublings. A man playing two roles could not meet himself on stage, or even come back in as someone else too soon to allow for costume and other changes (a beard, wig, spectacles, padding, and so on). “For some thirty-five years from 1547–8 plays advertise, usually on the title-page, the number of actors required and how the parts may be doubled, trebled, and even septupled.”¹⁰ In a 1576 morality play, The Tide Tarrieth No Man, the Vice character is told to prolong his duel “while Wantonness maketh her ready” in the tiring-house to come back out as Greediness.¹¹ The plot had to be tailored for the company from the very outset.

Happy reading!

The Drums And The Piano

2011-11-04T12:14:00.000+05:30

I tried something new for the first time wherein I used famous song titles within a poem. The song titles belong to the following bands:

The Doors
Pink Floyd
Oasis
Radiohead
The Who
The Beatles
Led Zeppelin

The Drums And The Piano

They say Time and Money are all that people need to have,
But My Generation would disagree.

They would never want to be Fake Plastic Trees,
As they travel on the Crystal Ship to Kashmir,
they Twist And Shout
as they survive on Cigarettes And Alcohol.

But then the Wild Child said Whatever,
She brought out the Paperback Writer within her,
and decided to leave the Pinball Wizard, High And Dry.

Was it Communication Breakdown
or was she being Comfortably Numb?
No one knew. He just Let It Be.

He met her once again, at Moonlight Drive,
they were Riders On The Storm.
He said, “Hello, I Love You.”
She said, “People Are Strange.”
He said, “I’m A Boy.”
She said, “Break On Through (To The Other Side).”
He said, “Hey, Hey, What Can I Do?”
She said, “These Are My Twisted Words. I Wanna Hold Your Hand.”

He said, “Let There Be Love, D’yer Mak’er.
Songbird, Let There Be More Light.”

“Lyla,” she said.
“Baba O’Riley,” he said.

They set out to play Rock And Roll Music; the drums and piano;
Anyone Can Play Guitar.
Wishful Sinful he felt, Behind Blue Eyes, so lost.
He was now Coming Back To Life.
She was now a Jigsaw Falling Into Place.

On the Stairway To Heaven, they thought it was The End,
That is When The Tigers Broke Free;
Free As A Bird.
The Karma Police realised that Anyway, Anyhow, Anywhere,
They were going to Live Forever.

I Just Had To Write...

2011-10-16T01:29:00.000+05:30

There are times when you want to write. Write miserably, as if your life depended on it. Write or die. Write or perish. Writer’s Block, notwithstanding. It seems if you don’t write now, you are missing out on letting the world learn something for itself. It’s an urgent need that you can’t always address. What will I write on? Why do I have no ideas? What should I write? What if it just ends up like rubbish?

But then you calm yourself down. So what if it’s rubbish? Not the end of the world. Your job is to write, which you have. Now leave it. Go to your next piece. But don’t stop writing. For if the pen runs out of ink, aye, you’ll never be able to find yourself again.

Poems of Exaggerations, Writings of Solitude

2011-10-13T22:32:00.001+05:30

The muse that she is,
she always inspires
to create an image, to write about her,
so that the world knows that beauty exists
not just in the eyes of the beholder.

Her beauty can be felt too.
The hair, she can’t make up her mind,
sometimes long,
sometimes short,
but they feel the need to grace everyone with its blessed presence.
Her eyes, brown as the fresh bark of the banyan tree,
ageless, look at you.
Melancholy resides within.

A hint of cynicism, coupled with a trust so scant,
she doesn’t remember when the last time was that she wrote
with all her heart.
Poems of exaggerations, writings of solitude,
all have been abandoned in favour of a life,
full of awareness.

She trips, and falls and trips again,
hallucinates, is hypnotised,
but recovers.
The sordid scribbles and dreamy doodles will return
to her.

Her crazy heart sings
like the canary outside her window,
every spring morning.

You Complete My Day

2011-09-24T00:36:00.000+05:30

Intro:

I’m yours.
You’re mine.
You’re the best.
You make me better.

Verse 1:

Don’t you love it when everything is just fine!
Don’t you love it when the sun on you shine!
Skipping around in puddles of water,
Sipping with friends the rum and a quarter.

Care to see the flowers opening up to the day!
Care to see the people smiling on their way!
Flashing a big smile at everyone,
Kissing the rain as we just run.

Care to share your happiness with someone else!

Chorus:

Your joys to be shared,
laughter infectious.
no worries, no cares.
warmness contagious.
Happiness loves company
So do you and so do I.
At each other’s side we ourselves lay,
oh friend, you complete my day.

Verse 2:

Can’t you see the ladybug crawling away!
The crow that is satiated lets it stay.
Dancing around the water sprinkler,
singing a tease, a naughty winker.

Can’t you see the attention that you’re deriving!
Painting a picture beautiful no one can see.
Jumping on the green wet grass,
playing on the see saw’s mass.

Don’t you want to play into the night!

Appreciated!

2011-09-17T01:08:00.001+05:30

It feels really good when you've worked hard and the end result is good.

It feels even better when this thing you were working on was your first time at it.

I think my joy knew no bounds when my work was appreciated.

I sat blushing at my desk like a five-year old kid who'd just received candy for getting ten on ten in his spelling test.

Praising me for being an "amazing team player" when I know I work better alone? I think I've improved vastly.

Oh well, four and a half months in, and work's good. Life's good.

An Open Love Letter To My Beloved Goan Community

2011-09-14T23:22:00.001+05:30

Since people are writing open letters to folks from other communities and then people actually write open letters back, I decided to go one step further and write an open letter to my own community.

Goans. Goa. Sigh!

Generally, one never hears any complaints about Goans. I mean, we’re a minority. Have you ever heard any complaint against minorities in our country? Also, considering that most Goans are Catlicks, we follow in the non-violent tradition of Christianity. We never fight. Just go on peaceful marches, maybe. Or write letters to the editor of a newspaper.

Or do nothing.

Laziness is the singlemost defining trait of a Goa. Obvious, no? If you had Indian’s best beaches, feni and sausages to accompany it, you automatically feel lazy. Susegaadh, as we like to put it. Goa earns most of its revenue from tourism (and mining, but that is a non-mentionable), we just need houses near beaches to rent, or a shack on a beach, or bike services, and we know we’ll earn enough to last our grandchildren. Ask the Russians. They pay good.

But this susegaadh can get onto people’s nerves. Like my dad’s. He constantly berates me for sleeping a lot and not helping in cleaning the home. And then he says the reason you don’t see any Goans in high places (careers, men! Not what you were thinking) is because they are too lazy to study extra or work hard. That’s not the truth.

The actual reason why you never see Goans at higher posts in society is because we aim for the simple things in life. All Goans just want to play football, go to church Sunday mornings, have beer, play guitar, jive at weddings to Walk Of Life, waltz at their own weddings to Love Will Keep Us Alive and From This Moment On, have kids, buy a bungalow in Goa and then retire. Oh, and also grow a French beard.

How can anyone blame us Goans for wanting a simple life?

And yet, you will find a few Goans who want to go beyond this. Julio Rebeiro, Leander Paes, Keith Vaz (my dad needs to take a look at this guy, he’s higher up not in India, but in the UK!), Dom Moraes, Sidd Coutto, Eunice DeSouza, Remo Fernandes, Anthony Gonsalves… er…

But look at that! Leaving Keith Vaz who has had some controversies against his name (see dad? That’s what happens when you get to a higher post!), the rest have untarnished reputations. We are as spotless as the vestment that Goan Catholic priests wear.

Been a year and a half since I’ve been to the land of sun, sand and susegaadh. Need to go and sort out my family’s ancestral property issue too. (Yes, me too. Which Goan doesn't!)

And thus ends my open love letter to my brethren (Isn’t that word very Mallu?). Come now, stop reading and call me over for beer. We shall dance over the Goan Masala too.

P.S.: Portuguese citizenship, anyone?

P.P.S.: No matter how much we complain about Goans being stereotyped in Hindi movies, haven't I described all the Goans you've ever seen in Hindi films?

The Traveller And The Moon

2011-08-08T01:07:00.003+05:30

Rolling over the northern star,

Just push his scars right out of the way.

The night is up, the moon shows its face,
filled with scars, a trace of its heydays.
And the Northern Star twinkles and jingles,
while the mighty periwinkle just winks.
A sign of the jinx, by the fur of the great Sphinx.
she shows her prickly face, to mirror the sun,
to help the man on the moon to run.

“I’m busy,” the traveler said.
“I’ll meet you while you’re busy,” she replied.

He gasped, he wheezed, he puffed, he heaved
himself to walk further
to reach the end of the moon,
to jump over the Star.
The periwinkle twinkled and winked,
the traveler had had no time to think.

Her light flickered. Like a candle
he was extinguished.

Care For A Cuppa Coffee?

2011-07-28T17:31:00.001+05:30

Abel continued staring at the blank sheet of paper as the Irish Coffee lay beside him, the waft of the air-conditioner cooling the whiskey-laden caffeine drink. He tried connecting the thoughts in his head to coherent words on paper but he couldn’t get his pen moving.

“Sir, would you like anything with your Irish Coffee?” the waitress asked him in a gentle tone. Abel looked up at her. She was wearing the Café Coffee Day attire, down to the white apron. She had hazel eyes, a rarity in the city where Abel was used to seeing just brown-eyed girls. Her hair was tied up in a neat bun, more to do so with the job she had. He knew she would look more beautiful if she let her hair open.

“I’d like some inspiration,” he said, in a tired voice.

“Excuse me, sir?” the waitress asked.

“Yes, inspiration,” he said. “That’s what I need, uhm, Faye.” Her name was printed in bold black letters on a white plate and pinned to her outfit.

“Er, but sir,” Faye hesitated, “Inspiration isn’t served here.”

“Why not?” Abel screamed. “I don’t think I’m the only person looking for it. I mean, many people who come here must be asking for it, right?”

“Well, no sir,” Faye said, quite enjoying the conversation. She looked up at the counter. Her two colleagues were busy flirting in one corner. The shop was empty, save for two businessmen discussing a future deal. And besides, Abel was handsome. Dressed in jeans and a checkered rolled-up sleeved-shirt, he had a chiselled face. A face that would suit an artist or a sculptor more than a writer, perhaps. “I’m sure many people are looking for inspiration. I think the problem is that they never ask.”

“Oh!” Abel said, looking outside the window for a second and then at Faye in a disapproving tone, “That’s a shame.”

Faye was surprised. She had never met anyone so candid before. She sure had met a unique specimen if anything else.

“Sir, would you like anything else then, if not inspiration?” she asked again. She, after all, had a job to do. “Your Irish Coffee has gone cold too.”

“Okay, you can do two things. Actually, three.”

“And what would that be, sir?” Faye said, quite curious now.

“Firstly, you can stop calling me ‘sir’. My name’s Abel. Spelt A-B-E-L and not the way it is spelt in table. Secondly, I’ll finish this coffee, but can you get me two more of the same? And lastly, if you are free, would you have a coffee with me?”

Faye stood in disbelief, wondering what had happened. She looked around her. Her colleagues were still in the corner while one of the businessmen seemed delighted. She turned back to look at Abel who was now looking at street urchins outside the window begging for money.

“Er, Abel?”

“Yes?” Abel turned around slowly, as if he knew what she would reply.

“I get free in an hour. After that?”

“Sure, no problems. I’ll complete my story till then,” he smiled.

Faye turned around and went back to the counter. Her colleagues stopped hobnobbing together when they saw her approaching. Faye couldn’t stop smiling and hoped that Abel wouldn’t notice. He wouldn’t as he was already immersed into his sheet of paper.

Abel had written just a few words on his paper. But he knew he could elaborate and make a fine story now.

Faye. Abel. Love. Four-letter words.

Help Me, I'm Alive

2011-07-25T00:23:00.001+05:30

I tried, recently, writing six-line or seven-line stories. This is one of my attempts. Will post a couple more sometime later.

And for those who are musically inclined, the title of this story is also the title of a song by the band Metric.

I have perfected the art of committing suicide.

Not by hanging: you would want to loosen the noose.

Not by coming in front of a train: you’d step off the track once you hear the horn.

Not by cutting your wrist: your hand shivers just trying that.

The best way is to jump off a cliff blindfolded: you do not know what’s coming your way.

I know this works efficiently; I have, after all, been successful at it.

Let's Write A Story

2011-07-24T00:39:00.003+05:30

They began writing in the same book,

they started at opposite ends.
She took the front;
he, the back.

Pens were passé, they said.
Quills were what they felt they should write their story with.
And so it began.

Dipping the grey quill in red ink, they scribbled,
scrawled,
squiggled,
doodled,
wrote.

Reams of paper were covered with words,
words that never meant anything to anyone, except them.
They wrote in code, in diagrams, stick figures.
A language only they could understand.

Red ink stains all over their hands, faces and clothes,
as red as the lipstick on her lips,
yet not as red as her nail polish.

They had to run out of ink, and she was first to do so.
She wrote fast, yet lesser.
He was slower, yet dirtier.
Her part of the book was left midway,
as the red ink ran off the white page into blankness.

And as he completed his story.

Death By The Railway Tracks

2011-07-12T01:17:00.002+05:30

I feel some of you may not be able to digest what I've written here with regard the content and how I've described most of it. So don't read ahead if you feel you won't be able to complete it.

“Don't cry / Don't raise your eye / It's only teenage wasteland”

The Who’s Baba O’Riley blasted through my headset as my train gathered speed. I was hanging by the gate of the train and it had just left Dahisar towards Mira Road. I love hanging out the train between Dahisar and Mira Road. The open expanse allows for a lot of breeze, the train moves persistently fast, and nothing beats it when there’s good rock music playing. Just that today, the train screeched to a sudden halt as soon as it left Dahisar.

Usually when such a thing happens it is mostly because someone pulls the chain; mostly as a trick, rarely because of an urgent need. The train, most often, begins moving after halting for around fifteen seconds, but this time it remained stationery for over a couple of minutes. And then the Guard’s voice arrived over the train intercom. He announced that the train would stay in its current position for some time as it had run over a person and he requested the people aboard the train to not get down and walk on the tracks.

A few attendants and officials arrived with a stretcher after ten minutes from Dahisar station, which was roughly a five minute walk from where the train now was. The main official approached with torchlight as the train and its surroundings were engulfed by the darkness. He beamed the torch underneath the train to locate the ‘dead body’. And I don’t exactly remember what my reaction was when he came and stood right next to our coach; right next to the gate I was hanging by, pointing out that the ‘body’ was lying exactly under where I was standing.

He summoned his attendants to come quicker. They pulled out the ‘body’. Blood was oozing from the back of his head. One of the officials said that he was alive, and in all probability he would live. A miracle? Maybe. He was, after all, living. And in one piece. After coming in front of an 80 km/h train.

The train started moving. I put my headsets back on. The drumbeats of Blondie’s Maria filled my ears. Was I just indifferent or what?

It wasn’t the first time that I saw a dead body (though technically this one wasn’t, yet); one that had been through an accident. Train accidents and I are old friends; we’re not close, but we meet each other often. My earliest recollection of a train accident was when I was below the age of ten, perhaps. I remember seeing one at Dadar station. I remember the body being carried away to some distance while the person’s shoes and bag were still at the spot where she (Yes, I think I distinctly remember that person being a woman) was hit. I also remember another one when I was a kid, but this time around I was inside the train and looking out the window at one more life taken.

When I entered college, my affair with train accidents increased. I started jumping into running trains while it entered platforms so that I could catch a window seat. I have dragged myself along the platform at least five times till date. I have had my sandals dropped underneath the train too. And yet, I still do the same everyday.

I remember that I was at Borivali station once and I was just getting down the staircase when a train was leaving the platform. A man hurried to get in. He almost got a foothold and the other passengers tried to hold on to him but he went under. Right in front of my eyes. It did not help that I was listening to Rihanna’s Russian Roulette while this happened. I avoid that song whenever I board a train now.

I’ve been witness to not just train accidents though. Last year, at a usually not-so-busy signal at the junction where a road connects Azad Maidan to Cross Maidan while passing through Fashion Street, a taxi ran over a man and did not wait to help him. Fortunately, some shopkeepers and others from the public came forward to help him but it didn’t seem like he would live. I ignored it, spoke about it to my friend who saw it too; she later admitted that she wanted to slap me and tell me to shut up. That accident had shaken her up. I, evidently, was not harrowed (though I did write a poem about the incident).

So is it that I’ve seen death by accidents so many times that I’ve become numb by it? Is it that I don’t care anymore? Or perhaps as they say, sooner or later, everyone has to die. I’ve had a friend die in a train accident. I’ve had my uncle die in a train accident (much before my birth though) and yet nothing changes. Tomorrow morning I will still jump into the train. To be as comfortable inside, and not realising that I’m putting into danger the ‘comfort’ of my life. Am I not affected anymore? I don’t know. Maybe I am.

And yet,

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

- John Donne

Twinkle Twinkle

2011-07-05T23:18:00.002+05:30

“When I have my own house, I’ll have stars on the ceiling above my bed.”

The clouds covered the diamonds of the night but that didn’t stop Nysa from voicing her wish aloud. Lying on the sand at night on an empty sea shore had pleasures of its own.

“You’ll miss out on these, won’t you?”

“Well, yeah,” she said hesitatingly. “So what? I’ll buy a house next to the shore. I can then have the best of both worlds.”

Nysa was like that. She could alter her dreams to suit her anytime.

“Arhaan, why don’t you get the solar system on your ceiling too?”

“Well, I’d rather have my blank wall staring back at me,” I said hurriedly. “Thank you Nysa.”

“Blank?” she almost shrieked, piercing into the darkness of the night. “You’re a bore. Tell you what. I’ll design your ceiling. Yes, just your ceiling. I’ll have some graffiti engraved on your whitewashed wall.”

“Oh! Hell, I’m never calling you home.”

“Please yourself then, moron,” she said derisively and got up and started walking away.

“Hey! Nysa! Where are you going?” I screamed. This shouting was not helping much with the mood of the place.

“Nowhere,” she said. “No. Somewhere. Somewhere I can see the stars clearer.”

I got up too. I couldn’t leave her alone at this hour of the night. No one was around. But the feeling that you’re alone is always scary. Nysa did put up a nice front though.

“So, why are you running behind me now?” Nysa asked as I reached up to her.

I stayed behind her, not walking with her.

“I’m checking out your footprints. The way your feet caress the sand, slowly embossing themselves onto this wet…”

“Enough poetry-shoetry now,” she interrupted me. “Just admit that you couldn’t lie there alone.”

“I could have,” I replied, not realising that I actually never felt like I was lying. I felt I was telling her the truth. “But your footprints. That’s what I want on my ceiling.”

“Arhaan, what’s wrong with you? Okay no?”

“Perfectly Nysa,” I smiled. “Footprints. That’s what I want on my ceiling, leading to my bedside window.”

A star fell across the azure sky.

XIC-JR - 2010 2011: A Tribute

2011-04-21T23:53:00.009+05:30

I completed my junior college from St. Xavier's College. Yes, the one where Kabhi Kabhi Aditi was shot. But I had to shift to Wilson's to complete my graduation due to unavoidable circumstances. Yet, I knew my association with Xavier's had not ended. This end was abrupt. I knew I would be back. And I did come back to complete the story.

Last year, I got admission into Xavier Institute of Communications, which is the *duh* communications wing of Xavier's. It has two campuses: one within Xavier's and one next to the St. Xavier's school which is a stone's throw from here. (Not really, actually. Ask us who had to run from the college to school campus for lectures within ten minutes.) But the crowd is still the same, just that we're expected to be more mature, as we're "post-graduate students" in the words of our Dean.

The convocation ended yesterday and with that our year at XIC and hence, I present here a photo blog (with a few lines too) showing how my year at XIC went by. It was not always fun. It was not always work. There were times we could kill people. But, in the end, I'm going to miss this place, the people, the college, the fun, the anger, the everything.

Chronicling the year became easier because the Elective One folks had to get hold of DSLR cameras. Although it did cost too much (Rs. 22000 over the Rs. 175000 we paid) the photographs I clicked helped soothe the mind. Also the free Reebok watch. Anyway, the photograph beside this paragraph is one of the first ones clicked with this camera. This was during the still-life photography class. There were many other genres we tried too, like food, people and fashion but we shall skip those photos for now.

Our first significant event in XIC was the photography trip to Hide Out in Vikramgarh which is on the Mumbai-Ahmedabad highway. We clicked a lot of rural India, nature, including birds, trees and insects, as well as still-life. It was rejuvenating being away from the city for three days in the peace and serenity of rural Maharashtra. Although it was a bit annoying that we had to listen to "This is not a picnic. This is a photography trip." a lot.

The Campfire

Emu: Miniature Godzilla

Ladies By The Well

I forgot what this was called. But enchanting it was.

Ulka and Sylvia sitting by the waterside.

This trip was a wonder for all of us. Going to a place so beautiful and graceful. I, personally, got to be in the arms of nature in a manner I never was before. And the best part was, this was just going to be the first instance of it at XIC. There was one more trip coming. The one with the entire class. The one at Shakti Yogashrama.

Then towards the end of October, when everyone was well into the course, and stressed by the continuous assignments and projects, the college decided that we could refresh ourselves at Shakti Yogashrama which is on a remote hill somewhere near Lonavala. How the bus found the place is beyond me.

We were not allowed to take our cellphones and laptops and stuff around because electricity was anyway at a perpetual shortage there. That didn't stop people from taking their cellphones and searching for network at far-flung places at the Yogashrama like in the toilet, under the banyan tree or even when we went hiking to the waterfall.

Mind you, I didn't take my cell-phone. And hence stayed without it AND Facebook for four days. And survived. (Now say that I'm a Facebook addict!)

Anyway, two of our classmates had to be packaged off back home on the first evening itself because they took ill the moment they stepped onto the holy soil of the yogashrama.

Fixed Eyes

For the rest of us, it was a fun-filled four days away from assignments (By the way, we were asked to write a review of the place and what all we did once we got back.) We did yoga and meditation, slept during it; attended lectures on Indian classical dance and music as well as Indian Mythology, which were very interesting.

Creepy Crawly

The Hopper!

We hiked to waterfalls and clicked photographs of people with a lighted background. (Yes, my stupid ideas which turn out amazing at times.)

Let There Be Light!

We also saved people from dying. But that's another story, altogether.

Almost Down The Waterfall!

We played football.

Had to play!

We sang loudly in a place where we were supposed to remain silent. We broke rules. (Yawn!)

We played dandiya and garba.

And then we returned to the city to sit on Facebook and upload the photos so that we could all like and comment on them.

Oh! A few people even celebrated their birthdays at the Yogashrama. Here is a photograph of how mentally retarded Shefali was at the end of the trip. Imagine not receiving any wishes due to unavailability of network. And eating veg food when you would have otherwise been eating non-veg. (Okay, vegans, no hurt intended.)

We got a break for the Diwali holidays. Just a week. My birthday fell in that week. Now that's what I call sad timing. Anyway.

We were back in no time and already laden with more assignments. But then, fear not. Because Christmas was just around the corner. More like eight weeks away. So when Christmas did come, we all put our Santa caps on and attended the research lecture, which was fun indeed.

Some people managed to keep their caps on straight while some were left open-mouthed at the fact that they looked awesome in a Santa cap. (Some credits go to the photographer, of course.)

In the New Year, we returned to work harder. Not for our assignments much but because the first elective folks had a Photography Exhibition to arrange at Piramal Gallery, National Centre for Performing Arts (NCPA). In case, you’ve never heard of the place before, suffice to say that it was a matter of huge pride for us. Here is a photograph of the First Elective in all its glory.

Oh! And here’s an awesome photo (I think, at least) that I clicked that day.

Towards the end of January, the Public Relations (good folks, them) batch organised Xuberance In Colours, an annual event organised by them which involves the entire college. It was a fun night for all of us. Especially those who got to wear sleeveless to college for once without being halted at the gates by the watchmen.

Picture Courtesy: Shefali Menezes

Pic Courtesy: Shefali Menezes

Pic Courtesy: Manav Juneja

The good folks at PR also organised a Sports Day for the first time at XIC. Football for the boys and Basketball for both. Our esteemed Journalism batch was among the winners. In both the sports. We’re just awesome.

Pic Courtesy: Shubhra Rishi

February came and we *insert appropriate assignment and projects line here again*. The same with March. But no worries, we had a traditional day lined up which all began with the idea of having a cross-dressing day. Anyway.

So most of us adhered to the dress code and did come in traditional wear. We even clicked photos dividing the class into groups like the ones seen here.

The Christian Minority

The Twitterati

XIC was almost coming to an end and we were really sad about it. April entered and one last event was still left for XIC JR: The launch of our digest Raconteur. (That’s the name I had suggested. So any qualms on how to pronounce it should be addressed to me.)

Our launch took place at IKXIA Lounge, Chowpatty, on April 4, two days after India had won the Cricket World Cup. Ayaz Memon and Rajeev Masand, a cricket observer and film critic respectively, and both former XIC students were the guests of honour. Our function went smooth and the digest was smoother.

Masand and Memon try very hard to cut the ribbon.

I’ll let Raconteur speak for itself. My baby!

Oh! There's my story on the cover: TwiFi Awards!

We had two convocation ceremonies. One fake ceremony where they put robes on us and photographed us with a fake certificate.

Pic Courtesy: Anwar Khan

And the second ceremony which really marked the true end of the course.

At the end of this course, I am going to miss XIC. No doubt about that. More so because of the time we spent doing (sometimes) absolutely nothing.

Bhajan Time!

Sleeping Time!

Coffee Time!

Guitar and Sari Time!

Newspaper Time (which never happened much!)

Playing with Kitty Time!

This time, I know I have completed my story nicely enough. But my college life would have been incomplete without a few photos of the places we frequented during the year.

Candies: No. I didn't eat all that!

McDonald's

Marine Drive

Also, photos and portraits of a few teachers banta toh hain!

Jane Swamy

Saroj Merani

Shefali's sketch of Jehangir Patel

Shefali's sketch of Yogesh Kamdar

The JR Heads: Asha Sandilya and Jane Swamy

A group of students posing with Joe Campana

And how could I forget the friends I have made here. Without them, life at XIC would be incomplete. They say in Journalism, it is important to make contacts. I’m glad that the friends I made here will always be friends and not contacts.

The Class

With Disha S, Manasi, Anwar, Ishani, Shefali, Sanjeevani and Shilpa S.

With Nupur

And these people are the ones without whom my entire year would have been a wasted one. Thanks to all you guys: Sylvia, Shefali, Nishtha and Shubhra. Love you.

With Shefali, Sylvia and Nishtha

With Shubhra

P.S.: How could I forget our sacred and holy Google Group!

Click on the photo for a larger view.

Finally, fellow journos XIC 2010-2011.

Platonic No More/Fluorescented

2011-03-21T23:46:00.003+05:30

He stroked her hair,

as she slept upon his lap.

Tired was she, the lady,

An affair they had had.

He couldn’t get her fragrance off his mind,

he didn’t want to.

She lay there, sleeping, dreamy-eyed, thinking of another galaxy,

as he dreamt of her.

The night was pretty.

It was young when they set out

to vodkafy themselves.

Popcorn and each other for company, they drank.

They stared at walls,

they hated the music,

they ignored each other.

They left the place

to scout the city at night.

Resplendent in its fluorescence,

the city shimmered on.

They sang by the waterside,

high notes screeching, lower ones whispered.

The water splashed on to them,

the moon shone on their faces.

They wanted to listen to some jazz.

They kissed. For the first time.

Her home was closer.

Jazz was played.

Love was made.

He stroked her hair.

Morning would arrive soon.

The vodka would wear off,

the fluorescence would fade.

They had made love to the night,

the night was pretty. It was young.

If Wishes Had Wings...

2011-03-09T00:32:00.000+05:30

If wishes had white wings,
and thoughts their cloudy bubbles,
we’d live in a world of love,
the air filled with castles.

If the mind wandered free
and imagination reigned supreme,
we’d be much happier,
peace and love decreed.

If love never changed form
and hatred disappeared,
we’d be worthy humans,
such as is only in dreams heard.

D.I.S.L.I.K.E./H.A.T.E.

2011-02-23T00:27:00.000+05:30

I hate a lot of people.
But hate is too strong a word to use on you, a trifle hard; dislike is what I have for you.

D for dumb.
I for ignorant.
S for stupid.
L for lazy.
I for illogical.
K for kinky.
E for enthusiastic. Not!

You are all these, and all that you speak.
It annoys me.
Annoys me no end.
My arrow doesn’t always stop at dislike; I’d like to hate you.

And I think I will.

H for horrific.
A for arrogant.
T for terrible.
E for erratic.

There! My feelings have graduated.
It now feels even more that you’re overrated.
Now my hatred is at a point of no return,
It’s okay, my boy, my hate never hurt anyone.

Tearing The Mask Apart

2011-02-11T00:03:00.001+05:30

All we wear are masks,
year in and year out
to facilitate us in our daily lives,
that which we go about.

How we wish to run,
hair wild and uncouth,
to laugh and shriek at others,
remove all ill without.

Nay, we wish to cry,
alone, by ourselves, aloud,
to not be judged at all,
face no venomous mouth.

A friend by our side,
to scream and to shout,
so we may not lose ourselves
amidst a worthless crowd.

We want to erase all,
no more remain in doubt
about ourselves, masks to be torn
into a mist of clouds.

Dhobi Ghat - More Than A Review

2011-01-27T23:49:00.002+05:30

After watching Dhobi Ghat today, I ventured onto the film's IMDB page. One of the questions on the discussion forums was "What change are you expecting in Bollywood after watching Dhobi Ghat?" After a sprinkle of answers saying that people are now switching from mindless comedies to serious films came an answer, by a user ‘colour-me-kubrick’, so short and so positively cynical.

"Nothing."

And that is exactly what I feel about the film too. Not that I'm saying it is bad. It is, indeed, a well-made film, and a montage of stories well-portrayed. But if you expect any major changes to take place among Bollywood producers or directors or in the viewing patterns of the general public, then we can only keep on hoping.

But to talk about the after-effects of such a film would be to take away from this film. Some films can bring about a change; a revolution too (case in point Aamir Khan's earlier Rang De Basanti) but Dhobi Ghat is not that film. It is a film that will affect you, more so if you are a Bombayite (Mumbaikar, if you prefer!) The characters in this film are believable, not like those just handpicked out of one's cloud of imagination and put onto the drawing board.

You believe that a character like Munna (played by Prateik) exists. You've probably heard the class-difference love story many times before, but you don't mind it again. Munna captivates you. You wonder how many boats this boy has got his legs into? Dhobi. Rat-killer. Guide. Wannabe actor. 'Extra services' free of cost. And yet he is likable because we too have so many different roles in our day-to-day lives. Roles taken up by the left hand that the right hand is not aware of.

Shai (played by Monica Dogra), the returning Indian from abroad. Why? To take some time off. To connect with her roots. We've seen such a character before and yet we don't mind it. She is looking for love, for friendship: a relationship. But she's confused. Aren't we?

The painter Arun (played by Aamir Khan) comes across as a rather stereotypical caricature of an artist. He doesn't want to be in serious relationships, has mood swings, says stuff like "Mumbai, my muse, my whore, my beloved city”, obsesses about a girl whom he doesn’t even know. We’ve seen such an artist before. And yet we know what it is to have a muse. To be obsessed with someone we know we will never meet.

Yasmeen (played by Kriti Malhotra) is the wife who has been married off against her wishes and brought to the city. She finds out that her husband’s business trips are actually dates with a mistress. She commits suicide. We’ve seen such a character before. And yet what she does differently is that she makes a video documentary of sorts capturing the different sights of Bombay which eventually becomes the crux of this film.

Bombay is the fifth character in the film. The torrential rain, the unending traffic noise, the relentless chugging-by of trains, the piercing silence in the subways or at night: all of this form our four earlier characters into what they eventually become. But Bombay remains unchanged.

The cinematography by Tushar Ray Kanti is terrific. The background score by Gustavo Santaolalla is not your typical Bollywood score. It provides support to the scenes, though I wish we had a little more of it. The acting is top-notch, except for Aamir Khan who doesn’t seem at ease at all in his role as the artist. Surprising.

Sometime ago, Aamir Khan said that Dhobi Ghat was an intelligent film; his exact words were, “I fear that masses may not like Dhobi Ghat because it is a very fine and delicate film. People who understand film, people who are sensitive - this film is for them. This is not a mainstream film.”

I agree that Dhobi Ghat is a fine film. I agree that it is delicate. But I think Aamir should have let the judgment of whether a film is good or not be left upon the public. Agreed that this is not a mainstream film, and that as ‘colour-me-kubrick’ mentioned, “Nothing” will change. But we can hope. Isn’t that what the films tells us as well?

The Divorce Choir

2011-01-07T00:06:00.001+05:30

This is a story I wrote for my Creative Writing assignment. There is a second version of it too, which I will put up a few posts later. The second version was written to incorporate a few changes as well as the fact that divorces do not take place in Roman Catholic churches, which is the setting.

The names of the characters may bear resemblance to a few familiar people, but their characteristics are entirely coincidental.

What God has joined together, let no man put asunder. Matthew 19:6

“Should we stop, or should we not?”

Silence was all Arlene could hear. She expected it.

“I don’t think we should,” Valerie said, breaking the uneasiness in the room. “We haven’t come together for weddings, and it’s not our fault they always break up.”

“True, that,” Nigel nodded. “Couples divorcing are not our premise.”

“Surely it isn’t, Nigel, couples hooking up are our premise,” Arlene said, at which everyone burst out laughing. Everyone knew that the guitarist and Sylvia were going around since the past couple of months. All thanks to the choir.

“Ahem! We’re here to speak about the choir,” Sylvia said, thus getting the choir members to quieten down again.

Arlene winked at Sylvia and turning around to the rest said, “Okay, so let’s get things into perspective then…”

“Bravo! Spoken like a true management student!” Sullivan applauded, and everyone laughed again. Arlene, on the other hand, glared at Sullivan.

“Come on, Arlene. Why so serious?” Sullivan asked.

“Because these ‘accusations’ are becoming serious Sullivan, and I am worried,” Arlene gulped. The atmosphere was tense once again.

“We’ve sung at ten marriage masses so far. Of those nine, that’s ninety per cent, have divorced. That’s a terrible lot,” Arlene said, despair in her voice.

“But what is the problem here?” Sullivan asked. “As in, we are singing for the Lord, aren’t we? We can stop singing for wedding masses.”

“I agree,” Valerie said, “And it wouldn’t have been a problem had we been the only people who had noticed it. People are talking now. Many of them have already approached Fr. Neshwin to complain. And you know how he is. Always giving in to the parishioners. He spoke to Arlene about this. And that is why this meeting has been called.”

“And then,” Nigel added, “You also have to remember the money that comes in through these wedding masses.”

“Come on Nigel, you play for the money?” Valerie said. “You kidding me, right?”

“No, I’m not,” Nigel persisted. “Look at it my way dude. I’m not earning yet. It’s a better way of getting some cash than asking my pop all the time.”

Silence descended upon them again. Nigel picked up his guitar and started strumming a hymn. C Am F G. Set Me Like A Seal On Your Heart. The quintessential wedding hymn.

“I don’t want to stop singing. This is like being strangled,” Sylvia said.

C Am F G.

“But the parishioners want us out. They think we are jinxed,” Arlene said.

“I think we need a PR agent,” Sullivan smirked.

C Am F G.

“No, I think all the couples in our parish need to get divorced,” Nigel said, still strumming on his guitar. Everyone turned to look at him. Nigel looked up from his guitar.

“I mean, they should also understand what we are going through at this moment, right?” he smiled and continued fingering the strings again.

C Am F G.

“I think we should throw Nigel from the choir, he is the Jinx here,” Valerie said.

C Am F G.

“I think we should find out whether the other choir is facing a problem too,” Sullivan said.

“Clearly they are not,” Sylvia said. “In fact, Bonhoffer was one of the persons who complained to the priest.”

C Am F G.

“That curly-haired rascal, that stinker!” Nigel cried. “When he opens his mouth, bad breath escapes it more than his voice.”

“Legend has it that he loves onions and garlic,” Sylvia smirked.

“And if we keep going off the topic like that, we soon shall be legend,” Arlene said.

C Am F G.

Valerie stood up and said, “Let’s speak to Fr. Neshwin…”

C Am F Em.

“Nigel, that was way off,” Sylvia said.

“Well, can’t help it, can I?” Nigel said holding up his guitar. “Valerie just spoke the impossible.”

“Nigel, we have to try whatever we can,” Sullivan said. “And anyway, he’s one of the few hopes we have left now.”

“See, frankly, what I think,” Sylvia started, “is that we should stop singing for wedding masses. I mean that’s where the problem lies, right? So we’ll stop.”

“Ok, let’s consider what you say,” Valerie said, “What about the regular masses?”

“I think what Sylvia’s saying is right,” Arlene said. “No one can stop us from playing at regular masses…”

“Except God, if he hears our miserable voices and comes down and stops us,” Nigel interrupted.

“…so, I think,” Arlene continued, eyeing Nigel with the corner of her eyes, “we are in the right there. We just stop singing at the wedding masses.”

“But,” Nigel shrieked, “the money?”

“Shut up, Nigel,” Sylvia said. Nigel started tightening the strings on his guitar. “So how many people say that we should stop singing at wedding masses but continue for the regular ones?”

All hands went up except Nigel’s.

“How can you assure Father Neshwin’ll allow us to continue singing for the regular masses?” Nigel asked.

“Oh, come on,” Valerie said. “He’s not that bad. I’m sure he’ll allow us.”

“What days we have to see!” Nigel grumbled, now playing the chords to I Am The Bread Of Life, the funeral hymn. “At the most he’ll suggest that we start singing for funerals.”

G D Em C.

“No way,” Sullivan screamed. “People will start going to hell. Not that they’re not going otherwise. Perhaps we’ll just quicken the process.”

G D Em C.

Sylvia turned to Arlene and Valerie and said “Perhaps we should send Nigel and Sullivan to Father Neshwin’s room. We’ll kick them so that we quicken the process.”

G D Em C.

“Do I hear my name being proclaimed?” boomed a loud voice.

G C Em D.

“Totally off,” Sullivan said. “Either way.”

Sure enough, Fr. Neshwin entered through the sacristy doors. The first thing one noticed about him was his pot-belly thanks to the endless supply of beer in his refrigerator; that was if you hadn’t heard his voice till then.

“So who were you going to kick, Sylvia?” Fr. Neshwin asked her. He had good ears too.

“No one, Father,” Sylvia answered. “These boys were being mischievous.”

“Oh yes, I can understand Nigel being mischievous with you, my child. But Sullivan too? Now, now, naughty boy,” Fr. Neshwin said, giving the teasing look that he was well-known for.

Nigel whispered to Sullivan, “We need to open the files on this guy. Bet he had some flings in the past.”

Sullivan replied, “Him? You sure? Beer-guzzler! If I were a girl, I’d run away. Taking the beer along of course.”

“Did I hear beer?” Fr. Neshwin turned around to Sullivan.

“Yes, Father, we were talking about beer before you arrived. That is why the girls wanted to kick us,” Sullivan said. “Anyway, Father, we were coming to your room. Had to discuss about the choir.”

“Oh yes, I do remember. In fact, I came downstairs to speak with you people about that,” he said. Fr. Neshwin sat down on the seat meant for the keyboard player. Arlene’s eyes closed, concerned for her seat.

“Father, we are troubled by the suggestion that we have to stop singing,” Arlene started. “And why can’t we continue singing for the remaining masses?”

“Yes, Father,” Valerie added. “We won’t take marriage masses anymore.”

“Yes, Father,” Nigel said. “Or if you want, we’ll sing at those Vegas style marriages. Which break up immediately. We’ll get the cash that way too.”

“Nigel!” Valerie screamed. “Get some sense in that head of yours.”

“What!” Nigel leaped back. “Can’t a man get away with a few jokes?”

“Quiet, Nigel,” Sylvia said, her hand on his shoulder.

“So we see the display of love,” Fr. Neshwin joked. “See the manner in which Nigel is quiet now. Anyway, now that we don’t have any jibes running here, let us take a quick decision.”

“Yes, Father,” Arlene said. “Hope we can continue singing.”

“And gracing the church with our melodious voices,” Nigel teased.

“And divorcing couples due to their jinxed choices,” Fr. Neshwin said. “So, Arlene, as I was saying, we need to solve this problem immediately. And it looks like I have a solution,” his face beaming with pride.

“You do?” everyone jumped.

“What is it?” Sylvia asked.

“I’m telling you na,” Nigel said. “Father will allow us to sing for funerals.”

“Nigel, shut up,” Sullivan yelled. “Or Father will have to begin a funeral mass right now.”

“Thank you, Sullivan,” Fr. Neshwin said. “So, as I was saying, do you remember Mr. and Mrs. Santos?”

“Aaron and Jenell?” Valerie asked. “Yes, we do. They were the first couple we sang for.”

“And also the first to get divorced,” Nigel said.

“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said in this conversation,” Fr. Neshwin said. “It’s a surprise you remember them. Usually your memory doesn’t go back to much more than three weeks.”

“How could I forget them, Father?” Nigel said. “They gave us three grands after we sang for them. People rarely give one grand, and we got three from them. I felt sorry for Aaron, he must’ve had to pay a lot of alimony.”

“Well, I don’t think that was needed,” he said.

“What?” Sullivan asked. “The alimony wasn’t needed? Why?”

“I’ll tell you why. They divorced two years ago, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Yes, Father,” Sylvia said. “But what do they have to do with all this?”

“Well, I have been the one counselling both of them…”

“You counsel people too?” Nigel asked. “I mean, after divorces?”

“Yes, I do, Nigel,” Fr. Neshwin responded. “In this case. Anyway, they realised a year ago that the divorce was a big mistake and that it shouldn’t have happened.”

“Very early,” Nigel said. “What about the harm caused to our reputation?”

“I shall now ignore him,” Fr. Neshwin said. “So they now want to get married. Again.”

“Wow!” Valerie exclaimed. “Now that is something we don’t get to see every day.”

“But what is the assurance that they won’t divorce again?” Arlene asked.

“I will assure that such a situation will not arise,” Fr. Neshwin said. “This marriage will last. And they want everything to be the same as the first time. Not a single different thing.”

“Which means,” Sullivan said, “Same church.”

“That it is,” Fr. Neshwin said. “Our Lady of Nazareth.”

“Same date?” Valerie asked.

“Definitely,” he confirmed. “December 27^th. That’s just a week away.”

“Same priest,” Arlene said.

“Surely,” he replied, “Father Neshwin Noel Almeida.”

“And the same choir,” Sylvia said, uttering what was on everyone’s minds.

“Yes,” he sniggered, “The Angels of Nazareth, or rather, the Divorce Choir?”

Everyone turned to Fr. Neshwin. He winked back at them. Everyone except Nigel.

“What happened, Nigel?” Fr. Neshwin asked.

Nigel looked up, smiled wryly and asked, “Same remuneration?”

2010 And All That Blah!

2010-12-31T21:42:00.000+05:30

2010 comes to an end and all that blah! The last week of December doesn’t belong to December but becomes the property of the entire year gone by, good or bad. We have best of lists, worst of lists, historic moments lists, flops, hits, trends of the year, etc., etc., etc. Heck! Even I made two lists prior to this blog post. Ah! Yes. How could we forget the New Year Resolutions lists? These are invaluable.

I don’t see the fuss over a new year, frankly. Yes, it is fun to make these best of lists and see what the year was like. But for me that’s it. Luckily, till date, the new year has always been preceded by a week-long Christmas vacation so when I get back to college in the new year it does feel refreshing. Though I wonder how much new year is going to feel like a New Year once I start working, come April, and when I’m probably working my ass off on some year-end list on December 31st only to get back to create a list on January 1st about what to look forward to in the new year.

Well, call me cynical, but then the truth can be that way.

After all, what would New Year’s Day be if some wisecrack thousands of years ago who has found his name in the trivia books hadn’t made the Gregorian calendar. What would New Year’s Day be if that wisecrack hadn’t said that December would be the last month and after that would begin a new year? Would we have an all night party counting down to twelve o’clock (well, would we have a twelve o’clock at all? But that’s another issue!) if the Wisecrack hadn’t decided that January 1 follows December 31?

For all that matters, we wouldn’t even be celebrating our birthdays! (But that is not a good thing. I love birthdays. I’m too narcissistic to not love or celebrate birthdays).

So what is a New Year? Just a passage of time. Nothing more. And yet we wish for a “happier 2011” because “the previous year wasn’t good”. Well, a New Year is not going to change anything guys. Especially if you repeat the same things that you did the previous years. Now don’t get me wrong. I’m all for making mistakes. How else will you learn? But then don’t go and foolishly hang yourself off the fan just because you didn’t succeed the first time!

Your New Year will be a “happy and prosperous” one only if you want to make it one. Only if you act in a manner befitting one. Only if you don’t blame destiny and fate and God…

But sigh! Only if…! If only…!

Happy New Year anyway!