The "Moody" khana

Deciding a Gift or How I Got Anxiety for No Reason

2020-01-23T11:55:00.001-08:00

The dates of a calendar mean nothing much for work means weekdays and some sacrificed weekends. But then it’s a particular day of some month and you realize that an event is about to occur soon for which you have to be prepared. The preparation involves very less about the physical make up of your attire or body and in the rarest of times remotely constitutes which you are an expert of. It is in concern of a composition, well thought out, expertly crafted, uniquely suited and fashioned in pursuance of conveying a birthday gift. At that point, with a pen or spoon or phone in hand, or standing, lying, sitting, jostling as the case may be, you encounter what the astronauts often talk about - ‘zero gravity’, except in your case, you have those feet firmly planted where you left them to be, attached to a body that has not left the known neighbourhood of solid ground, and yet you are now losing yourself rudderless in a maze, starting with the question –“What to gift?”

There can be no right answer. Trick question.

In the recent months to come, there are several occasions of such quality which will present a similar dilemma. Batman has taught me to have a contingency plan ready, but being a generally bad student, I have no plan prepared yet, although the thought buzzes annoyingly around me. I have begun to take longer walks in order to have time to think and figure out the perfect gift. I have become a brooding monk, and as the days fly away in the dust, the mad scientist at the verge of discovery will gradually take over. I hope it won’t come to the stage of a desperate and cornered politician. Nevertheless, I have learned a valuable lesson, something I learn every year but every year with flowers and the paddy, once the harvest is cleared, the lesson too fades away. I realise I know nothing about the people close to me.

I know something about what they like or they don’t because I have my choices to catalogue them by. However where I have no point of reference, the librarian simply jots them down in pieces of paper, stuffing them anywhere that is handy at the moment, and promptly forgets afterwards. I have listened to these people talk, enthusiastically, ardently, compassionately, honestly, but I have absorbed nothing. A sponge has more retaining capacity than me I am sure. I tell myself that it doesn’t make me a bad person. Unfortunately, I am not that confident that those persons will tell that to themselves about me too when I end up giving something that, when ripped out of the wrapping paper, doesn’t scream out “THOUGHTFUL.”

I honestly love people. I love their stories and minds. But I find no energy to judge them on the encounters I have with them nor the information I obtain. I simply immerse myself in the conversation, like a holiday maker in some beach, sitting on the sand, cradling a bottle of beer, looking at nothing but seeing everything, and leaving the beach unburdened. Conversations, when they don’t involve work, shouldn’t be like work, having to sift through for broken knowledge. Because that’s what assumptions precisely are. We find the pieces spread across many interactions under incomparable circumstances, and expect the jagged, scarred picture to be what the person is. It’s easy to just ask what they want and gift them with something they would truly enjoy. Instead I am expected to find something they may just like enough to smile saint-like, and hopefully not put it away in some Narnia closet, never to be found again. The worst case will simply inspire the three R’s of gifting – Re-packing, Re-gifting, Re-cycling. And by saving that person from suffering through this same anxiety of having to decide what to get as a gift for another, I shall consider my stupidly overthought gift to be the best one actually.

As I said, there cannot be a right answer.

Un-deading a Writer

2020-01-19T08:41:00.001-08:00

It didn’t take long for life to squeeze out my dreaming and fantasising self. It was a mostly painless process. I imagine I was like the frog that thought it was enjoying a Jacuzzi while slowly being boiled to soup. It was the end of creation, nothing Armageddon-like, just the quietest of deaths in general. No one mourned for no one noticed nor cared as quickly surrogate amusement increasingly became part of the daily routine. Somewhere in the virtual drug induced sleep, I lolled once too often, and let my creativity guzzle out the last spit of life. It could have returned as a vampire, nocturnal and sporadic, if I had given it a proper burial, but there was a growing discomfort of self-doubt that worked wonders to let the loss remain unacknowledged and ignored; it became a glob of putrefied old idea and the liquid stank of failure.

It hasn’t been great without that nagging and attention seeking self which would make me vomit out words one after the other to see if they made any sense as they appeared in some physical form.

But death cannot be eternal as life isn’t eternal too. So, I returned to the undead. I realized for another time that it’s not happiness or sadness that made me write, it was my stupid ego that pushed the cart over the rainbow bridge, hoping to avoid the absolute muck, and land on a semi decent piece of literature to remember the day by. I would forget what I had written just as soon as I put the last full-stop in place, and would write again the next day, the desire to express clawing at the keyboard in synchronized patterns.

The gladness of having made something that at least sounded good when read out loud satisfied me, and pushed away that heavy blanket that continually bows us down in. The thick cosy blanket someone had put over me, over you, promising safety and security. It is woven with the needle pressure of getting a good job, the thread work is pulled with the will of finding a profitable career, the covers hide well and present a functional family, and the frills uselessly advertise a life well lived though all they do is get dirty. This blanket or adult sized tent keeps you safe from the sun and the rain, the cold and the storm, but is the weather all that a place has to offer? You sometimes get curious to see what else is out there but a sudden breeze proves to be too chilly sensitive skin, and you never dare to pull it away from you. By the time you may have realized that you have lived the life of a slave with the total experience of a child, that tent becomes your shroud and all you have the energy left for is to lie straight with your eyes shut, waiting for the grim reaper to roll a dice and place you in your box.

It doesn’t matter how I started. I have reached where I was supposed to though I didn’t know it when I began.

Teaching is part of life

2016-11-04T12:59:00.002-07:00

Teaching has become a part of the daily routine. It's been a decade since I started giving private tuitions to the local school children. I still remember when my grandmother suggested that I should try to earn my pocket money and introduced me to my first student. She used to teach as well but never took any payment. She believed that there is no price tag for education, it cannot be a commodity. To be frank, my financial condition prevented me then, and even now, to enjoy such a philosophy, but I have always made sure that I gave my full dedication as a teacher.

I have been lucky in my share of students. Although of various levels of intellect, all were more or less obedient. They were never "rebellious". The one thing about India is how we still treat our teachers with the same respect as with our parents. This has helped when I occasionally needed to be strict.

Then everything changed ~~when the fire nation attacked~~ when I had this 7 year old as a student.

To be honest, although I have spent a considerable portion of my life around kids, I have never felt much sentiment toward them. I'm not the one who likes to hold babies or pull a cute kid's cheeks. Children don't have the effect on me that people expect from me. I had been reluctant thus to take this little fellow as my student as well but the mother believed I had some mystical power of eternal knowledge and felt under my guidance her son will shine like a newly scrubbed diamond. (I don't make the propaganda, it just follows). Once I saw him I knew there would be a problem because that pampered little devil understood no authority. He won't even weep if beaten (his mother told me this, I never, could never if I tried, beat a kid) and didn't bother when scolded. His mother told me to punish him if he didn't behave (as if that would help!) and I was at a loss.

The first four months were torture. He would not listen to what I said, wouldn't do his tasks on time, you get the picture. I would come home and tell my mother how I would definitely quit the next day. But I didn't. Somehow I went on.

Then one day he asked me about zombies - how they were formed, what they would eat, how they could be killed. I promised to answer his questions if he finished his tasks on time. He did and I kept my promise. I have been keeping those promises ever since.

It's nearly the end of the annual term. The mother says that I need to continue the next term for the son insists upon it. And she feels he won't respond to anyone else this well.

I remember what my grandmother said to me and believed in. I know I am still not in a position to teach for free, I do need that money. But I do know how that kid loves to sit close to me when he would do his sums, how he loves to pull my cheek when he is happy that he got an answer correct and how he makes me smile when he proudly shows his mother his report card and tells the exam was easy because I had explained everything to him.

I am not saying I'm a great teacher. I don't even know how much of his improvement is due to me. I do know but that he has changed me a lot. I have become a warmer, a calmer and more understanding person. Most importantly I have learned how important it is to treat people how they want to be treated rather than how you want to treat them. I think that makes me a little less self centered as well.

What I mean to say is education isn't a one way street. It's a straight exchange between two individuals. A teacher is benefited just as much as a student is and there lies the true value of education. Or at least that's what I think it is, probably what my grandma wanted me to understand as well.

Is this something I only think? No way. Is it something we should all think? I very well think so, yes.

So let's not give up teaching, let's not be give up on sharing for that's also what education is. Even if you're not a teacher, never let go of an opportunity to educate someone, to share your knowledge . You will be pleasantly surprised of what you learn about your ownself.

Dawn of Ju...OHMYFREAKINGGOD Look at Wonder Woman!!!!

2016-03-24T11:23:00.003-07:00

Disclaimer: Spoiler free, I swear I do not mention her or any other character in these sentences below.

For the last one month, I have had tiny hopes riding on tiny nightmares about a Friday of March, not because it will be a thirteenth and all hell will break loose, but it will be the 25^th of March, when Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice finally releases and all hell will definitely break loose. A slight turn of events (well, it’s actually my comic loving equal half) lead me to a glorious opportunity (that would have made me shoot myself had I refused), and armed with popcorn and stupid grins, us two happy beings eased ourselves in comfortable chairs for a premiere show of Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice *dum dum dummm*

The movie unfolds like the pages of a comic book; it takes its time to go through each panel, allowing the viewer to understand the story, make out meanings of the surrounding, and to see the bigger picture with its own eyes and not just what the director wanted to. For Snyder is cruel when he is being kind. He shows us a lot of things, he revealed the full potential of the DC-verse, he didn’t hold back; he took a chunk of DC lore and shoved it in front of the camera and showed that DC movies don’t need separately scripted stories, they do not have to be untraceable adaptations, that DC stories are good, no, great, and they make the DC-verse spectacular. So he mashes up like maybe at least five stories, pounds on them, and moulds them into something singular, something new. So when you sit and watch the movie, you know which story is unfolding, but just when you think you know the end, just before the last page, you realize it’s the middle of yet another story. And when the last panel is finally there, it’s a bittersweet feeling for it’s not over, and there is the torture while waiting for the next ~~issue~~ movie.

p.s if you want my rating, I will tell you to rate it yourself. Go watch the movie.

That's Batman protecting me

The Almost 3 am Post

2015-12-05T13:14:00.002-08:00

This is one of those nights when I don’t really feel myself. Then again what is myself, what is this self, for I have been a different person a year before, somebody else again the year before that, and now that I lie on my bed, and feel my eyes glazing over as if a sheet of clear plastic shields them from the light of the bulb, I remember a different person, a different me. A different me with a different life, with a different love, smiling at different jokes, whispering different sighs. It’s all so different, my mind wonders along wisps of fantasy, and as the eyes find more whites and blurs, whether those memories are mine, or borrowed, I am no longer sure.

A yearning fills me, I can feel its threadlike fingers wrapping around my heart, cocooning it in a warm, dark net. I long for that person who made that different me smile, sigh, love. My fingers stretch forward and search for him, and I suddenly realize my face is buried in his shoulder, he is that close. I smile, and hope he can feel it, through his clothes, his skin, through the warmth. I imagine feeling his arm on my back, holding my tight, pressing me against him, securing the hug, ensuring that it lasts. The other arm just lies there, dangling at his side. I don’t know what it is supposed to do, I don’t know whether I’m allowed to hold it.

I remember looking at that arm, for I’m afraid to lift my face and look at you, I’m afraid you will disappear if I do. But for all the reasons, known, unknown, right, wrong, I look up and you’re looking at me. But who are you? I know the smile, those eyes, that nose, that hair, that neck, but they are not yours, they belong to many, many others before you, many others after you. But what does it matter if I fail to give you a name? names have failed me before, words have betrayed me, more often than I can count. I will let myself gaze at those eyes, feel them calling out to me, feel their hunger, the lust, the love, for soon enough they will disappear, that much I know. Do you wonder who I am? Am I the “me” you were looking for? Or do you also see a different set of lips, a different pair of eyes, a different nose? Do you feel a different kiss, for I know we just kissed and it is a kiss that can’t be contained by memory, a kiss I will forget as soon as I will open my eyes. I do want to talk about the kiss, but it would break my heart, and I don’t want to mend a broken heart alone.

I am here with you, and I will be with you even after I don’t remember this. It feels good that at some place we are having this moment, letting it last through eternity. It gives me hope that someday we will be in this moment and we will remember it afterwards.

I will just be here with you for a while longer, with all of you, with all of me. A shudder runs through me as you pull me even closer. The heavy breathing, the loud heartbeats, the rushing memories create a heady rhythm.

Maybe before the dream breaks, she will reach out and hold that hand.

Dust on the Keyboard

2015-09-24T13:40:00.001-07:00

Every time someone has asked me to start my blog again, I have had to sit back and wonder but write about what? The words were there, the ideas as well, but something always made me close the word document after the first line.

There’s definitely no scarcity of topics to pick from. One glittering boon of tech advancement is the bubbling and babbling pond-world of the internet, where you dip a finger, and there you have - all the mundane and not so mundane, the crazy, the brilliant, the loud, and the quiet, the ignored, the forgotten, waiting to be picked up, talked about. Type a few words, let the insta-search produce humorous, reader friendly socio-political articles, lengthy in depth, lived in, in situ analysis, and thesis about almost everything under the still warm Sun. Every thought, every fragmentary, partially formed shred of muse is documented, published, displayed. And witnessing this rumbling mill of activity, I feel stunned, and quite envious. For these armies of writers-analysts, who come from different vocations and practices, have so easily mastered the concepts of literary theories, producing engaging strings of words seemingly effortlessly, whereas even after four years of continuous training, I fumble about the idea of literature, poetry, frankly, intimidates me, and I struggle to find the confidence to pen down, to give form to my muse. I am a disheartening case.

Thus I have had to sit back and wonder if it is still alright to talk about the simple; autumn sky and the lazy afternoon, the tired salesman who asks for a glass of water, the rooftops and the memories, the failures and the fears. May be everything has be said and told and discussed, but there is a chance we will find something new if we start again.

A Dull Poem

2013-05-29T09:02:00.002-07:00

There is the crowd and here is me,

In an attempt to find unity --

I bridge the gap with eager steps,

Jostling for a place in the mesh.

It's hard to breathe.

It's hard to see.

I feel so tiny in this throng of human bees.

Buzzing and moving, to gather, to store,

An array of minds all synced to a single core.

I met Jack, on his way from work,

He’s a party loving and hardworking clerk,

He hates to be dull, and thus makes sure --

Like everybody, to follow the new haute couture.

His wife is happy, his second car works fine,

His boss laughs at his jokes and in fine hotels he loves to dine,

He hoped I was good, but didn’t ask for more,

His chaps were waiting with beers and cricket scores.

As Jack waved me bye, vanishing in the swarm,

Leaving me thinking, for a moment and few,

As I stood aside, watching the crowd pass by,

I wondered why Jack was called dull,

--- and not me nor you.

"Sleep No More!"

2013-05-20T13:57:00.003-07:00

Shakespeare, the dude, always had it right. Do a hard work and baam! "Macbeth hath murdered sleep!" and he can't sleep no more! And they called it poetic justice!

But it’s hardly the time to make interesting remarks about life or the surrounding events, global or local.

Neither is it the lovable pleasing atmosphere, to tell lines of a pink romance or a cherry lip kiss, beneath a golden moon, beyond the city skyline.

It’s just a long night, creating droopy eyes and overactive brain, a night which, like any festival, is rare in its occurrence, but also unlike the festival, isn’t met with any whatsoever mirth and/or smile.

It is the night of the eve of exam!!!

*apologies for the lack of thunderous background music. we are desperately short on funds*

I now am emblematic of that particular feeling when you know that a single more word will blow your brains to small, not at all pretty looking, bits and provide food for ten winters to the ants in your room. I ~~stand~~ sit, as example and proof, that there is no such existence of a peaceful sleep that refreshes your mind and prepares you for the impending exam, with a brisk and invigorated outlook.

MYTHS!! LIES!!

Worse than the Santa Clause scam!!

Countless years, with even more unaccountable exams, have I experienced and that refreshing sleep has always eluded me. It’s as fantastical to me as my dreams to ride an unicorn, while i munch on a ham sandwich. But you didn't have to know that. Moving on...

Reader, don’t bore yourself further! If you are no student presently, and face no impending exam, be on your way.

*Male readers – Dude! Seriously!! Is something wrong with your testosterone levels! Not the site to be! Go incognito!!!*

My ramblings have helped in certain ways, to vent out the excess of words which have been bothering me like a crown of flies, found at the posterior of a holier than thou cow.

Don’t give that corrective attitude and a lecture on how a year long study helps. I can’t think of a smart retort right now, but I am still not agreeing with you. Sympathies please! I have studied for ~~eight~~ ~~six~~ umm, some straight hours.

Well, I feel less bored now.

I still find no sleep though.

I can so empathize with that Macbeth fellow right now.

Anyhoo! Enough of talks! I need to save some words for the exam.

Peace out!!

Family

2013-05-12T06:43:00.001-07:00

The leaf shrugs off the persisting chains

Farewell to parental bough!

Blows away with sailing breeze

Dispossessed, aimless.

The leaf knows not its solitary fate,

Destined to wither in some foreign earth.

An Original mistake, not time enough to learn, but suffer.

The wind blows away, to scavenge another soul,

Stealing the vestiges of a happy dream,

Suck the hope from the shivering dawn,

Caress with a cool finger, those warm cheeks,

It flies hence.

Dispossessed, aimless,

Eternally unloved.

Dreams within Dreams

2013-04-28T09:20:00.002-07:00

In some nook and corner, there was this world,

One painted with my dreams,

With dragons and gingerbread men, red apples and princesses,

Castles, meadows and clear, whispering streams.

Where the autumn red leaves, fell with a hush,

Covering brick roads with rustling carpets,

And the sky was always coloured dusk,

While the lark flew into the sunset.

And as you walked by the river, in the green glade.

With flowers dressed up pretty, for a masquerade,

You may find me there, alone,

Smiling, sleeping,

Lost in another forgotten world,

Dreaming.

Smeared Red

2012-08-29T22:54:00.001-07:00

Pretty smelling cream on my cheek,

Glossy paint decorating chapped lips.

A streak of black,

To sharpen my glance’s attack,

Earrings and bangles,

My hair falls in beautiful shambles,

The saree draped,

Like icing on a cake,

A practiced smile on place,

Smoothening tears with powder on face.

I am ready, my conscience freed.

Time to satisfy lecherous greed.

Awakening

2012-08-29T22:03:00.001-07:00

It’s a dark narrow corridor, both the sides lined with closed doors. I walk to the nearest and open it. The walls are of a motley of color, shifting between grey and blue and yellow, marred by pictures; pictures of a smile, of some tears, of a mother and an empty cradle. Its a mad, pleasing random change of the colors. I walk out.

Another room. Trophies. The head of the woman I hated, the blood still fresh, dripping from where the rest of the neck should have been. A bench along the right wall is adorned with glass jars. I see eyes; eyes which had longed for me with carnal desires. I see tongues, which have tasted me, and then lashed at me. And there are the fingers, oh the sweet caressing fingers of that loved one, whose head now graces the bloody mantle. I like this room. I touch the wall and feel the wetness I relish so much. I smile as I smell the blood in my hand. I flick my tongue and taste it. The blood still tastes fresh.

The room beside is locked. I try pushing the door open, but it doesn’t budge. I give up and try the other one. Its door is slightly ajar. I peek in, it’s dark. My fingers fumble on the wall to search for a switch. Found it. The room lights up. It is a mellow light, a light that reminds me of a sunny warm afternoon. There's the sound of rushing stream, and the running wind is trying to wound me as I rush ahead of it. There's the tree and chirps of the baby birds. A speeding stone and perfect aim and some pained, final chirrups. I remember my younger brother being pissed about it. Happy memories. I linger a bit in the room and after a few moments, find myself in the corridor again. I look at the entire length and I can’t count the number of doors I see. I look back, and vaguely I am amazed at the hundreds and thousands of doors crossed already. There's a sound, a dull thud. Another thud. A steady beat. The loudness increases as I walk to the unopened source. Eager fingers push open the door. It’s all black. No fragment of light nor darkness exists. The absence of everything. A living, breathing, inviting black. I walk inside. The door closes behind me.

The crescendo erupts monumentally. People yelling with joy. A cacophony of loud war cries, of roars of lions and bears, and screams of monkeys, and more drums. Millions of drums. Someone screams, “Lanka is saved. We have nothing more to fear”.

Time to end a dream.

Kumbhakarna awakes.

My Glasgow Smile

2012-08-09T02:41:00.002-07:00

They said it would be easy,

As easy as breathing‘s supposed to be,

Stretching a few muscles, to banish all pains,

A dose for a day, a few more to keep sane.

For Mother declared she was worried ,

And it displeased Father to see me lost;

My friends lovingly mobbed around me,

And over charred emotions, my smile embossed.

And I smiled as life rolled on,

I smiled at its mandates and jargons,

I smiled for the days to end,

I smiled for it is easy to pretend.

And I thought --

May be shadows do lighten the dark.

And bullets fly, for they love the beating heart.

But I feel them now, closing in,

See their fingers and arms stretched,

The corners of my mouth twitch uncomfortably,

And my blood boils for selfish carnage.

Some hold my lips,

Some pull my chin,

They spread my mouth

To a hideous grin.

My eyes pop out,

Something quietly dies,

I face the world,

With my Glasgow smile.

"..Till Death Do Us Part"

2012-07-21T00:54:00.000-07:00

The look on your face when u opened the door

Made my heart glow, bright as gold.

I missed u too my love, oh yes,

And I m back now, thanks to God’s grace.

I walked in as u hastily stepped back,

The distancing years has made u shy,

I bared my teeth and smiled with love,

And you pierced the night with your cry.

I couldn’t wait and eagerly neared,

My arms stretched to hug you;

One fell with a thud,

Blame the rotting joints;

And you ran upstairs,

Your blood ice cold blue!

I followed hence, and broke the door,

My darling why u stay away?

Look, the casket wood wasn’t enough strong,

And keep our at bay.

I went to fix the cobwebbed hair,

And remove the rot and flesh on my drape,

But the girl in the saloon couldn’t hear,

While she made her hasty escape.

But surely love you don’t care all that,

I can see your face paled with surprise.

I promised I would come back whatever happens

For my affections are truer than lies.

Aren’t you happy to see me now?

Has your love died with my soul?

But this body and heart still yearns for you,

The body you loved, to kiss and hold.

Remember those days of sunny noon,

The air drunk with the scent of tulips,

Us as one, and forgotten worlds

Warms embraces and feeding lips?

So why won’t you kiss me today my love?

My burning passion isn’t dead.

Or do the worms wriggling out of my mouth

Make you sick instead?

Quiet Rampage

2012-06-03T11:07:00.000-07:00

Leaves, full green (oh so bright)!

Fulfilling nature’s youth,

Patterns, beautiful and graceful,

Fleeting breach of Time’s truth.

The sighs of a painter’s arm,

Weaving fingers ache,

Sleepless lamps of an artisan,

Some sellers sweat of waste.

Verdurous, exquisite,

Now embellishes graceful drapes:

Lifeless, artificial,

Painted on some corner vase.

Meant to last,

Like memories,

Providing harrowing solace.

In gloomy nights of ardent memories,

I see these arching patterns.

I find the leaves of spring,

When the curtains are swept aside,

For the morning sun to gleam.

Leaning from a bridge, the raging river below,

I had learned to fall, but not to rise;

My mortal feet lead me to the crowded street,

I m not airborne, but there is solitude, where inebriant lies.

I, with my finite self, stand

Wounded – with dreams,

Wounded – with hope,

Wounded – by a glimpse.

I walk in a sunny avenue,

Shaded, comforted by the foliage,

I look up, smile at the red and blues,

Plethoric, soft and sweet.

It has rained, but no rainbows in the horizon,

The wait is over.

Tears have stained the fancies,

And there is nothing to recover.

The untouched flowers look at me and smile,

I will dream of them tonight.

I, My Friend and "IT"

2012-05-10T10:24:00.000-07:00

And I wonder time and again, what can destroy a perfect friendship. Here you are, best “bros over hoes” with your best matey, planning to take over the world, strutting like big shots, an breakable thread of steal tying the friendship together; no room for distrust or doubt, no space for anger, just the cool sea of mutual understanding. What a relationship!! Bravo! Beats everything else. I mean, seriously, a drink and some random gabble with your pal, is so much cooler and better than any romantic date, even if it is fully paid, with complimentary gifts..!! But then, gods laugh, and our evil dead twin’s spirit laughs with them, and then out of the blue, one fine day, your friend shows you something cool, something sleek, something really (pardon my language) sexy, something which you had been planning to get for yourself for a long while, only he gets it first.

Jealousy is a bitch. If jealousy could be packaged and injected via some serum, that would be killing more microbes, hell, even cancer cells, faster than anything else!! Man! The way it makes u feel is just downright astonishing! You know it’s not right, and still it makes you feel so good, it almost makes killing over a trivial issue justified. And because it feels so warm and comfy to plan destroy the friend’s end and smile than secret I-hate-you-you-son-of-a-(pardon the language again)-bitch smile whenever he is around, that u don’t even bother getting rid of it. And then one fine day, you see that that friendship is no longer there. The continuous snaps at the besty’s jokes (‘cause now you can’t laugh at his jokes anymore as he has become the enemy), the regular hangouts cancelled, new ones, with new “bros-worse-than-hoes” taking their places, and no more replying back to texts, all took you slowly to the vanishing point. And poof, it’s not there.

May be, some day you do get the thing which initiated the very elaborately diabolical and evil process, may be u don’t. but the obvious question is, of course, did you get your revenge on your friend?? Nah! Not that. The question is, was it worth the friendship..

(Personally, I think it was, but then again, it might be my evil dead twin’s ego speaking.)

Waking Up from the Longest Sleep

2012-04-30T14:48:00.000-07:00

Moments, ornamented with emotions.

Emotions ranging from tears to lust,

Emotions, as dry as dust,

Blowing in the wind, as a contagious virus.

Open your mouth

Let all the words out.

Emptiness inside.

Light as the air,

Free of hope or despair,

Decrees defied.

Going beyond everything touched or perceived,

To something craved, never received.

Not overrated peace,

Nor the pretty thorn of love,

Nor the indefinable happiness,

Freedom from shackles of the known.

Immunity from culture’s drone.

While truth looks with unblinking eyes,

Escape beyond the vast bright skies.

My love drowned me in a sea of hate

And I couldn’t find my way of escape.

In an empty room, I look at the walls unscratched,

As I sharpen my nails on my heart.

I can see myself where I wanted to be,

I can see how deep this differentiating gorge is,

I take a jump towards eternity,

Hands outstretched,ready to seize

I fall, the inevitable fall

The exponential drop from the vanishing top

I answer nature’s final call.

To God and You

2012-03-17T08:12:00.001-07:00

A few months back, I was waiting for one of those official-life-depends-on-it types letter to arrive, and it was beyond late. Thus for the sake of my dear life, I did the obvious, and prayed to God. During these frequent episodes of fervent praying, I began to wonder about God? Is the almighty the one who is found in our prayer rooms, or the soul within us? Prophets have dictated so many answers, that the truth suddenly seemed obscure. I wondered how God works. I wanted God to help deliver the letter. However, obviously God wouldn’t be coming on my doorstep. A postman will do that job. Then will God tell the postman to deliver the letter soon? No again. The post office department is going to take care of that. Then what? Will God go ahead to give a man visions about how a desperate girl in some faraway city is looking with puppy eyes for him to post a letter. No, the man himself and his superior are going to be responsible for it. So is my God that one superior, bestowed with the powers to decide my fate? I wanted to talk to my mom about this, but she was somewhat busy at that time, waiting for the maid, and she, like me, was praying to God so that the maid comes, as there was a pile of washing to be done. But just like the postman, God, I am sure, wasn't enlightening the maid about her duties. So, again, who is God?

The Books tell us that our actions determine us, and in a way, God’s work is done via our deeds. It’s true, I suppose. But then terrorism is all around us and is the cause of numerous deaths and the destruction of countless families. And they too believe they are doing the work of God. Does that mean God is smiting us for something we did or didn’t do? I find that pretty illogical. Unless God is mad scientist, how can a creator go ahead to destroy his own precious creations? Thinking this far I began to remember God’s dimensions. He is omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent, is everywhere, amongst us, beyond us, within us.

If we look at a larger picture, there are some billion people on this planet. Each in his or her own small way affects our life. The delivery boy makes sure the CEO gets his mails. The coffee bean picker in some South American village makes sure CCD continues to make many things happen over its cup of coffee. The president makes an intelligent decision thanks to the peace his wife ensured in his own home and thus another day of World War 3 avoided. So many people, surrounding us, hearing, seeing everything we do or have done, decide what we can do the next moment. They give us the opportunity to make sure our lives are as smooth as we expect it to be. (Now natural disasters are something else, and since Mother Nature is a woman I doubt any He can handle her.) So, is God actually the billions of people on this earth? Is God just the representation of this ever-growing number, the “X” of the equation which never stops changing?

So, is love thy neighbor just a divine command? Or that fellow human being who does indeed have the power to deliver your letter on time deserves that respect for the simple reasons? So whom do I pray to now? Personally, without the random events of nature and the universe, I would have been lost, because somehow the letter did come that day, as did the maid and thus another day passed.

(After I gave this theory to my mother, it infuriated her. She asked whether that means she puts up her and my picture and starts worshiping those? Not a bad idea, though). So, if this entire theory does go against your moral ideas, which I am pretty sure it would, check that blood pressure and don't get angry and start cussing. I pray to you. Right now, you are my God.

An Odyssey

2012-03-14T05:51:00.000-07:00

If you had been here now,

You would have seen a cat

Sitting quietly in a corner of the street;

And listened to the duet of the silent night,

And the chirping bird,

Who forgot what night and day mean.

Had you been here

You would have felt the breeze,

As it would have cooled your sun warmed cheeks,

The starry night would have smiled down

And told you, why

Van Gogh loved her more than the sun’s streaks.

You might have enjoyed walking

The solitary road,

Loneliness wouldn't have touched you still;

Your own slow stride would have ruled the path,

And the race of man

Wouldn’t have trampled your prints.

As you would have made your way

With the living around you,

Safe in their beds, sleep oozing from their doors,

You might have had noticed,

A dreamless window,

Sighs clogging its every pore.

Had you looked there,

You would have found a soul,

Detached, yet forlorn;

A silent audience of the night

Lurking in shadows,

Torn.

Would you have looked closely

To find the secret?

Would you have waited to investigate?

The beauty of night is a cruel seductress,

Would you have delayed

Just a bit?

As the unknown entwines with magic,

And the breeze blows coolly

Pulling you,

Would you have walked, not looking back,

Or would you knock the door,

To make someone’s dream come true?

In Furious Memoriam

2012-03-13T04:54:00.001-07:00

The one frozen moment when that beautiful white hot rage fills you up perfectly, and the supreme powerful being in this universe manifests itself through you; when a slight gesture of that almighty entity is enough to infest a destruction so huge, recovery seems wretched and unrealistic : What would you do when you get that power of the gods? Would you strike thunder, laugh at the shock of your victim? Or would you be the wise owl, and smile at your opponent’s perplexed face when no retaliation occurs?

Anger is a drug, and the release of this rage is probably the greatest consummation of human emotions. The moment the monstrous hold lets go and you escape in to that selfish joy of being victorious over your petty adversary, is simply intoxicating. But just that, it's just for that miniscule of moment, not a bit more. As the haze of white clears, red diminishes and all the colours surface again, you realize you just bought yourself a one-way ticket to your own personal pit of inferno. You may pretend otherwise, but it is inescapable, at least in the privacy of your closed doors. And you end up wondering, was it all worth it?

Now I am no moralist. I am a staunch believer of convenience, and pity doesn’t really take us anywhere. I have had my share of anger, and what I see from all those white bright sparks of wrath, I understand why hell doesn’t have an owl. I fought with someone, and the next day I had to fix my broken phone; another time I had to buy my own dinner. Once I couldn’t talk for three days as my throat had gone sore from all that shouting, and then there was also that time when I had to miss my favourite show because intoxication always leaves a bad taste with a hangover. So, I sold my anger for patience, and though I can’t say it easy, but at least I don’t have to think about making my own dinner or miss my shows. Let's face it, anger isn't all that "hot", and peace is oh-so-good!

Thus, this isn't me, lecturing about anger management. It’s just me telling, dude it's just not worth it. If you want to feel powerful, shout in a rock concert or may try breaking a wall. That might teach you something (like common sense, or get you a record deal or may be you would turn out to be Superman or Hulk. Go figure!).

Cheers..! :)

p.s I was really pissed a while back. But I managed and saved my lunch, wrote this amazing sh*t and now grooving with Lil Wayne :D

p.p.s I hope the Garfield pic isn't copyright infringement.

No Miracles Here

2012-01-14T00:39:00.000-08:00

Now, this is not a funny story, how much it may though seem to be. So promise that you won’t laugh. (you didn’t, I know, let’s try that again, Don’t LAUGH). Here goes..

A few months back, one very late August morning, I was on my bed, doing what I do best, sleeping. By the time my dream paradise kicked me out and I pried my eyes open, I realized I was late for college. Now this isn’t new, nothing to be jumpy about. But remember those days, those days of the “last-chance-for-the-last-date-for-the-already-late-submission-of-the-very-late-and-very-badly-done-project” ? Well, that was one of those days. So simply said, I ran. Didn’t bother changing or brushing ( and food? what’s food?). As I ran towards the bus stand, popping tick tacks on my mouth, I braked to a sudden stop (SCreeEECh). Where the hell is my project? I ran back home, keys fell from my hands twice, I somehow managed to break into my house, take the file and run again.

I couldn’t wait for the bus, (Kolkata traffic I tell you, mind blowing, you really wish you had something to blow your mind). So I cursed a bit and hailed a cab. Reminding sacred old-school conscience how urbane and techie I am, I took out my phone to check how late was I, and as I tried repeatedly to unlock it, light up the screen, pressing all the buttons, sweet realization : my battery was dead. Well, no worries, what are taxi drivers for? I enquired and found out that I was late, but guessed not late enough ( late enough = professor leaving building).

Now it WAS a miracle that there wasn’t much traffic, and I reached college just under 20 minutes. Thanking the taxi wala profusely, and cursing under my breath for the fares, I checked my bag and realized I had just 20 rupees with me; the meter read 60, the cab wala asked 70. (Come on! I didn’t PLAN to sleep late, you really can’t blame me) But hey! What college folks are for right? Nothing. Exactly that. No class mates around, no helpful seniors feeling remotely helpful, and those who had a nagging conscience had an even better “prompt-excuse-to-the-rescue-search-engine”. But it was the day when I had (at that moment) vowed to make things right. I begged the gatekeeper, gave him my id card as safety deposit (…), and got saved from being kidnapped by the taxi driver (he had scary eyes.. uughh).

Marathon run again. Tracker on, search professor. *beep* *beep* *bee..ee.e..p* And... no prof on sight. I took out my mobile to check the time, just to put it back in the jeans again. Now this is the sad part. I felt, lost. I felt, well the word I would have liked to use was Scr#@*D, but more than that, I felt broken. For weeks I had toiled for that file to complete; for those 20 pages I had to read some 60 books and browse through 2000 websites. For that file I had to forget about everything, even that darned break up pangs which kept me from even swallowing a morsel, gave me nightmares, and made me wander aimlessly for hours on my freaking roof. Damn you professor! why couldn’t you wait, I was worth it, the file was worth it; why did life have to be so unfair, why did I have to get my heart broken, why did I have to cry and tear my hair for that pathetic idjit moron, who couldn’t use his (non functioning and useless) head properly...

I slumped on the floor, and couldn’t stop the few tears from flowing down. I felt tired, and sad, for me. I opened my eyes and saw my best friend looking down at me. She smiled her famous all knowing smile, gave me her hand, helped me up, and said “Madam’s in the conference room, I asked her to wait up.”

I don’t know much about Jesus or Rama or Krishna, but I am very sure, without Peter or Hanuman or Arjuna, they would have had been in pretty bad shapes. Clichéd I know, but what the heck! Cheers for the best friends. When u have them, who needs miracles?

This entry is a part of <a href="http://contests.blogadda.com">BlogAdda contests</a> in association with <a href="http://www.zapstore.com">Zapstore.com</a>

A Bit about Love

2012-01-12T01:45:00.000-08:00

It's a quiet lazy afternoon. The rains have stopped. Old jazz in the player. As the saxophone croons along, I think about feeling alone and left out. I think about the heartbreaks and the tears, some memories made and the moments destroyed ...

... A view from the Ganga ghat, a lone figure looking at the other side, trying to find a company in his isolation, but it is getting dark and there is almost zero visibility. The jet zooms through in the late twilight sky, leaving behind a trail of condensed air. The crickets start their nightly orchestra, and the homeward bound birds chorus to the beat. Everyone leaves once the day ends, but the night brings some one different. Nothing is ever left alone. As the waters of the river lap the shores of both banks, a silhouette walks slowly by on the other side, stops, picks up a stone and throws it as hard as she could in the water. As the stone skims through almost half the way and finally sinks in, sending ripples around, the guy in the other side wonders what caused it.

As he turns back for home, his ipod and he hums along with Louis Armstrong, and he wonders about the rippling water, and vaguely wishes that there was enough light...

The night hugs the earth, the birds sleep for the night, the lil’ ones cozy in their mothers embrace. Somewhere an owl hoots, and keeps on hooting, and hooting..

…Oh wait, no.. It’s my mobile ringing. I pick up the call, its you. I smile as I listen about your interview. Thank God you understood who made the ripples.

Tempestuous clouds, bid me farewell

This entry is a part of <a href="http://contests.blogadda.com">BlogAdda contests</a> in association with <a href="http://www.zapstore.com">Zapstore.com</a>

A Winter Memory

2012-01-11T01:24:00.000-08:00

"If you miss the train I am on

You will know that I am gone…"

Everywhere you look you see mufflers and sweaters, and scarves with pretty patterns, caps and shawls, walking by; talking, arguing, laughing. Notice a black jacket and a grey sweater walking together..

The evening was really cold. As people in mufflers and sweaters huddled past, a couple made way towards the ice cream shop near the train station. While the girl was busy with her ice cream stick, and the guy enjoyed his cold drink, an announcement was made from the station; the train they were supposed to be on, was leaving. “They are early!” she yelled, as she checked the time on her mobile phone “Doesn’t matter” he said, and finished his drink in two big gulps, and ran towards the ticket counter. The girl, managing her ice cream, followed him.

A few seconds, and they were running towards the stairs, the guy taking two or three steps at a time, the girl, trying (well, more likely lumbering) to keep up. Once on the bridge, they saw the train had started to move. “We are not going to make it”, exasperated guy. “Come on”, laughing girl. Again, the guy jumping two three steps at a time, the girl (you know it) trying to keep up. By the time they reached the platform, the train had gained more speed. They guy looked worried, but the girl laughed and hopped on one of the approaching compartments. The guy followed. People inside the compartment shouted, as she jumped inside, but she had no ears for them, her eyes were for the person in front of her. “What a rush!” She laughed like crazy and slumped on a seat. The guy trying to fan her with his ticket, sat beside her, smiling. She held his hand, tight, and put her head on his shoulder. He looked at her and she kissed him.

The journey was long, and thank God they caught the train.

In nothingness, we unite

(This entry is a part of <a href="http://contests.blogadda.com">BlogAdda contests</a> in association with <a href="http://www.zapstore.com">Zapstore.com</a>)

(Yawn) I Made Soup

2012-01-10T10:12:00.000-08:00

Cold winter evenings. Correction, cold rainy winter evenings. Hungry, frozen, lazy and very bored. Nothing to do, no one to call or to meet, even Mary took away my little lamb. Trudging towards the shelf, I again thank the inventor of the mix-it-all-up soups. I finish stirring the ingredients of the packet in the boiling water, and pour all of it in a big bowl. There are some lumps still, but who cares. I take it to my bed and (sh@%), my bed's turned cold. Then I realize how hot my soup is. With a silent thanks to the physics of nature, I put the bowl on the bed, and after a few moments, take the bowl on my lap and sit on the very spot. Its not much, but warm enough.

As I try my hand at a doodle, epiphany yawns : Laziness is definitely the mother of all inventions.

Lazy rainy winter evening, warm-ish bed, n mix-it-all-up soup. Sweet heaven. Slurp!

A Fresh Taste

2012-01-03T10:24:00.000-08:00

Welcome New Year, along with a new cook. Presenting ME, a certified cuisine chef (confirmed and licensed by my mother, of course). I have, successfully, been able to prepare, dinner along with desert, with no help whatsoever, AND I have managed to do so without vandalizing the kitchen nor flooding it. Ergo, I am finally a grown up. (Applause)

So, here’s presenting my first chef-d'oeuvre, my masterpiece, two grilled pizzas - one topped with egg, and a strawberry custard. (Yaaeee, applause again).

Wish you all a good year ahead. Happy Eating!! :) :)

(Random thought, no.54 : As I struggle with the piece of cheese stuck between my teeth, I think about the stochastic cosmic alignments of the god forsaken planets, running after each other and getting barbequed by the sun, with their little alieny rulers, jumping here and there, looking at us with their big green binoculars, and getting turned on by some cow mooing in some green dung stinking field. Hmm..)