Another Day in Paradise | Rajeev Turlapati

Everyday...

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 14:46:00 +0000

Kindred

His cup of noodles was lying on the table before him. Six times before today, he shared it with that someone who he thought would last. It was an instinct – a tingling wish to share time, a slice of life, a feeling that would only be fleeting. Alas.

Not far away, she put an end to a long conversation - over the phone - with someone who would be an enjoyable part of life. ‘A filler of a fling,’ she calls it. She never bothered the aftermath. She spent most of her time ticking off conversations and crosses with a guy.

He forced himself out of bed, kicked the table, cracked his cup, and combed his hair – after several washes to remove her perfumed stroke against his short brown hair. He dressed himself in shorts, locked his door and walked out with the sound of music in his ears. And She dressed herself in a stunning blue gown. She kissed her roommate, Jo, and left her room asking people for The Café.

There is a remarkable quality in every individual story, today. There are impressive clichés. Yet, there is outstanding relevance to every life around. Every time I wake up to the morning light- occasionally by the disturbing darkness – I take the mirror and ask is today different? Stepping out to spend an entire day (and night, for the chosen few) with friends, presents a new chapter to observe and learn, outclassing the traditional way of learning lessons - if life is meant to live by learning. If you lived alone, you have the mirror. If you lived with people – chosen by choice or fate - you are obliged to share a word or two, necessitated by the acts of the previous day. And that’s where it begins. An exercise. An act of meeting with people titled friends. Until this point, there is neither a smile nor a frown.

You are, at times, dragged by the force of bond, to wrap your hands around your love, or a partner. Otherwise, you walk in to a coffee shop for a cup of steamed bliss. It is usually the former that begins the day, I am informed. And then hour-by-hour, stories unfold, own and observed. The sight of misfits walking out of a friend’s house –probably after sleep hours - presents a story. While it might be usual, there are revelations that happen through the day. Truth isn’t there to hide, I tell myself. When I pass on the story to others, there is almost a sense of responsibility (mixed with Déjà Vu and panic) in the other’s face. However, it is a moment of relief when the other brings it in the open to keep the score clear. Not just me, even she does it.

When the Sun is at its brightest best, there is a plan – elaborate and scheduled – to drown in the beauty of intoxication. The next few hours are spent in countdown while there are usual sights of food-sharing. You could lend one ear to tales of marriage, or simply taking the relationship to the next level, a level that had everything in the forefront already. You could lend the other ear to miseries, long standing relationships seeing time dead useless after only a handful of hours – with better ones lasting unto days or longer. Discovery can happen, anytime.

At the fall of the night when the Sun turns bright orange and the Moon rising with its help, you could be emotion-stricken, sometimes slapped by what happened to you. But, there is beauty in realizing opened truth – what has set rises with the setting Sun. I often see me in moist eyes but buoyed by grit. You would want to grip it hard and not let it go. There is a niggling worry of inviting drooping shoulders encouraging vengeful attitude. But the feelings have had their share and the observations must be dressed to escort tomorrow, battling those niggles.

As I lifted my glass of wine, I could think of more examples characterized as unique and ‘bookmarks’. These are the kind with the power to make an impact. Some could just be thankless and traitors of trust, marooning a blossoming something. Some could just paint a smile and send a fresh lease of life.

I am glad there are Hes and Shes to flip pages called days. They are an important part of even those unnoticed lessons we learn, gleaning and meaningful. These might just be the Kindred.

And then...

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 12:03:00 +0000

Miles of Silence

Why would a movie end with the reappearance of evil especially when the protagonist goes through the intricacies of investigation and reaching a logical conclusion? Why would the nature undo the entire process of reaching happiness? Why should we realize that happiness is not an eternal asset? Why is that, when answers are found, more questions are posed? He was suddenly a lost man. Until the last frame of the movie, he had his nail totally bitten off; the gut of his fingers exposing a freaking pink. He hated old style English movies. He hated its Indian copies. He missed three of her calls all this while.

She, separated from him by a ridiculous thousand miles, was seated in her couch battling confusion. Pink or yellow or should it be both? She had questions, rational, striking her head but poked her enough to reason irrationally. Which color would fit this kind of an occasion? Who would like to see her dressed in pink? What kind of people are most likely to attend her friend’s wedding? For every question she asked herself, she called him only to see it end as a missed call, literally.

Both were bathing in a huge bubble of questions, of rant and racket.

Looking at the volume of calls missed, he felt a strong sense of guilt. How could I miss her calls watching a movie that ended with questions rather than credits? But, he put off the worry for a brief while and thought of a way of making it up to her. He thought of flowers and bouquets. He thought of poems and chocolates. His phone rang again. Just once. And it denied him of a call. Missed.

She was dressed in beautiful pink and dazzled in light gold jewelry. She was having the gayest of times but was occasionally troubled by what she did last night. Why did I? she thought. She danced, she ate, and she clicked pictures and cracked her heel. She shed a tear while she slowly limped back to her room.

He had his mug of coffee in his hand. He did not call her back. Something stopped him. Fear, perhaps. She’s having her time. That was all that he thought. He barely recalled what he watched last night. He just rued what he had done. He oakie blew his nose. He wiped that odd tear.

Can I have a good ending now? He wished. He held his phone in his hand, tighter than ever.

I missed the best dance, she thought. She put her phone aside and put herself to sleep resting her head on the tear-dabbled white pillow.

[an episode cont'd from the previous post]

Gameplay|Playgame

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Fri, 14 Oct 2011 10:58:00 +0000

ThePloy

A happy talk ended. There was his pulse beating high and happiness writing a new musical note both disguised by a faint smile on his face. Just when he had the quiet moment for himself, she broke his heart’s opera. I quickly need to attend to some priority work. For him, it was the start of that hour, rare and seemingly gifted, when he picked up his book and resumed reading its 99th page. He could barely recall the plot that unfurled in those 98 pages. He couldn't recall the name of the Doctor who poisoned his patient. The doctor isn't guilty. There is nothing so interesting in this book. It is just a revenge plot that every ordinary author could write. Read it anyway, she said. He looked at his watch. It had been only a few minutes since She left him, to finish drafting a work-email.

He and She began talking again. There is a nagging worry, a condition disquieted by the accumulation of thought. And before they rust my composure, I need to dust it off. I need to feel good. I’m done with the confusion et al, she began. “WTH! She just ruined my reading. And now she wants to discuss something that sounds like sorrow?” was his instant response in the head. It had to come. He hated ephemeral sensations of delight. “Yeah sure. What’s bothering you?” he asked.

…that’s exactly the reason why I am scared – of these frets. If I am happy now, I fear losing it forever. You are a part of this mire too. It is good but sticky… With those words she ended her narration.

For the first time, he said nothing.

He could not ask for more Equilibrium, darned and part of a dysfunctional fact phase of life.

He didn't have to make it to page#100! He just lingered over their agony.

Instinct!

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Sun, 25 Sep 2011 13:13:00 +0000

That chat of Instinct

Plan and prepare, when the mind is set,

I go about today with no ado.

But when the seconds unrest,

I call for a plan redo.

Annoyed and upset I sit,

Hitting a needless mindblock.

Think not, nothing is going to take a hit,

I keep hearing the inner voice mock.

Do none, talk to the one.

Sounds right let me make the call.

Hello beautiful! I’ve thought of a mission,

But restlessness sucked it all.

I, instead, thought of having a chat marathon

With you for a righteous spent of time.

Hours went by, all ears she gave.

What do I do? Suggest in dear, will you please?

Sure dear, small chaos doesn’t decide what you ought to have.

Plan and plot your thought, seconds will be a positive ease.

Honest you are, correct you do.

Instinct it is, let it be your guiding marquee.

Much she said in the shortest of dict,

Made such sense that put her in new salience.

Instinct it is I should see,

Plan and prepare would find the right track.

Content I felt, upright I sat.

Thank goodness, she was there.

For this Life and Love, I’d go to the mat.

Gladness galore was the heart’s fore.

Dr.Gordon

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Wed, 03 Aug 2011 14:41:00 +0000

Mull Over

"Delusion. I see. Sanity?", I asked Gordon.

A condition, I felt, under suspicion.

Flashes of irregular future me riding on,

mind harping on the tenacious gone-by second.

Soliloquy set in, unending conversations.

At a Bar was I, drinks to buy high.

Spoke and Saw twice over, bore a fevered condition.

Ho Santa! Gift me clear sense from that sleigh.

Hanging on weightless body, mind cracked.

Pieces of delusion again; Gordon help me!

Memory on me jig-sawed,

this Christmas bringing on me brain's enemy.

His chair rocked, flat I lay.

Happy memory, fake sense stay away,

his word's piercing the numbed mind.

Gordon's efforts, for my wish, so kind.

Nothing son. Nothing out there.

You master your mind, not your recall's tear.

Silent he kept, glanced and gone.

Stiff I sat, with body and thought.

Christmas ended. Gordon was he?

Pondered I after he fulfilled my plea.

So I thought. Gordon was he?

Gordon. Dr. Gordon. He still is for my psyche.

Filth & Froth

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Wed, 09 Feb 2011 06:44:00 +0000

Facing Filth

He thought he was part of an agenda, an agenda that goes against the simplicity of everyday routine. The moment he embraced the unfaithfulness of the World, he loved himself more; his living in disbelief made so much sense as he ignored the pricking deceit he faced. He enjoyed being numb. For once, he could see his always-moist-eyes dry.

He barely slept during the night and lived the day, lethargic and listless, much to the agony of the Sun. He fell asleep on his plate of fried vegetable, something that expected the dampness of the drool. He thought the buzz of the day calmed his haunting thoughts that usually visited him during the night. I am so made for the other side of the planet, he often thought. My body is dead in my sleep. And so am I. My eyes go on for a roll at a time when they are supposed to see colored dreams. This pill I take, for whatever reason, is a mere catalyst for peace, he said when I asked him about his metastable dullness at night.

And the reason played hide-and-seek. While I put this thought here battling my sleep at the dead of the night, he's busy counting tears with a useless piece of cloth in his hand. I could easily boast of my content in my everynight diary but I it robs me off my smile looking at his state of a 24-hour cycle. And I fear his fear infecting me but the reason still hasn't surfaced thanks to the mystery and selfishness.

Much to my surprise, it only took a tight slap on his face, red enough to explain the mystery. Filth & Froth, he began. Little did I know that if I hugged a toy, it would fart on my face. If I kissed a rose, it would taste of wither. If I looked at a lovely painting, it would spit paint all over me. If I touched silk, it would send a bolt of shock through my fingertips. He paused. I ignored the on-going silence that instilled the highest sense of thought in my mind. And then, I cursed. I tried to fish out smiles from the beautiful river that surrounded me but I just found the froth of the dross. I saw smirk for a smile. I saw a finger for a gesture. I saw deceit for trust. He paused again. I wondered if I was anywhere visible while he narrated his story of agony, in broken, meaningful, striking style.

Yet, I kept my hand rock-steady. I had one reason left to forget the froth. But, like they say even 1% is a possible probability. I noticed the boil even in the love that now seems feigned. If this isn't Filth, then what is?

That was it. I needed nothing more than those few bleeding words. I left him to his world, curled up in the corner of the room. I switched on the light, for him to be the morose one; hoping the darkness to stay away forever.

And I... switched off the light and switched on my alter-ego.

No Man's Quest

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Wed, 09 Feb 2011 05:18:00 +0000

Dodged Quest

The rain came, but the flame thrived.

The step forward, for the love to survive.

The enigma lingered; emotion revived.

I took the flight; hoped no fight when I would first see her.

The cloud burst and the bolt of light was gone, what remained was the thunder

Of my heart; the turbulence aiding my muster.

Miles away on no man's land I stepped. I could hear

The whirring of the train engine and the call in its coo grew louder.

Alone in a long train, I was so detached

but this is the way to her, the thought keeping me relaxed.

Wind and Gaze, the worst hurricane

But it wouldn't collapse my strength; no way would the quest be in vain.

Off came a flying leaf, hybrid in dry and sodden,

Silence befell as it withered in my hand.

I stood by the tree, ramified through its age.

Greater than the miles I came, it stood tall

Seeking the reason for the blindness in love so small.

The Lady has a secret, and only that binds us all.

Shining through the light, smirk on her face;

towards me she walked, with an indifferent gaze.

A quiver of sorrows rooted from my legs,

Darning the secret, my sweat-wrapped-quest rot in pegs.

Who's to explain, the turn of events?

Undoing the sight, yet, my heart pumped spirit.

I began to question the uncalled nuance.

The stubborn stack of thoughts buried in mind,

There's still hope the secret would be kind.

The Line

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Tue, 09 Nov 2010 15:58:00 +0000

And The Fly

I was standing in the line when the little girl from no where crawled and tapped my feet. She, raising her head over a tough, good ninety degrees, looked at me. I might have looked like a monster holding a brown bar in my hand. I dropped it, the chocolate making a splatter design on her cute little frock. She crawled away. I lost my spot and had to restart the hope of reaching that first step to the fly.

I rejoined the growing line; the line now looking longer and bustling with cries of joy, hope and anxiety. Just behind me was a plump old man. Worried? Well, just wait a little longer. Son, this is my first time too. I guess you aren't alone! He gathered the conclusive expressions from my face shooting evident quirks.

The guy in front of me overheard the thoughts talking to me. This isn't my first time but that first step you take to fly has to sport a meaning, an explanation to our wait, a justifying statement to pain incurred through years of wait, he said. He looked young, anxious to experience the journey ahead, again, something that he would eventually do. But he meant a world in that one little sentence. I turned around to ask the old man a question - What made you wait so long? to this replied - It took an infinite amount of clock ticks to wait for this day. I dreamed a great deal but my obsession for 'the fly' gathered constant deceleration thanks to other factors that make up life. I tried tagging this process-on-the-side with my obsession but it was the fight for survival, fight for the buck that kept building hurdles. And here I am, accompanied by my gray hair, matured mind and the memory of the struggle. I tell you, it might well be an experience!

It took a while before the line granted another person a wish. It did take an awful amount of time for it to stamp its approval and grant that excitement. I began to think - What if I could give some of the wishes that meant a little-nothing to the man in front of me to the man behind me? Would the wish work the same way it did to him than it did to the other? The man behind me had the meaning, an explanation and the justification. Yet, he was on a track of hope that trailed. Why is 'the line' there to grant what I wish to have? Why would it make the wait only longer by making us wait, with questions that shoot like arrows of Jade?

When would all this question-hope concoction dilute the anxiety and concentrate the fading and dying hope and make a perfect solution? As my eye rolled down a tear, the little girl looked up and gave me the candy-pop in her hand. I took it with a renewed sense of hope only to see the line getting longer and then vanishing from the scene.

The flight of stairs ahead transformed to a painful spiral. The fly flew.

Cut to Power

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 20:51:00 +0000

In No land

Christopher Nolan, Your mind is the scene of power. It is with that power that you have weaved magic with the use of the word crime. Here on, anyone who could come close to your mind or even tries to emulate you, is a criminal. For you, the World is a place of Aliens and you, the Human.

I now consider myself being part of a club that has watched all of Nolan's movies, including his short called Doodlebug, which you can watch here. All his movies are not just mind-blowing but they take you through an experience. If this isn't versatility, what is? And why exactly is Nolan one of the greats? Imagine working on one of the most widely read/watched comic superheros of all time - Batman. Tim Burton started off the modern Batman series which was later ruined by Joel Schumacher but the franchise was given an entirely new life when Nolan decided to fly with the Batman. He put in Bale, a loyal albeit a voice-jarring Batman player, who gave Batman a new face behind the mask. Batman Begins and The Dark Knight are now amongst Nolan's finest works. Needless to say his Memento and others that followed redefined movies.

Inception.

[Spoiler free. Read it.]

It begins and ends in a dream, as a dream, for the reality; reality that a movie on this level of the mind can be made. Dreams are meant to be parts of a puzzle that cannot be solved. Dreams have no faces. Dream is a decoration. Dream is a consequence of what reality fails to show us

The movie begins, takes you to different levels of excitement as you get plunged in to a world architected to perfection; a world where gravity is gorgeous, destruction is awesome and where unbelievable is just a paradigm. All this chokes you until someone gives you a kick to come back from your dream. Every little detail in the movie such as performances, background score, cinematography, locations become a part of that dream.

Wondering why everything is so? Try spinning your totem.

I wake up and I re-wakeup to find myself stuck in the dream. Richard Linklater taught me this loop of life and now Nolan has brought Ideas in to that dream.

Sleep with the Idea. Embrace the Limbo.

Have-to-Lose.

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 12:20:00 +0000

Lost Possession

when you had it,
the look smiling upon you till no time;
when you had it,
like the soft bubble of a soap.

when it fades,
the haze blurring the smile;
when it fades,
like the vision of a tear-filled eye.

when it shows,
the intangible feeling flirting with you;
when it shows,
like that nonetheless inexpressible joy.

when it is gone,
there is only a peek at it;
when it is gone,
like there is no tomorrow;

and when it does,
the peek remains a memoir;
and when it does,
like the world collides.

Intertwiningly!

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 07:00:00 +0000

Biased

For him, Fate was a half-baked cookie and Destiny was its cheese dip. He grew up accepting his own theory of cookie in cheese but denying the verity of the two. To him, every event is an uprising, every happening is a consequence and every feeling was a culmination of the two. He could not base his life on an event of the past or a happening of the present. Because he bore the brunt of the blow that came from people around him. To him, it was all about nothing; just the day that passes in the sanity of belief in the moment.

His reasoning was simple. It was based on logic that demanded no great mind. If everything happened for a reason, what does denying mean? Life is left with no choice if it were so. What is decision then? At one point, he had to make the biggest life-changing decision and now he is staring at the possibilities of the opposite. So based on this, now is Fate and Destiny, thus, is being modeled with catalysts, or pawns, called decisions and denials.

But then, he reasoned to live, even if it meant loving half-baked cookies and giving your taste-buds a sour ride. While his destiny waited, he took a piece of paper and enclosed it in a bottle that is now floating in the ocean.

What is that that awaits?

Crossed

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Thu, 01 Jul 2010 07:24:00 +0000

The Cross

You know, if I decide to cross the road now, I might just get a ticket to heaven. May be hell. Doesn't matter. The point is: I might get famous. People might start asking a question like 'Why did that man cross the road?'. Makes sense right? Think about it. I'm just a man holding a bag of groceries standing beside you, you know what I mean right?...Yet I decide to cross the road.

That was a man on his routine. He goes to the store, gets groceries, goes home and writes it in his diary. He tells me buying groceries for his family has become his emotional job. He was born in a place that currently does not exist and that he was raised by a slum-dweller. He never knew what a city is about. He was brought to the city by a person who is now dead but taught him the value of help. So all he knows it go to shop, buy groceries, feed himself and his owner's dog - his dog, Matey. That was his family. But today happened to be the day of his life.

He held a bagful of dog food and medicines for his dog; his dog staring at the inevitability of death.

He owns the store. He spends time flipping pages of The History of your city to know where he came from. He has no memory of a slum. He describes the city. He spends time writing a character-sketch of his owner, the man who brought him to the city. He writes about his customers and friends at the store. Today he would write about the death of his dog; his only hope dying its death.

He crossed the road anyway. He turned back, his hope surprisingly renewed. He then waved good-bye to Death.

He wrote, Today, I talked to Death before crossing the road. He had no intention of taking Matey away. Matey's possible death triggered a fear of my own death. I thought I would get hit by a car, leaving Matey helpless during his final moments. But I got to feed Matey; he ate and looked alive. It is like Death lived.
This day is a cross. For I feared and won. Yet, I shouldn't have. For now, my family is alive.

Written learning

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Fri, 11 Jun 2010 06:06:00 +0000

Untwinned Juxtapose

There isn't any conclusion, of mine, based on substantial evidence. It is just a carefully thought, sanely momentary and possibly deceptive judgment. For me, it is a process of having two hands full and weighing one against the other; the weighing comprising an evaluation of the good against the bad, or the evolution of the good from the bad or vice-versa. Because I sometimes think of how this process has an impact on my life, be it about a person or a life('s) commodity.

-----

There is no age that can call itself 'refined' when it comes to solving a dilemma-puzzle or cracking a confusion-code. Age is that point where all the previous age-chapters have already been read. So, most of the times it is just a matter of revisiting a page and flip it only when the current code of confusion is cracked. When it comes to think about a phase that would qualify as crucial for the future, move on to the next chapter; only there we have no clue what the chapter is going to teach us.

Now, at a point, I have this duel to deal with. I have two weights to be weighed; one which is very familiar and that had already been dealt with in the past and two, which undoubtedly seems like one's twin but is an untested situation yet. With a very clear situation-sketch of one, I begin to think and weigh two against one but there is this nagging fear that I might not be able to go through with two. I decided to give it a miss. It was a clear case of that momentary judgment.

Moments hence, I begin to realize that no matter how strikingly similar two things might appear, I hate one and I miss two. Though I stand to fight the falsification of this juxtapose, I still believe that there indeed was something I learnt; something I unearthed from the past to present it to the future.

Now is the time for me to write why and what happened, to finish another chapter in life.

question mark

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 05:18:00 +0000

Parched Wish

The dew on the leaf seemed like tears. It was like the night that would bid the twenty-four hour cycle a permanent goodbye. It was only a matter of time before the Sun would shoot its blazing rays down on every dew drop on the Earth. Clean water felt like a salt-less dream. And we were just waiting for the Sun to pass, unarmed and hopeless, dripping down sweat-tears, letting out that heedless cry of welcoming the Sun. Parched throats let out voices of anguish, muttering hopes of spending those last few moments under the shadow of soon-to-fall trees.

That day, it felt like the clock began to count down from twenty-four. My tomorrow ceased to exist. Everybody's tomorrow was a dead dream. With one last wish in my mind, seeking a desperate tear of joy, I set out on a woebegone journey walking my freckled brown bike; its rusted frames begging for a paint-job, its temperature hotter than the Sun itself.

Tired legs with a premonition of the inevitable threatened to bring the body to a collapse. It was then the eye blinked to a darkened shadow of a dying leaf, hanging from a frail branch, its green turned to an irreversible brown. The leaf found itself in a classic web of life's questionable postulate - Can I survive? With its fall, it would deny itself of imbibing that unimaginable small amount of water. But what is survival against all odds when nature has no room for a breath?

That was when my woebegone journey hit a deadened hope. The words in my mind began to remain a question mark. And She was facing the doom, similar to mine and the world, elsewhere. The question mark over survival was long gone.

The leaf dropped. It let itself loose, losing every hope of green. But it still fluttered, as if to stay alive, to challenge that postulate of survival. Thus, giving me hope to take my wish with it and land in her lap conveying my message of existence.

The Sun beat down. And we were beaten with it.

Empty page

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Sat, 15 May 2010 09:47:00 +0000

White Wish

You remember I called you an 'angel' in a coupla poems I wrote for you? I asked Donna. Yes, she said, quietly. And then, a very long pause ensued.

Donna and I have been friends since forever. It is amazing how the word bliss defines itself when I talk to her. I used to transform that same bliss in to words; words that defied happiness. The list of poems/essays continued to count up to the uncountable. The list meant sanctification and satisfaction that came via that bond. But just when the bond began to boast of how eternal it could be, eternal met a tear-block. Donna announced her departure from the present. The Reason just puffed off the mind, hazed the heart and left me to decide if the teardrops were happy or sad. Did my list of poems begin to choke? I thought, tears hitting my cheek like bullets.

As we sat together under the tree, where we first met, she broke the long pause by placing a white sheet of paper in my hand, which read 101. She was gone long before I cracked the code.

Having retired to bed, I turned to poem#101 in my diary:

What's angel's colour?

That binds us forever.

Eyes yearn for that pleasure.

I'd shed Red to treasure.

With Donna gone, I had to be content with images of her in a white attire.

Quite Simply

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Wed, 05 May 2010 16:02:00 +0000

In-gradient

I was standing near a gate, waiting for a friend, lost in thought. That was when a gatekeeper requested me to unblock the gate's way to the lock. I was lost. His words for the first time never seemed to reach my ear. Even his second attempt to move me out of that place had failed when he came over to gently pat me on my back and said Sir, I need to close this gate. We are past our working hours and now you are just adding to the delay. I replied saying Oh. But tell me this....

I asked him You work here right? Now, let's say you go home and your wife says 'I am willing to give up the best thing I have to make you happy. ' And let me tell you, she means it. Now, you have the chance to go and get your best thing at the expense of her's. There are no other alternatives. What do you do? A similar situation you would have come across in...say....thirty thirty-five years..ever?...never?

The keeper said Look young man. I am fifty and your thirty-guess did cheer me up. Thanks. He said with a smile and continued In my thirty years of work as a Concierge, janitor or a gatekeeper, I have seen people walk through a gate either leaving their troubles behind or considering themselves a tad bit heavier with troubles. Some treat the insides as a prison and some treat the insides as heaven. Same applies to the outsides. There could be a unique explanation behind each of those feelings. For example, I would deny my wife's offer to let her best thing go, to invite mine. Burdening yourself sometimes lightens that very feeling. So a prison or heaven, insides or outsides is so much on the individual. That would explain the insides-outsides parallel or equilibrium. He stopped there and smiled at me. And then he said May I ask the reason behind your question? I do hope that this long version of my answer helped you a bit. For you to quickly decide to move from here (he said pointing to the railing) so that this gate closes, for me and for the answer you seek. I replied I am just deciding what the inside situation and the outside situation are in my case! Thanks though.

I stepped aside and continued my wait for my friend whom I would be meeting for the last time.

Unstepped

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Mon, 03 May 2010 14:17:00 +0000

That Recluse Step

I often wonder the steps that I take to reach no place, the steps that I take for the troubled mind to come back to a state of rest, are the ones that almost always end in physical pain. What is advantage of living in a city when the advantage rots the mind? I could just wish for that one step that takes me to a place called peace.

I play a game of probability and I ask myself What is today going to be like? Smile or Snivel? the odds are even. And at the end of the day I realize, I haven't played a game. I was merely played by the daily dice of life, the thought arising from an actively sane mind. It is from the latter [the whining that comes from the proceedings of the day] that troubles begin to swell. It is then that a much needed walk is called for. Out comes desperation to silence the madness. For some, a walk would do.

I walked towards a tunnel that took me no where. Literally. It was pitch dark and I had no clue why I walked towards the unknown. It symbolized the state of mind - I don't need to go anywhere. I just need to take those few steps away from the 'sin' city to reach the mental state of silence. Barely in to the walk, I got blinded by a light. It was the moment of loss; a step further would have landed me in the abyss that was staring at me from toe to face.

I weighed the probability against the quest to seek moments of peace. I failed to investigate the source of that light. For all it meant, the step would have sealed fate. The abyss could well have been a cluse.

That one reclusive step, unlike the one from the tunnel, is still being searched for. For the walk to sport a destination while all the other questions are put to rest.

[cluse = a narrow valley]

ChoiceD

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Tue, 13 Apr 2010 08:19:00 +0000

I Think I Lost A Few Taste Buds

I don't really blame people who take those extra few seconds to make a choice. If Green scores over Red, a choice is made. If black looks prettier than white, a choice is made. again. Woah, so much in a color!

A woman gives two lollipops of different flavors to her two kids. One of the kids begins to weep while the other slurps it on. And the mom makes an easy look and tells the kid 'Hell yeah! I took that for you, you didn't make the choice, did you?'

The natural reaction would be 'Oh sorry honey, here's another flavor.'

I'm with the mom here. She went over a small point to analyse a choice, her choice for the kid, assuming both her kids would like the same flavor. Now, would you call her uncaring or would you call her a careless-analyzing-mom?

So much goes over a choice. You are faced with a choice everyday. Rational or irrational, you are backed by your own reasons or motives to make a choice. Sad to say, choice sometimes becomes a decision. Or sometimes Choice becomes synonymous to Decision. 'There are about ten guys to choose from. What do I decide?' says a girl before she eventually decides on one person to exchange her wedding vows. Weird, I call it.

It's individuality, really. It's more like closing your eyes and seeing where your thoughts are angled at, not really pointed at. For me, it is more of a thought-process or an inclination before I lay my finger at that choiced something.

Weirder is when I begin to compare my choice with somebody else's and begin to feel 'Aah, I should have taken that. My choice is so rot.' Happens. That's when I feel like I have lost a few taste buds.

Null not

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 06:47:00 +0000

Rationull

For the entire complex network of nerves that run through my body, I am just a user. I could put them to different kinds of use. I could put them to test; I could hold them, or loosen them or just let them give me a stroke. Sometimes this very network drags me to a state of unexplainable emotion or anxiety. It is then I feel I am let off the hook. Or even dangerously close to the noose. It is during this 'sometimes' that I become a victim of unpredictability. Or when the Rationale in me begins to nullify.

Time doesn't know what happens around it, does it? Everytime I begin to stop time, say, for holding a memorable moment, I begin to realize I am spending that one extra second to see failure. On the flip side, everytime I begin to multiply a second, say, to let the mind skip thoughts of misery, I begin to realize I am spending those extra few seconds hoping for happiness.

I wake up every morning; with the bizarre thoughts that come during the night, subtracted. I always hope to polish my mind with a sense of sanity. The ink of the mind begins to tick off the points against the daily checklist, the first point on the checklist being: lived rationale? Have my actions explained my principles? What else do I need to do? How should I not care people who nullify their principles? Even if the acts that seem irrational to me seem rational to them... when the points get ticked off point by point, nerves begin to play.

I know, I can't let the nerves strike or thoughts choke me. I live by the reason. And I won't let the 'best' left to be corked while I begin to let myself loose off the noose.

I let Rationale be. Are you an 'I'?

Split Day

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Sun, 17 Jan 2010 06:49:00 +0000

Rea-l-ity Sp-l-it…

It amazes me how the day transforms itself in to the night. It almost makes me take a pen and write The day isn’t 24 hours long. The day is when there is light and darkness is what I call night. And night is when the soul-self is at song. I could count myself as one fine example of a differential day-user: day drags on and on with the dirt filled drop of sweat trickling down my forehead until it splits itself at the eyelash, into many more tiny drops of hope. And on days that spell bad, it gently combines itself into another huge drop of tear; tears of the eye. There is an overwhelming feeling in this. It keeps me off track of counting the number of times this has happened. And/But when it does, it only reminds me that there is night. When the Sun sets, almost splitting the defined day into an almost twelve hour halves, I so eagerly wait for the coolness to set in, the coolness defined by the psychological mindset that whatever happened through the day is only the derivative of the night before.

And why? Just as I begin to put the day to rest, my mental activity begins to wakeup. Funny it may sound, but it so comfortably tires me without any physical activity. Just mental. There is comfort of the soft-pillow that hugs my arms and the eyes do their bit, their movement trying to clear the mind off the day. Because what follows is the attempt to beat fear and raise hope.

I have been and still a victim of certain phobias, wishing to battle them head on, first in the mind and then let ting the future do the talking. Then there is an entirely new world called dream, of which I have no control. Science plays its symphony in the head creating characters that are faceless and stories with plots that seem baseless. It still feels like a superbly scripted play because in this there are no interruptions. I never wakeup with fear. That was taken care of while the eyes did their active bit.

The process of the night ends on an abrupt call of the day, like the blink of the eye in sleep. And I wonder, sometimes, whether time took a quick leap blanking my mind off a few hours. Two pieces of the same day and the same mind that feel so disconnected. And in such a lovely way…!

Paradox? Let me just treat this as a cool Reality Split. Split at the L in both. Different yet so identical. Wink!

The tail

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 13:50:00 +0000

Eh. Oh.

One can never really dwell on the mysteries of Conveying and Comprehending. I’ve faced such situations myself; some embarrassing, some pleasing, some none and some unclassified. Here’s a figment of imagination that tries to explain the Eh-Oh of life or a relationship or a connection between two entities.

Ark, an imaginably sensitive but sensible man goes by his daily routine, stands by his principles and believes in the power of the paranormal. He’s an Eh? He raises questions on uncertainties and has the habit of losing his way in his dreams of thought.

Olia is a downright selfish girl with no emotional balance in her heart but just a plain walker in life. An abnormal, absurd instance never raises her eyebrow. She counts life in seconds. She gives just an Oh to everything.

Ark and Olia happen to be the best buddies. Ark never questioned himself why he’s close to Olia. Olia just talks and talks to Ark, shares smiles and tears when her emotional balance is at one extreme. Ark is aware of her uncanny behavior. Ark, being an extreme Altruist, does everything he can to console Olia when she is at one end of the balance. He also grapples with the other end of her emotional balance. Olia almost never reciprocates his altruism. She just consumes it and the yesterday becomes a thing of the past, the day after such an incident. Ark conveys the care and affection. Olia just takes it and Ark comprehends this as a step to unintended but true Oppression.

This little weak link between the two gives Ark a night of nightmare. The next morning, Ark texts Olia ‘May be I should try wearing a don’t care attitude.’ Olia, just up from sleep replies by saying ‘Oh, good for you’ with a smile.

Somebody sense the tone. I say A, not Eh. I say O, not Oh.

Altruism gets Oppression!

That’s the body of the figment. The tail is the tomorrow of life and understanding.

Factorizing a day

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Sun, 27 Sep 2009 15:36:00 +0000

Refactoring

It doesn’t end, does it? There is stunning equilibrium in the process of continuity. And then there is Cold war, when thought makes a friendly visit. Then we change, as we are consumed by the onset of this cold war. A war in itself. In one’s self.

He picked up his toothbrush, to make the gentle to and fro motion, brushing his thoughts, organizing them for the clock to strike the right time. Hoping the clock adds second upon second, without having to go back, to reframe the past; the froth in every stroke, without the foul smell of decay.

The glass was left in its half. Half full of water. He drank half of it that quenched his thirst. With the thud of the glass, he watched the ripples on the surface dying with time. He tapped it a little and watched the process, again and again. Half full or half empty, the essence is the same. For him, it was how much was drunk and how much is left. He put on his coat to extinguish the day.

The tiny drop of sweat wet his shirt. He left it to itself. The cloth in his pocket would cool it down sooner. The longer it stays, the longer it is exposed to air, the longer he could feel the effect of evaporation. Perspiration cools me down, he thought. A day’s work is counted in your breath.

He talked to his friend over the phone. He gazed more at the shining stars on his ceiling than he spoke to her. The tick of the fourteen hour clock that counted his day constantly faded every word she spoke. But when the tired mind overcame the rush of thoughts, the eye joined lids. Six hours hence, he reopened his eye to brush, to tap the glass, to sweat and to talk (his friend willing to respect his strange sense of listening.)

When days tick in equilibrium, change appears as a distant black dot.

The thought made a friendly visit to his mind. Would his teeth be any whiter with a different stroke? Would a full-glass of water show an exit to his body toxins? While he questioned himself on those, he called his friend to get at least one answer. Would you have been closer to me if I listened to you with intent? Or would I just seek answers to my questions staring at stars of nothing?

The war brings in potential signs of loss. Loss of oneness or loss of what we have or what we may have. The black dot far away might pick pace, as a big red block.

The He is me. The He is you. He might just be us.

Racing past the point

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Sat, 08 Aug 2009 12:34:00 +0000

Mind Over Matter

Must be very hard for you huh, I asked.

Yeah! Think about it. I race on your bike and just before I thought I had her on my track, she jumps the signal and damn! I’m so screwed at home. He said with an angst reddened face.

Oh good Lord! What is even love-at-first-sight? Did you even look at her properly? What if she had freckles or a scar or say a squint? said Lea seated on my right.

Oh sorry. Ark this is Lea. Lea this is Ark. I introduced them both to themselves. Ark, I have to warn you, Lea is one big preacher. She has her opinion on everything in the world. I signaled Ark with a read-between-lines gesture. Ark just frowned. I was glad I could finish my line. With Lea around, the last time my vocal cords processed my entire mind-request was way back in the life where we weren’t friends.

I wish I could draw a few dotted lines connecting my mind to the dialogue-box over my head that said ‘Ark, if only you read my mind!’ I spoke to myself in the head.

Lea continued from where she left off. So Ark, this whole seeing-the-girl thing, isn’t it complex? Oh c’mon, you don’t even know where she’s going. Do you even have a clue about the best damn thing in her? She pitied Ark. Lea, I read a lot about the extra-terrestrial influence on a human-being. The moment I saw her take my bike, I thought she must be ‘the one’. She must be a person with a vision. A person who wants to do what she really wanted all her life. Think about how desperate she is. To jump a signal just to go get...something..? She might well know how serious the consequences could be. Ark responded.

So your parapsychology taught you that jumping a signal insinuates that the person is a visionary? She can easily be a stupid person who fears a ticket for having raced past the signal. You wish to end up with a girl with a crooked sense of thought? Lea retorted.

Well! fast-paced love for a fast-paced life. Ark re-retorted.

While Lea excused us for a minute to take her phone call, Ark said, Dude that is one seriously interesting girl you have with you. That was fun. To think of having a discussion while playing with a person’s strength or weakness….ok weakness…?.is fantastic to get past crappy mood.

Guys, I have to take leave. Ark, looks like the girl did seem like sending you a message like those ESP freaks do. Lea left.

So, a ticket that will be heavy on your pocket! I should never have told Anita about the new book in store. I said. Yeah! Anita is so done for good for nipping my bike. And yes, you go screw...and have fun with Lea for being a darned listener. I mentioned ‘my bike’ in my little paranormal talk and she never noticed!

Gotcha.

Singular.

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 06:15:00 +0000

The Singularity Phenomenon.Unexplained.

He woke up this morning after a sleep of jitters. He rubbed his eyes and his fingers and eyes twitched. He had nothing to do during the day and his to-do book was empty. Again. It was 8 am.

He browsed and found nothing. His news feeds read more about the air plane crash and racist attacks besides some shocking sports headlines. There was an unusual silence in the atmosphere. He wondered why the birds still chirped. It looked like a sunny pleasant day with the dry sands luring those on the road to go on a long trip after a quiet spell of overnight rain. After a quick shower and a spray of Axe temptations, he walked out, for just a walk. He was still dazed by his sleep, something he couldn’t discern.

Moments later, he saw himself seated beside an elderly man in a city bus. My memory is weaker than ever. I begin to forget things. Is this the bus that goes to The Avenue? he asked.

The Sun, unfortunately, was beating down and the day wasn’t pleasant anymore. Perhaps, it was a matter of going out on the wrong day or perhaps it was just an expectation that fell/felt out of place. We are too late for lunch sir. It is beyond time. Can you spare some extra change for a snack? The guy at the juice counter asked him handing him a glassful of lemonade.

He was given a token and it read ‘J100’ and he was indeed the hundredth person in the long queue at The Avenue. Having skipped lunch, exhaustion began to take control. Are we ever going to see the director today? I’m tired and hungry and I am drained. Not just today but this is everyday . The R word sunk the world. 100 to one job. What are the odds! Said the man in a brown suit. It was 4pm.

With a copy of ‘Coffee Tales’ in his hand, he quietly sipped his mug of coffee. She left you didn’t she? Tough, ain’t it? Said a young girl seated next to his table. It was 7pm.

Yet another fruitless day, only time beckons.

He put his book, We Are Not Alone, down to get some sleep. It was 2am.

keep Gaussing

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Mon, 18 May 2009 16:31:00 +0000

Gazing at Gaussian

That is one year less than one-quarter of a man’s theoretical lifetime; he said when someone told him that he’s turned twenty-four. I mean every degree from our pie is being eaten away and what are we! he envisaged.

The doctor slapped me thrice when my mom gave birth to me. I don’t have that memory but I have learned that that was done to encourage the baby to breathe. The baby is upside down when that is done and that is one serious smack on the ass. Funny it may sound but that is a medical technique. Or is it not? While I ponder all this, I begin to think how funnily life begins. And by an amazing act of God or Science which goes beyond any explanation, we begin to grow. The brain begins to think and to store. But it takes a ‘blow’ to erase all that. By any normal human standards of growth, we do not store anything that happens between the ages of one and three. I can recollect events since the age of four. I visualize, I sense and I feel. As a grownup, we see babies have testing tools such as the sleep and tears. Yes, there’s the mouth that is the biggest tool. How many arbit things have been tested this way: the saliva test. We did it too. And I know not why this happens. I wonder. I looked at three year old kid cover himself with a blanket to beat the cold. And how did he know that? Don’t tell me it is just observation in two years. Anyway, my crappy observations aside, ten to fifteen years go in growth. And life begins to walk the line. But troubled years begin. But joyous years begin. Two ‘but’s or let me just say a mix begins. Grow while you grow or deny yourself while you grow. But it has the hugest impact on the couple of years to come. The bad cannot be undone. The good can be done with more. So as I draw a curve with all the events that have happened, I would say there is a rise in…like..on the Y-axis. Not linear but a curvish growth, for all the ups and downs. For the remaining part, what I call as the aftermath of the first twenty years, I would like the curve to come down, the same way it raised. Isn’t this a popular belief: nothing stays at the top and that that has to come down. The sooner I see the down, the faster I try to get it up. So there is a bearing on the days to come, to fight the future, for the curve is like a bell.

Hmmm. I was on the rise last year with some memorable moments but this year I am walking down the curve. How quickly everything changes! I begin to think what fraction of life that got divided with this. I have put in the sanity for, say, six years, to see the insane events that could well last for a few months. I am searching for intervals to divide my curve. I know I got a bell. What am I at this point? And how much is left? Aah, if only I had the power of prediction!

He penned all this. I walked in to his room and happened to read what he had written. In a sleepy whisper he said name it ‘Gaussian Life’.