Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream.

Drive (25th October 2011)

2011-10-25T21:56:00.001+05:30

Give me a minute.

The Life & Times of Varun (26th September 2011)

2011-09-26T10:25:00.000+05:30

In recent news, tragedy struck once again for young Varun Mukerji from Pune, in the early hours of Sunday, the 25th of September.

Varun, 23, had just been robbed of his phone and wallet and sunglasses earlier this month. An optimistic individual, he has done well to rebuild his faith in humanity since. On Saturday night, after his debut performance as a stand-up comic (for which he did fairly alright and is happier for the experience), he chose to leave his car at the parking lot, so as to accompany a ladyfriend as they drove to an after-party.

This just in: chivalry is not dead.

The next day, he found himself a victim of a depraved and valueless society for the second time in one month. His car had been broken into, window smashed and the perpetrators (probably neighbourhood child-vandals), made off with his backpack, the contents of which included a brand new laptop, along with some other personal possessions.

This left Varun in a daze, disappointed yet again by the immoral acts of an unjust society. He spent the rest of his Sunday reconciling with his loss, but looking ahead at mending his ill-fate. Always a brighter-side viewer, Varun was quoted as saying, "Well, at least the fuckers didn't steal my music deck, or scratch or dent anything. God damn motherfuckers."

The following week will be spent in recovering his possessions and giving his beloved car a new window. Our thoughts are with Varun and his family during this difficult time. Please forward your condolences and/or money to varunmukerji@gmail.com

Find more Dan Auerbach songs at Myspace Music

Observations on Local Trains in Bombay (27th June 2011)

2011-06-27T13:37:00.014+05:30

Welcome back.

So I've been an infrequent visitor to the local trains in Bombay until recently, when the 9:35 a.m. from Jogeshwari to Churchgate (by around 10:18, give or take a minute) and I have become something of an item. Anybody can tell that the hour at which my journey takes place must be a bit hectic, considering it's a pretty conventional time for people to travel.

Anybody from Bombay will smile knowingly and assure me that I am in for a melange of sardinism and an extra order of elbow-in-your-facery.

But I've grown to quite like it, in these past couple of weeks. It seems like such a distinct part of my day now, and so different from the rest of my Bombay life, even though it is quite easily considered to be the essence or lifeline of the Mumbai Man.

I say 'Man' here in all seriousness. Ladies, I applaud your efforts of battling each day with your best chappal forward, leaving your worries of being ogled aside and riding the trains of Mumbai through hail and high water, I really do. But let's be honest. Aside from the drastic disparity in the mere population of the two sexes on these trains, the women are also comparatively docile and keen on just about getting along, while perhaps getting their veggies organized on the way home.

The men on the other hand. The men have it different. And before I proceed, let me just say although it is definitely and without a doubt quite bothersome to use these trains during rush hour, it is also quite a thing to marvel at for the amazing amenity and miracle of infrastructure that it is and at no point do I want to take any credit away from that very fact.

And now that I've said that, I can begin my lament.

On second thought, I think I will segue this lamenting business to a sense of appreciation actually.

The local train culture is definitely unique. What will strike any outsider quite soon after the sheer number of people inhabiting these little bogies (cars, train compartments, what-have-you) is the way in which the inhabitants interact. It is nothing short of odd.

Men holding other mens' hands has long been a picture of amusement for the modern citizen. Clutching each others' waists as they walk down a promenade while still somehow exuding a sense of machismo (that few will mistake for bad body odour) is a unique feature of the Indian male and will continue to be a distinct one -- while at no point being anything beyond an allusion to homosexuality because, really, these men are not usually sexually interested in one another.
They simply aren't.

Instead they are interested in developing relationships. Bonds. Strong, intangible, wonderful bonds that indicate a level of friendship that is quite remarkable, really. Their conversations are seldom shallow and mostly always filled with political and social commentary about the life and times of themselves, their sons and daughters and uncles and that one time they managed to get a massive discount on a television because they put a goat up as down payment. And now how they share each others' joys and sorrows, laughter and sadness, laddus and vegetarian patties.

It's all a bit sentimental really.

Something to point out here is that these passengers are also a very boisterous bunch. Make no mistake, their love for one another is evident as the weather is humid. But what will strike you is that these people, who for all intents and purposes are actually strangers to one another, save for the hour a day they spend riding the train together, are astonishingly violent! It's mental!

Like naughty kids in a boarding school playground in the monsoon, their hobbies include inflicting pain on one another and then laughing hysterically about it. All the while making poignant and heated eyes and really savouring the tension those stares create, if only for a few seconds.
And then it comes. The violence.

Each strike, each slap, each shove is masked with an air of brotherhood and affection that will elude your observation up until the moment their eyes light up and their serious grimaces turn into the widest grins of joy and excitement you never knew their minds could contain. Absurd.

Honestly, amidst the contorted stances each individual has the honour of holding while eagerly waiting for someone to leave a seat vacant, one would never guess that these trains are also host to a fraternity like none other. A fraternity so strong and and with such a magical foundation of hardship and life experiences -- it brings these train-journeymen together each day to laugh and occasionally hit, but mainly just support one another.

And it isn't just emotionally, mind you. They seem to love supporting each other physically too.
At least half these men really enjoy pretending to be furniture for hour-long trips.

And then to see them disperse. To disappear almost instantly, as though their lives had never been intertwined. One can't help but speculate and guess at their lives and wonder if they enjoy their jobs and love their families and ever go on holiday or basically do anything that is nearly as much fun to them as the time that they spend in each others' company every day in this wonderful, potpourri-like example of public transport.

--

Another observation I have made which is in a different sort of vein, a vein perhaps not comfortably found in everyone's umm... cardiovascula... okay I think I will drop this metaphor here.

The vein I refer to is the fact that at any point in time, this marvellous symbol of pulmonary infrastructure that Bombay is so proud to own... is also a moving weapon. A weapon capable of claiming dozens, if not millions (I may have my numbers skewed a bit) of lives every day just on the basis of an assumption. An assumption that each and every passenger is of sound mind and possesses regular motor skills and has a positive outlook to the concept of self-preservation. An assumption that at any point, a passenger won't (for reasons unbeknown to us) slip off the edge of the car, or protrude ever so slightly inducing harm to his body the likes of which are either irreparable or if nothing else, regrettable. The likes of which can't possibly be considered a liability by the Indian government because that would be an idiotic liability. Seriously, so many people use these trains! Wait let me go get a statistic.

Bear with me here.

SIX POINT NINE MILLION COMMUTERS DAILY. Whoa.

It may sound morbid, I know. Don't you think that I know? Well, I do. I know.

But there is something very, very ostensibly dark about standing at the edge of the train, holding onto the bar, as you stare at the cityscape sailing by, breeze swooping through sewage and hitting your face with a foul yet fun and familiar smell and your earphones squeeze the life out of a song that you can feel throbbing with the same pace as your heart as you think about your life and everything you've come to be and it is all okay and it is all affirmed when suddenly you realize that it could all end... in an instant.

Like standing on top of a skyscraper, or staring at the blade of a knife or thinking of crossing a National Highway during a particularly great stretch while SUVs are doing close to 200kmph.
I've always imagined what it would be like. Have you?

Splatter.

I suppose this is morbid. I suppose this isn't the choicest topic. But I can't help but think it and I suppose there's no harm in writing about it, because, I mean, this is the stuff that they depict in great films and books and if Bukowski could get so famous writing filth, why can't I?

(Yes, this guy just compared himself to Bukowski. And he also just said that he's about to get famous so maybe you ought to just smile and nod.)

It is an absurd thought though, isn't it? That something so integral to the way of life in Bombay can also be the harbinger of death and deformation? That something so precious and valuable to the citizens of Bombay where people learn to live together and forge meaningful and seemingly intransient relationships with one another can also be the home of immediate carnage if a passenger so saw fit? Or if he felt drowsy, or caught a bit of vertigo, or spent a second too long dwelling on his sorrowful life and then... and then poof.

I suppose that this is as good a point as any to aposiopesis my way out...

Cheerio.

Lenny Bruce (22nd March 2011)

2011-03-22T17:51:00.009+05:30

I've mentioned my fondness for Dustin Hoffman before. He's one of those people I am a true and proper fan of. The sort whose character and persona(lity) influences you on an unconscious level... and in that way, becomes a little of who you are.

That ellipsis (...) I used there may just be incorrect. It's something I must work on, if I'm truly about to embark on a nobler profession soon. Grammar Nazi.

Words I learnt today are:
1. Sophistry: The use of fallacious arguments, esp. with the intention of deceiving.
2. Solecism: A grammatical mistake in speech or writing OR A breach of good manners; a piece of incorrect behaviour.
3. Specious: Superficially plausible, but actually wrong OR Misleading in appearance, esp. misleadingly attractive.

By the way, I'm mildly lying about the second and the third word, because I knew them before... but I thought they were pertinent to this series of S-lettered words I just created. Let's just say I re-learnt them today, with respect to context.

I like these words because of the nature of truth within them. Their endemic interest in truth, depiction and portrayal seems to resonate with my ideas about this tepid lifestyle of mine lately.

And with that same motivation, along with the one I introduced at the beginning of this post, came today's cinema selection: Lenny.

"The story of acerbic 1960s comic Lenny Bruce, whose groundbreaking, no-holds-barred style and social commentary was often deemed by the Establisment as too obscene for the public."

Fantastic film. Dustin Hoffman predilection aside, this movie is about Lenny Bruce and his amazingly impactful life. It's about the guts involved in pointing a mirror straight at yourself, or your group or your clan or your tribe or your country or your society. And looking hard enough to see the clear and present hypocrisy, no matter what the odds. It's about pursuing honesty and feeling strong enough to purge the filth to find it.

I've had many conversations about the importance of honesty over sensitivity; deliberating either party's goals of social harmony and physical co-existence...

What works, what doesn't, what needn't, what shouldn't. What prevails. What's practical. Not to mention whether they are distinct and stark to even call separate parties. I personally find sensitivity a little dull... even though I am aware of the significance of empathy in our lives today and in our semblance of future–

That there, is an aposiopesis. My word for the week.

"Aposiopesis (pronounced /ˌæpəsaɪ.əˈpiːsɪs/ from Classical Greek, ἀποσιώπησις, "becoming silent") is a rhetorical device wherein a sentence is deliberately broken off and left unfinished, the ending to be supplied by the imagination, giving an impression of unwillingness or inability to continue. An example would be the threat "Get out, or else—!" This device often portrays its users as overcome with passion (fear, anger, excitement) or modesty. To mark the occurrence of aposiopesis with punctuation an em dash or an ellipsis may be used."

Source: Wikipedia, because it's on its way to becoming a legitimate source now.
---

I'm in the process of combining a few broad tenets and putting together a formidable life-stance. I'll put it up soon... it's all too overwhelming to do in 30 minutes, like these posts (rants).

In the meantime, watch Lenny. And listen to Tame Impala to get a taste of this Monday I just had. Here, I'll even put it on for you.

Cohesion (11th March 2011)

2011-03-11T04:24:00.004+05:30

You know what I used to love doing as a kid? Pouring a little water on a surface (usually the floor), in patches... and then using a few drops to kind of connect the different puddles so that, almost magically, I could watch the water come alive and congregate.

It seemed miraculous to me... the way water could do that. To witness seemingly disconnected puddles just come together like that must be how oceans are formed, I would ponder. Moving by itself, I realize now that this is due to the cohesive nature of water. Well, that and its adhesive properties along with surface tension, but the physics behind it doesn't make it less inspiring.

Cohesion. The act of forming a united whole. Nature sure is the best teacher.

Undividedness (22nd February 2011)

2011-02-22T08:19:00.003+05:30

I'm looking to get a little closer
A little closer to you.
I can't imagine being closer
Proximity's got me looking the fool.

I remember
Tucking your hair back behind your ear
Or holding your side while I stood near.
Waiting to see you and hating to leave
Or thinking of how my chest would heave.
When my stares were full and my eyes weren't cold
I guess time has a way of making everyone old.

I remember looking at a girl with this ridiculous and hopeless grin of undividedness.

I miss that feeling. Only slightly, mind you.
My distractions have learnt to take centre stage.

Now my friend is pretend and he plays the lead role
The thing with solitude is – it has plenty of soul.
Even when I'm real, my mind's in a bout
Do you think this is easy? Shit, without-a-doubt.

Putting on that suit is like wearing a glove
But a trace is a good thing when you're in love.
Costumes are for pussies but what are you gonna do?
Pussies are essential man, there's nothing more true.

These last two stanzas seem a bit more hip-hop
But rhythm in poetry always helps the beat drop.
I'm trying to close now, no room to stutter
This shit sure ain't smooth peanut butter.

Yours crunchily,

Mr. Division.

"If you've come looking for hard times, hard times ain't hard to find." - Clarence Greenwood

Piece of Papaya (22nd February 2011)

2011-02-22T08:04:00.005+05:30

"I believe it's time for another piece of papaya." If there were ever any words to inspire me to write on a Monday night like tonight, it's probably these.

It's too bad the papaya is over. I'm not in the mood for grapes, which is highly unusual. Oh well, apples and oranges.

I just watched 'Never Let Me Go', a "... 2010 British dystopian drama film based on Kazuo Ishiguro's 2005 novel of the same name."

I could quote a little more Wikipedia but it will suffice to mention that this movie is about a world in which cloning is a means to improving longevity thanks to live human specimens acting as donors. Basically your average Tuesday afternoon fleeting hypothesis. It's been done before in 'The Island', but I think this film does it better. The story is more compelling and possibly even relatable because of the stellar acting and also because wearing spandex and having an odd coloured drink with Scarlett Johansson seems less than real.

Anyway, so this movie isn't half bad. Andrew Garfield is a fine actor. I saw him first in the spectacular Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus and I can't help but think he's going to go on to live a very wealthy life thanks to the success of The Social Network. I don't usually review movies here because of the frightening number I watch and it simply wouldn't be fair. And I'm not about to start. Well, not just yet anyway.

This piece is, instead, an ode to the lovely Carey Mulligan, who has me terribly and irrevocably smitten.

I first met this enchanting thing in 'An Education' and she hasn't left my mind since. She plays a nearly 17 year old school girl with an exceptionally bright mind, a fair talent with the cello and a penchant for all things French (bourgeois). In a time when educating oneself was the proper thing to do for a young woman, this character begins to ask questions way beyond her years. Her dreams of going to read English at Oxford start to fall to pieces upon meeting a charming and worldly older man, a Mr. David... who leads her into a tale of romance and excitement, the likes of which she had only imagined. (It's worth noting here that Peter Sarsgaard plays David... an amazingly talented actor himself.)

The movie is actually based on the true story of British journalist Lynn Barber and the 'education' she received before exiting her teenage years. The movie is terrific... but more so, this Carey Mulligan is where the gold is. Her eyes are filled to the brim with fantasy and those little dimples complement her timid smiles all too well. Like magic.

Honestly, so cute and man, those eyes can hold a litre of water! There was this moment just before Jenny was being seduced by David... when I actually had to pause to see how old she is in real life! Proper protective feelings arose. One could say that's conservative, but let's just call it "normal".

So she's 25. Turning 26 in May this year, I know you didn't ask. People like her make me instantly happy. Actors who manage to familiarize themselves with you to the point that you forge a personal relationship with them... no matter what their role. They get in your head and become a part of your friend circle, as creepy as it sounds. I think it takes a special kind of talent to endear yourself to another person via celluloid.

Dustin Hoffman is a man who continually does that to me. He makes me feel comfortable and warm and I can't help but smile when he does... or become tremendously worried when he does, as in the case of Kramer vs. Kramer. Lately however, he's been doing fun roles... and even during voice overs like in Kung Fu Panda as Shifu, his Dustin-ness comes through like a wave of brilliance.

James Franco is definitely on that list. So is David Duchovny, Jason Bateman, Michael Cera and not to get too mannish here but so is Zooey Deschanel, Ellen Page and Penelope Cruz to name a few.

(Although I will admit women actors endear themselves to me for reasons besides their thespian skills.)

Gotta love Dustin Hoffman, though :)

Fugue State (28th January 2011)

2011-01-28T14:02:00.008+05:30

He pulls until the smoke fills his eyes, enters his lungs and attempts to incite his brain, before it leaves his mouth... not unwanted but not nearly having fulfilled its purpose.
---
He stands on the beach staring out at the sea, waiting desperately for the tide to reach him, if only just to wet his ankles.
---
It's after sunset. There are no clouds and there are no stars. It's dark, but not completely... just a deep shade of grey paints the sky and drips into his mind.
---
Fugue state. It is his fault, he knows it... but that doesn't make it go away. He blinks slowly, once every 6 seconds. Each blinks comes with a promise of meaning, a moment of hope in the darkness imposed by his eyelid.

His eyes open to the same smoke, the same sea, the same sky.

The same state.

War Pigs (5th January 2011)

2010-12-20T21:52:00.007+05:30

Before you begin, please allow this song to play in the background.

Thanks.

I've been meaning to write this for a while... the WikiLeaks documentary (available for download and watchable on Youtube) is quite hard-hitting indeed. Travels have gotten in the way of personal writing, but with a little help from my friends, I think I should get by.

When I was in school, I subscribed to Us vs. Them (to read some more about Us vs. Them, please direct your attention to this marvellous piece I stumbled upon) and felt quite certain that tattling was not acceptable. I distinctly remember this one occasion of being confronted by a teacher and she was confident I knew about some tomfoolery that took place and who was responsible, and with good reason - I was the perpetrator's neighbour. All I said was, "I won't tell you." and that was that. I wasn't punished for my non-cooperation, but I mean, why would I be? That sort of attitude is quite dictatorial and dogmatic and I wasn't going to stand for that either. Of course these words meant less to me then, but the basic sentiment behind it felt honest, and real, and worth defending.

So I watched the documentary, which is curiously not to be found on Wikipedia and to be honest, this sentence "WikiLeaks is not affiliated with Wikipedia or the Wikimedia Foundation." on the top of the WikiLeaks page seems pretty unwikipedialike too. I urge you to watch the 50 minute long video. It's excellent and if anything, informative.

They needn't have included that rubbish about Julian Assange being accused of sexual misconduct, because whether it's true or not, it's irrelevant to the story of WikiLeaks in any case. But hey, spending an extra ten minutes in an already concise documentary seems fair, I suppose.

So let me tell the uninitiated a little bit about WikiLeaks. Or rather, let the main website do it for me:

"WikiLeaks is a non-profit media organization dedicated to bringing important news and information to the public. We provide an innovative, secure and anonymous way for independent sources around the world to leak information to our journalists. We publish material of ethical, political and historical significance while keeping the identity of our sources anonymous, thus providing a universal way for the revealing of suppressed and censored injustices."

And it makes sense. Apparently, or rather, quite impudently, the world is largely intolerant to honesty. Or transparency. Or more so, an air of "Yeah, I'd like to know, please tell me but then we'll just keep it between us." I can imagine that statement being hurtled across every border, because people are inherently knowledge-hungry. To take the extra effort to substantiate knowledge (read: hearsay) is another story altogether. But at least this (WikiLeaks) seems like a noble enough adventure.

Which brings me to an interesting subject: sources of information. A friend was recently saying something on the lines of, "... well, Wikipedia is unreliable because its information is written by just about anyone." And I've heard this claim before and I find it quite ridiculous how these claimers fail to recognise that this is, in fact, the way you always gain information. Besides an ignorance to the stringent functioning and mechanisms of Wikipedia, you have to understand that this is how information works! Because someone tells you. You might read it, and that is the print version of someone telling you... but you are always receiving information from someone. And the stuff you create for yourself or make up is either wrong or genius, only one way or the other. If it's the latter, please go ahead and publish it quickly, so that someone else has privy to it and then boom, they have the information that someone (you) has told them.

P.S: To know whether any information is accurate or not comes under scientific and empirical testing, of course. Data is key. Ask any epistemologist.

Big shout out to Wikipedia here, because honestly, to put together everything that you (we) do and then to scrutinise and edit and take away bias and weight is a Herculean task. I've noticed many mistakes, especially with a lot of the Indian pages being faulty or flawed, what with remote towns being labelled the "best place in the world" by naïve or rather, ambitious Wikiers! Or for example the Indian Ocean (band) page with bold statements like, "Susmit has virtually invented a new style of playing the guitar, an uncannily Indian sound where purity of scale reigns, strong melodic lines woven around the drone of open strings." or later on in an eerily sentimental reference to Asheem's death "However, Asheem is intensely missed among all Indian Ocean fans who believe he is truly irreplaceable."

Outrageous, I know, but these anomalies only take place because not enough Wikipedia-minded people are online, reading these pages and keen to sit and edit them. Wikipedia-minded here, meaning anyone with half a brain who can tell opinions and rumours from statements that are less claims than anything else. "Objective" is a good but difficult word to use here, I think.
Choosing spectator, not active participant, I guess.

But back to the topic at hand. 'Collateral Murder' is the title given to this horrendously macabre footage of 2007 US airstrikes in Baghdad, where at least 18 people were killed in total. A short version (trailer, if you will) is included in the WikiLeaks documentary because it was really what catapulted them to the fame on which they stand today.

An excerpt from the radio transmitted dialogue I found particularly moving from that video goes something like this:

"Well it's their fault for bringing their kids to a battle."
-"That's right."

This was a means of consolation to the hardy soldiers that had opened fire and I get it, I truly do. How else do you live with yourself? People talk about being in the battlefield and how you can't understand it unless you're there... but what they really mean to do is create a context in which evil can be justified and I happen to think that there is hope in that very act. To think that they would like to justify their evil is a step in the direction of good. If they felt no remorse, they wouldn't even take the time to make statements like that. Even if it were only 10 seconds of their time.

Now WikiLeaks isn't perfect either. Perfection seems hard to conceive at the moment... but I'm quite supportive of any efforts toward honesty. OpenLeaks is the off-shoot, the spin-off, the avant-garde. Daniel Domscheit-Berg, the founder and former deputy for WikiLeaks said that the intention was to be more transparent than WikiLeaks as "In these last months, the organisation has not been open any more. It lost its open-source promise." It planned to start in early 2011 and you can get to the soon-to-be released website here.

Whether it works or not is yet to be determined. All I can say is that I appreciate it and I know WikiLeaks probably does as well. It isn't a competition when a win on either side translates to achievement for both.

Shanti.

Coffee, Pepper and Vanilla. (13th December 2010)

2010-12-13T12:43:00.002+05:30

Feel like getting away from it all? Feel like a road trip or a trip to the wilderness? Feel like doing some farming? An urge to cultivate? Well, this is the place for you!

My brother's estate in Hassan, Karntaka is a fantastic way to spend a few days connecting with nature, learning about farm-life and having an all-around good time. Kick back with some great coffee (or beer and whisky) and relax in the arms of nature while pondering over your place in the world, perhaps. For lighter enjoyment, turn on the 42 inch plasma television and watch some Discovery Channel or Vh1! It's all happening and it's all delicious. Go ahead, plan a visit to Goorghully Estate and spend a few days with Chirag Mukerji. He could use the company and you... could use the time of your life.

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=336202&id=749108571

Hello, I Love You, Won't You Tell Me Your Name? (26th November 2010)

2010-11-25T17:33:00.005+05:30

I'm driving out in a few hours. Pune - Bangalore - Mysore - Hassan - Bangalore - Goa - Pune is the plan at the moment and everything seems peachy.

Let it roll, baby, roll.

------------
(10th December 2010)

Back home now. Two weeks and about 3500 kilometres later, I'd have to say this road trip has been all sorts of epic. 4 days in Bangalore, 3 in Mysore, 3 in Hassan, 3 in Goa and most of that in my trusty and wonderful 5-speed Maruti 800, with the music turned up. Way up.

The weather has been fantastic. I can't explain it.
I don't have anything against rain... but you know that bit just before the clouds burst and for a few moments, everything seems to be in a suspended state of 'pleasant'? Well, somehow, the Weather Gods deemed it fit to serve us with those very moments... stretched out into fourteen exquisite days, all across the Deccan Plateau and Western Ghats. Quite.

On a related and very interesting note, there's a word to describe the smell of the earth after rain: Petrichor.

So yes, the drive was excellent. Other highlights include catching some terrific live music, from Dub FX to the happy chaps on the Goa jazz/blues/rock circuit... and some invigorating physical activity in the form of trekking and dancing and a ridiculously redeeming game of basketball.

My mind's been wandering a heck of a lot these past two weeks... and hopefully the posts to follow will have some evidence of that. For now, try these on for size:

1.

Uh 2.

And uh 3.

"Baby don't you understand... what you're doing to the man."

Salut.

What's in a Letter? The A - Z game (17th November 2010)

2010-11-17T02:29:00.010+05:30

I just had a thought. I was writing an email when I suddenly felt amused by how the words I chose in one sentence came together rather beautifully. The aesthetic of language is a very interesting trait and I've always found it fascinating when words are put together (sometimes intentionally) to form alliterations or statements that really sort of roll off the tongue nicely.

Now alliterations are many words using the same letter, so I thought about how it would be novel to use each letter of the alphabet instead, and form a single sentence. And I would do this using the letters in sequence. It must have already been done by someone at some point but I thought I might give it a go.

This was my first effort... and I have to say, it is a very exciting exercise and I recommend everyone try it. It's like a little adventure; the fun is in weaving the words together while following the one and only rule: A to Z.

A boy could derive extraordinary fun going hunting in jail; killing lemurs, monkeys, necrophiliacs or pedophiles, quietly reducing suspicion to underestimate various wicked xenophiles yearning Zen!

I'm not sure why my brain turned to killing animals and perverts, but I feel as though this can also have some psychological significance, if used in tests. I have to say – the first half of the alphabet is easy... but the second half gets tricky. Especially because you're halfway through the sentence. And you can only go a few ways with XYZ!

I'll end with something Timothy Leary once said. It's a great thought and fits here, I think. It's used as a lyric in a song by Infected Mushroom.

"But they all do sort of the same thing, and that is rearrange what you thought was real, and... umm... they remind you of the beauty of pretty simple things.
You forget, because you're so busy going from A to Z that there's umm... twenty-four letters in between."

Damn, I love that part when the beats slip in at "letters in between" and then the words trail off. Really hits home.

Turn on, tune in, drop out.

"Does God Have A Future?" (12th November 2010)

2010-11-12T23:12:00.010+05:30

I've had a pretty interesting 12th of November. And I say this with any confidence only because I know how 12th of Novembers can be.
Relatively... uninteresting.

I woke up this morning and stumbled upon a TED talk by Michael Shermer. Michael is called a "debunker" because he spends his time investigating claims of UFO sightings and other supernatural phenomena. Like the grilled cheese sandwich of the virgin Mary that was sold for $28000 or you know, any faces or patterns people tend to see in otherwise uninteresting and dull things. He prefers to be referred to as a skeptic, and I suppose I agree, because all he's really doing is adopting a scientific and empirical method to approaching these miracles. He talks about 'strange' beliefs and how human beings have a tendency to look for patterns.
"The tendency to find meaningful patterns in both meaningful and non-meaningful noise."

It's an interesting talk and I am personally keen on any topics involving the principle of belief and factors that play into it... so my interest in this man was naturally piqued and I went to the website of the magazine Skeptic he started and came across this provocative title–
"Does God have a future?"

What made it particularly provocative to me was the fact that it involved a debate with Deepak Chopra! Now I don't know so much about Deepak, except that I won't read or encourage the reading (read: entertaining) of his material... but I do think he can provide a great perspective on the matters of spirituality or the new-age religion as one could call it, seeing as how he is such a highly revered man in the industry.

It started as a correspondence talk on CNN about afterlife, when Deepak decided to challenge Mr. Shermer to a debate in front of a live audience and I don't know about you, but this seemed like a terrific way to spend the rest of my afternoon. Here's a promo to the face-off: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8lKyD8V3E3M.
It's five and a half minutes long and should give you a good premise to the entire soirée.

The URL to the 12 videos, each around 9 minutes is here: http://www.youtube.com/user/AtheistMediaBlog#grid/user/EAAE2D3FFB6BCCA8.

The debate had two sides to it. Michael Shermer and Sam Harris (also TED talker) on the side of science and skepticism, and Deepak Chopra and Jean Houston on the side of spirituality and a deeper consciousness. It was being held at Caltech and was bound to be an engaging discussion, no matter which side of the fence you sit on. Or even if you're an on-the-fence sort of person.

Now on the face of it, I must admit, I didn't know what to expect. My ignorance on the ways and oratory skills of Mr. Chopra and my agnostic stance on the topic in general had me favouring Michael and Sam from the start, but not entirely dismissing the proposition of Chopra and Houston coming out on top. Shermer seemed pragmatic but as we get into the debate, I found myself disappointed at his argumentative skills and his unfortunate "cop-outs", as Deepak rightly judged them. I suppose it was for lack of a better term, but using "woo-woo" and "fuzzy language" as a means to describe your opponent's argument is not giving much credibility to your own.

Sam Harris, on the other hand was a delight.

Initially I was a little skeptical about Sam, even though I didn't know very much about him... because he seemed to have a smug demeanor and I didn't want some self-righteous, condescending chap defending the likes of a stance that is already laced with rows of self-righteousness and condescension. But then, I suppose those qualities are inherent to a debate where one is arguing the existence of a higher power and you are aiming to refute their claim.

Au contraire, Sam Harris was well-spoken, polite and prolific and managed to seam words beautifully to elucidate his cause. There were times his mocking was less subtle, but for the most part, he was clever and tactful and crisp and his background in philosophy and PhD in neuroscience held him in good stead all through the debate.

Besides talk of oxytocin and dopamine, locality and nonlocality, quantum mechanics and a few other unmentionables, a layman ought to be able to follow this debate pretty smoothly.

1. The side of science aims to increase the influence it has on our day-to-day lives, along with our worldview so that sooner than later, the need for a dependency like organised religion is diminished. This is not to say that they are against religion, but rather, asking merely to reduce it to its core nature and purpose - a support group and a self-help tool.

At least this is what I took from it.

2. The side of spirituality is urging science and well, the world, to join the quest for one-ness and infinite consciousness and although the word consciousness perplexes the smartest of minds, one can't help but empathise with the pursuit of an understanding and overall goodness... and see that aside from the misrepresentation of science in their "explanations", they are doing no harm.

So then what is the harm, really, of having people like Deepak Chopra roam the metaphysical/phorical streets amongst the hordes of people looking to find a deeper meaning?

The harm is that the process leading to it is lined with an arrogance, suspiciously disguised as humility and service to a greater power... and the product is analogous to the fundamentalism inscribed in the forces of terror the world so evidently despises.
Again, this is what I gathered.

To summarise the debate, and I urge you to read these paragraphs carefully:

The science guys are scrutinising the spirit guys' arguments so as to expose what we can all speculate to be the future of God and whether people will, not should, eventually stop believing.
While the spirit guys are more interested in asking the science guys to support their claims so that they can, during the moments of the debate and thereafter, create a new understanding of God and consciousness – with the help of science.

On the surface this seems noble and idealistic, but I believe it has deeper implications of conceited and absurd aims of putting the ridiculous weight of revolutionising the entire world of spirituality on their shoulders.

And whose shoulders are these? The venerable Deepak Chopra is worth 80 million dollars.
I'd like you to take a minute to understand the implications of his net value.

And Jean Houston! Boy, she is just a champion of misdirection and really, a pitiful character who didn't belong in an intelligent dialogue like this. Don't get me wrong, she's very sweet and definitely someone who can tell excellent and unparalleled bedtime stories... but I mean, she's the oldest person on the panel and the wisdom she has accrued through her 72 years of experiences is quite visibly infected. She spent more time relaying century-old quotes and telling magnificent tales from her life than actually contributing to the argument.
Why Deepak chose her as his accomplice is only a testament to his own intelligence.

I'm tired of people talking about this being the most crucial and intense and deepest time the world has ever seen. I'm tired of this banter about humans being the enemy of the Earth and the bane of evolution and the cause for the annihilation and proverbial apocalypse of the world.
And how we're in the most poetic of crossroads at this juncture of the universe – where we can either choose to save or destroy the planet.

This debate isn't an opportunity to entitle ourselves. This is a debate to critically evaluate the influence of God and organised religion and the patternicity humans tend to observe. And whether these forces will play a role in the future of humanity... and if not, how much longer will they survive?

Because let's face it, we're only talking about humanity here.
The other species are considerably less interested in the subject.

As Harris so eloquently put it,

"The God that our neighbours believe in, is essentially an invisible person. He is a creator deity, who created the universe to have a relationship with one species of primate. *smirks* Lucky us. *pauses* And he's got galaxy upon galaxy to attend to, but he's especially concerned with what we do, and he's especially concerned with what we do while naked."

Ridiculous. But very, very insightful.
I'd like to end this with an excerpt from a Deepak Chopra story. At one of these panel discussions, during the Q&A round, this lovely man who resembles George Lucas comes up to the mic.

Guy: "Deepak. You stated before that all belief is a cover-up for insecurity. Right?"
Deepak: "Mhmm."
Guy: "Do you believe that?"
Deepak: "Yes."
Guy: "Thank you."

Crisis In Faith (7th November 2010)

2010-11-07T23:04:00.006+05:30

Lately I've begun to understand better why it is I like to write. And more so, I've begun to understand why my words mean so much to me. With each letter, it's as though I've made a commitment. Then I play it over and over and over again in my head so that with each go over, I add some more meaning to the words I chose to use until by the end of it, what I have left is a piece of my soul captured in time by syntax and semantics.
I wrote this and I hate it already. And I think that's the point.

We are what we pretend to be. And if all it's about is pretense and conviction, I'd like a blindfold please.

Grimacing at my own words, my speech is wearing thin
I own no true confidence.

Spiralling towards an inevitable fate,
I know that doom and deference are matters of persuasion.

Convinced I need not convince myself any more,
I write in alliterations and I fail.

God, give me a weapon to fight this sloth
Give me a weapon to destroy myself so that perhaps I may respawn.

I hate being my own master
but I am unwilling to submit to you.

Oh cohesive contortionist
Oh rhetoric allusion
I know that this will end.
I know that this will end.

It is my crisis in faith.

An Open Letter To Indian Basketball (3rd November 2010)

2010-11-03T11:06:00.005+05:30

I came across an article the official NBA website in a peculiar fashion. I was merely trying to play a quick catch-up since the season has started and at the bottom there was a terrific picture of Jordan shooting over Starks with the caption - "Manwani: My Favourite Moment".

The name struck me as unusual for an NBA columnist and seeing as I grew up watching the Bulls in the 90s, I clicked to find that I was on the NBA India page and unfortunately, that didn't say very much to me at the start.

Understandably, since basketball coverage in India has always been bleak - even now. The last post-season (09-10) wasn't given any importance and only the Conference Finals onwards were shown with any sort of regularity. To think that eager NBA fans in India will wake up at unearthly hours to make time for a 2 and a half hour spot on ESPN and then remorsefully have to turn the TV off since it's playing baseball or figure skating or some other such rot is preposterous. I remember feeling particularly frustrated more than a few times this season and I don't see how it makes any sense. I don't mean any disrespect to any other sport but there really must be a reservation for NBA playoff games, enough for them to be aired live for those who care. And I am confident you will agree - there are other people in this country who care about basketball more than the frivolous banter they play at 5 in the morning.
If anything, live sport should be given preference to re-runs.

Aside from this, the portrayal (in movies like Kuch Kuch Hota Hai and that other Hrithik movie and more recently, the blackberry suits ad), of basketball as a sport is ridiculous. The voice over and ad production is another reason to cringe but that wouldn't be relevant to the topic.

I could go on, but I think you see my point about why I might have felt slightly forlorn at the sight of an NBA India blog page and wondered who might be writing and further perpetuating this ugly image of such a wonderful sport in India now.

And then I read this article.

Needless to say, (and not to sound hoity-toity) I was very impressed! Manwani seemed to be very knowledgeable about the game and more importantly, the energy and the spirit of it. I enjoyed reading it and turned my attention to the other pieces he contributed and he has gained a new fan! If this is anything to go by, the level of awareness of basketball is sure to rise and I find myself eager to participate in any way possible.

I used to play very often but I'm afraid I don't hold the same fortitude as I did before. I know for a fact that there is tremendous talent in this country and there ought to be a way to harness it into an actual force to reckon with, the force I know we have the potential to be. This email seems rather lengthy now and to be honest, I had only come here to say hello and express my support. Being a writer myself and a basketball aficionado, I guess I got carried away :)

If you've taken the time to read this far, I want to say thank you again and I'll be sure to follow your work (already following your blogspot) and I wish you luck with your column(s).

Cheers!

-Varun Mukerji (Pune, India)

Possibility World (23rd September 2010)

2010-09-20T21:02:00.009+05:30

If I were to put together all of my plans and ideas for what I want to do with my life, right from the tiny whims like putting up more posters in my room and organising my music and movie collection to the more intense ambitions like starting a company or making a movie or making a movie about starting a company, I'm certain the hypothetical life I would lead would be entirely too glamourous.
Indeed.

At different moments in my life, I have been consumed with the idea of being a Professional

Stand-up comedian
Spiritual leader
Actor/screenwriter/editor/director
Bass or harmonica or xylophone player or heck, front-man of a band
Tap dancer
Juggler
Stuntman
Rock climber
Base jumper/sky diver
Security guard at an ATM
Truck driver
Horse caretaker
Dog caretaker
Dog photographer
Masseur
Motivational speaker
Enhancing popularity trainer
Policy maker's assistant
Detective
Psychiatrist
World traveller
Social critic
Movie critic
Music critic
Any critic
Googler (basically using any internet search tool to find out or verify virtually anything)
Proofreader
Entrepreneur's go-to guy
Guy who makes names for companies/products/kids/pets
Owner of a great venue to live music and art showcasing/integrating
Movie and music producer
Copywriter
Writer.

Currently this is where the list stands. I think. In my head, at least. And sincerely speaking, I think it's down-up. Which is to suggest that the last few items on the list are what I am immediately (and for the better part of the next few years, intend to be) consumed with.

And if you look closely (if you haven't already)... the capital letters all fit together to form a word.

---

OK, I lie. But don't you hate it when people capitalise the first letter in a vertical list like that and don't make it a word? Imagine being a Professional List Maker So That The First Letter Of Each Item Is A Letter In The Word The List Ultimately Spells Out, Guy. I would probably love that.

I think my point is... that I have inadvertently led a very illustrious (and extremely unique) life of possibilities, all along the relatively less interesting 22 years of life reality has asked me to recognise. It's quite inspiring on the one hand... but a little disappointing most of the time.
So much paperwork in the process.

If there were a way to document and actually lead the many lives our imagination could conjure (not in a virtual reality sense) and make a living out of actually living, that would be a delight.

Possibility World.

Oh well. Just a thought. I suppose it isn't a possibility. Maybe the purpose of this was just to list down the different things I want to do before I die.
Besides being a father.

"Everyone thinks Possibility Girl is possibly a genius. Any day now, they continually agree, Possibility Girl will make it big. Become a star. ‘You won’t forget us when you're famous, will you?’ they always say, as Possibility Girl begins yet another amazing project.

The only person, who doesn’t believe in Possibility Girl's possible genius, is Possibility Girl herself. She thinks they're being too kind. She isn’t gifted at all. She’s a fake genius, bluffing her way through life. She is convinced the moment she tries to actually achieve her full potential, she will fail, fall flat on her face, and the people that once admired her from afar, will admire her no more. And so Possibility Girl never actually achieves anything. She just sits on the edge of her possible glory and basks in the adulation of her potential." - Andre Jordan

Sincerely,

Possibility Boy.

In the Land of Women (20th October 2009)

2010-09-05T20:36:00.004+05:30

I stumbled on an untitled document in one of my private folders. It gave me a fun glimpse into myself and I suppose it couldn't hurt to turn into a post.

-----

20^th October 2009

6:50 p.m.

Sitting in a three tier train complete with families and their excited and curious children – and somehow because I’m writing here, I feel like I’m at home. The music does manage to help too.

I watched (500) Days of Summer a few days ago. It’s great, definitely one of those films I’ll watch over and over again solely because it does a super job capturing two people and the course of their relationship. I related very well with Joseph Gordon Levitt’s character… and what usually happens when you draw a strong relation with a character in a movie, you begin to adjust your values and outlook based on the story he creates. I think I took more from the movie than I gave, if that makes any sense to you. I questioned love and careers and laziness and why I am so frustratingly inclined to women who make me crazy. You give me a girl with large eyes and a gorgeous smile she seldom uses and I am putty. It’s because I need very badly to know how to make her smile and better yet, keep that miracle on her face. Girls are special, they truly are. They show me their angry and hostile side, their spiteful and vulnerable side and I will keep coming back for more. I have learnt to love all sorts of women and understand their secrets. And now I don’t know if I want to take this document any further.

Just three steps to forget I ever wrote this:

Click on the red ‘x’ logo on the top left.

Click on ‘No’ for when it prompts me to save the unsaved.

Look out the window.

Dogs of Society (4th August 2010)

2010-08-04T19:10:00.000+05:30

I had to kill a dog today. And I didn't know his name.

It's a story filled with apathy and pathos... and even a touch of greed.

I was driving out to do some errands. I passed what I could tell was a body of a dog lying on the side of a road. I paused to feel sad and then I was going to go on with my day. But as I drove closer, I noticed that it was breathing. Heavily.

I pulled to the side and walked over to see that the dog was shivering rigorously, but was probably unconscious.
Almost dead, I thought. Somehow almost wasn't a peaceful way to part ways.

I made a few calls... quite a few of my friends are dog enthusiasts, and generally good people. Today, however, was unfortunate timing.
I had to do this alone.

I tried Blue Cross but the number wouldn't connect. I tried the SPCA but nobody answered. This was discouraging.

I called Dr. Sagar, one of the more reliable vets in the area but he didn't answer either. Vets are usually disappointing. I understand that they lead busy lives... and I suppose they're usually very helpful in any animal situation but I couldn't help but feel disillusioned at this point.

But my emotions didn't matter. This dog did.

Dr. Tulpule's clinic was open the last time Anuj and I saved a dog. I assumed he'd be open this time to kill one.

After signing my name in the visitor register of the society outside which this dog was lying, I got the reluctant security guards to help me put this poor guy in the back seat of my car, over a heap of newspapers I had just organised, thanks to Viraj.

Drove carefully to Tulpule, by myself... thinking about the possibility of actually rescuing this dog, and then wondering where I'd be able to take him and leave him so that he recovers. Thinking ahead is a practical concept... and it usually dissuades us from attempting to help. Even if we want to help, one can't or won't ignore the consequences of getting involved... and it is a very depressing truth.

Thank you Indian Authorities, for doing very little to make us feel safe and comfortable putting money into your mostly incompetent hands.

Tulpule said that this dog had distemper and needed to be put down immediately. Five minutes and a 100 rupee syringe later, his heart had stopped. Right there, in the back seat of my car.

I was instructed to drive down the road, and place the corpse near a big yellow garbage bin, so that the PMC would come and pick it up soon. I parked, and opened the door to start removing the body. It was considerably heavier than before, and now there weren't any reluctant security guards around to help. I asked some passerbys... but I guess this wasn't their idea of a good way to spend their evening.

There I was, standing outside my car at a bridge near a gutter, trying in vain to lift the body of this astonishingly heavy but limp dog. Lifelessness is detrimental to mobility, I concluded.

Finally, a fellow walked by me and said that for a hundred bucks, he'd help. I sighed... but accepted. We disposed of the body.
And then I drove home... errandless.

Stray dogs on the streets are logistically inconvenient. Don't get me wrong... they make for great companions as you're strolling over to the local supermarket etc... but dog-lovers or otherwise, you have to acknowledge this. It's a harsh reality.
Co-existence with dogs doesn't often come up in a neighbourhood's list of priorities.

Some dogs may lead happy lives, but most of them live in fear and don't get food very easily.
They're hit by cars or killed by disease. Those that survive get to play "sticks and stones" with your children.

They live to survive and want not love, but mercy.

I don't know a solution.

What I do know is that this happens too often and ordinary people with good intentions don't ordinarily step out of their way to do something. Heck, neither do I.
I've learnt to rationalise and dismiss. "This is nature... this is analogous to a deer being eaten by a lion."

Today I just happened to be in the mood to help... and happened to have the time to help.
It was a coincidence.

We can't rely on coincidences any longer. There needs to be a central and standardised approach to rehabilitating animals.
Stop buying dogs, we have enough on the streets!
Go visit the pound near the RTO... it'll melt your heart and then turn it to stone.
If you're someone who can help or know someone who would have been perfect for me to have called today, get the word out!
Advertise! Use your blogs and your tweets, your facebooks and your personal contact at the newspaper.

Do people care? Yes. They care. I've seen them care. Just make it easier for them to transform their concern into something tangible. Enable them. Enable me.

----
I had to kill a dog today. And I didn't know his name.

1 syringe of euthanasia juice: 100 rupees.
1 willing, albeit industrious man to help me with the corpse: 100 rupees.
Time taken to sign the visitor register: A minute more of suffering for the dog.

The cost of the lesson I learned today: Priceless.

No wait.

The life of this nameless dog.

----
There are some things money can't buy. And I'm pretty sure nobody really cares about them.

The Month of Juley (30th July 2010)

2010-07-30T14:45:00.002+05:30

I went to Ladakh. I left Pune on the 6th, took a train to Delhi, spent a couple of days in Gurgaon, took a bus to Manali, spent a few days there, took another bus to Leh, spent a few days there and then returned to Pune via Manali and Delhi on the 23rd.
It was beautiful.

Now for the unabridged version.

Its funny how travelling has transformed into what it is today. The experience is more or less the same but the communication has become very crucial.

So I went to Ladakh. It is sincerely amazing, especially in its aesthetics. I also liked Manali very much and definitely recommend it to anyone. My intention was to write down the details of my journey, like a log book, in the hope that something good and inspired would come of it. I'm happy to report that it indeed did spur some beautiful stuff. Ignore the rest of the rant.
You've been warned :)

Oh, and I should add: as an avid computer-user, ergo - typist, the act of physically writing with a pen in a book was an experience in itself. It's a brilliant tool to extract the raw stuff. I find that writing in boxes like this gives the unconvicted author plenty of opportunities to edit and some times (and you might agree) leads to over-produced content. That said, writing in a book is fresh and hardly gives you a chance to look at what you've written, let alone understand it. Or maybe I'm speaking for myself here, but I took full liberty to scribble incomprehensibly so that the reading later on turned more interesting.
And boy, it did!

---
6th July - Pune. 0300 hours.

All packed. This bag is awesome. I looked underneath to find a zipper that unfolds a large sheet of tarp that functions as an umbrella! So neat. Thanks, Anuj!

This trip is going to be LEGEND

6th July - Train. 1220 hours.

... ARY.

I found a theme
I think.
Through the lens
Capsules of red light filter the delicate notes
Into a complexion of astute Peachfulness.
Bass lines quiver and linger
And pulverize the naked moss into memory.

9th July - Manali. 2155 hours.

So I was in Delhi for a couple of days. That was fun and it gave me a chance to realize that in spite of being away from the city for 3 months, everything is as clear as yesterday. Or last week.

Moving on to Manali though. What-the-fuck? This place is gorgeous. You've got beautiful mountains and snow-covered peaks in the distance. Rapids and rocks, multicultural stuff, yaks!
And an unparalleled acceptance of hashish.

11th July - Keylong. 2355 hours.

Shitty place. If you're coming through here, you may as well go 20km further and stay at Jispa. Whatever, it's only a night; but the HPTDC (Himachal Pradesh Tourism Development Corporation) is definitely very disappointing.

The weather, however, is great - I love it. The trip from Manali so far has been eventful, to say the least. Picturesque as hell and all that, but because of some unforeseen circumstances to do with land and slides, Rohtang Pass was blocked and the lot of us were made to trek over 3kms up a mountain!

Exhausting stuff, even though the air is very clear here. This trek was an absolute highlight, not soon forgotten - especially since I was carrying the massive bag I mentioned in the beginning of this story. But I suppose it was fun and besides, I felt very healthy :)

The journey after has been troublesome because we've been stuffed into the wrong side of a smaller bus. I vehemently discourage you from doing the HPTDC gig.
Rent a car or best yet - an enfield!

15th July - Leh. 2025 hours.

I'm sitting at a cafe by myself. Just ordered a chocolate cinnamon croissant at one of the MANY German styled bakeries this place seems to be flooded with.

Leh has been superb, despite the lack of Confluencing. I'm sure the music would have made it fabulous, though :(

Highlights:

1. The people - amazingly friendly, for the most part. Especially our driver-friend, Namgyal, who felt offended when we paid him extra. That was until we assured him it was "khushi se".
2. The landscape - honestly, so beautiful it is annoying! You are constantly under pressure to be taking it all in... enjoying the breathtaking view of the mountains and the hills and the rivers and the terrain and the blah blah... Aargh!
But then you take a deep breath and revisit images of your city in your head and everything is peachy again.

I rented an Enfield today! Picked an old-school-gears-on-the-right, maroon coloured geriatric. Why? It seemed more authentic. Thunderbirds are a dime a dozen here although I'm not sure if I'm still happy with my decision.

Riding through the hills on NH 1D past all the empty scape and army stuff was sensational. Every corner I took with that wretched beast added to the overall stud feel.

Awesome day. Started by visiting the Ancient Palace and was guided by an exceptionally quiet and cute little ten year old to-be-monk whose name I cannot recall/pronounce.

This place is pretty incredible and rightly up there amongst the world's favourite spots but you have to take the initiative (also money) to get out and ride, raft and revel.

Ok, on to number 3.
Have you ever been asked to pick between the beach and the mountains, when asked about ideal holiday destinations?
Well, pick no more. We found what I can only describe as paradise.

Picture a wide river flowing through a valley.
Picture sitting at the soft beach, watching the river flow by.
Picture rocky hills all around, speckled by patches of green trees.
Now zoom out, and picture the mountains in the distance, all covered in snow.
All the while dipping your toes into PURPLE (what?) sand. Man.

This place was/is exquisite.

And we found it accidentally, like all good things.

Beyond the Alchi temples and frescos, there's a path that will take you there. Purple beach, soft sand, wild flowers, brown hills, snow peaks in the distance and ice-cold water flowing like an untamed body of Fucking A.

Phew.

P.S: Why does the power go out so often here?

The croissant was alright. I think the food is unremarkable, or remarkable in that way.

18th July - Manali. 1207 hours.

We rented an Innova back to Manali. (Highly recommended)
The journey was easily better than the way there and we got to stop at every place we felt like - including TangLang La Pass at midnight to take a picture! The cold was biting.

I learnt two words in Leh. "Juley" which is pretty popular and you're bound to pick it up. It means "hello" or "good day" because you can say it whenever. It's definitely a great way to feel like you're fitting in.

The other word is "Kathaks" which I'm not sure of the literal translation but my understanding of it is to describe the white snow and the glaciers and how essential water is to life. Kathaks is a traditional scarf given to people as a means to welcome them.

Mine was given to me by a Bhikku Sanghasena - the founder president of the Mahabodhi International Meditation Centre. Now before I go ahead, let me affirm that I mean no disrespect to this man or his faith or to anything for that matter. I really like and admire him and applaud his service to humanity. I am expressing my opinions and their background lies in my critical approach to things in general, especially spiritual and religious topics. *Peace*

So yes, Bhikku. He is a great, tall man who reeks of positive energy and careful speech. Smiled throughout the conversation.
And why wouldn't he? He had everything a man could want, I imagine. Besides the bare necessities, he lives in luxury, has the view of the Himalayas outside his window, gets to wear super comfortable clothes and robes, has people waiting on him hand and foot.

And best of all, his voice is recorded and revered by everyone.
The things he'd say are put up on walls like epigraphs of holy script.

He is a wise man. Like any other wise man. Except willingly bald and using the power of his spirit to channel and command people's work and energy towards his purpose. His purpose is agreeable. His methods... maybe so. But his position causes me to wonder how these things happen in today's world of instant disbelief.
The dichotomy is startling. Cynics and agnostics have no say here. It is accepted and understood as law - and because his purpose is agreeable, everyone's more or less happy.
Which is fucking beautiful.
So maybe asking questions or speculating isn't the point.
The end justifies? I can't say.

Most old men are wise. I mean, if they aren't, they're just ignorant. The men who leave scope for more learning, understanding and most importantly - doubt, are the wise ones.

Wise men are those that have the capacity to understand anything and the discipline to know that they don't.

It's a form of self-awareness, or another word they like to throw around in an almost unfortunate fashion - meditation.
It's the Jesus of our age.
"Meditation is your only path to salvation." Sound familiar?

What I would suggest is a milder approach - where we're not pulling the wool over their eyes. People need/want guidance and answers. There is definitely a market here.
But stay responsible, you know?

Perhaps this is as responsible as they can be. Perhaps a younger voice might help. Just to offer corroboration. Just to keep them on their toes. Any good Jesus should be kept on his toes; just like any good parent should act - as a boat.
To take their children across the stream as gently as they row.

Ambedkar, Osho, this guy, Krishnamurti, the Dalai Lama and the guy who started Scientology are all examples of Jesus in the modern world. Or Mohammed or Guru Nanak or what have you.

And it's scary to me as much as inspiring.

Do I want to be Jesus? I don't know really... but I sure as hell would love the overwhelming validation these guys are privy to.
Imagine the power, the exhilaration.

And when that gets tiring - you've still got it made!
A roof, regular meals... and comfy clothes.

Amen.

Weltanschauung (29th July 2010)

2010-07-29T16:15:00.002+05:30

I got tattooed yesterday. I put on my shorts, got into my car, picked up Jenaan and drove to Al's Tattoos 'n' Cappuccino, Carter Road, Bandra.

His name was Joe, from Thailand. He'd be my artist, I was told. Looked nice enough, wore a smile and had a killer tattoo on his neck. I got a good vibe from him.

My wrist is still a little swollen and it throbs when I leave my hand limp. Should take a while to heal I suppose. I've read that yellow isn't the best colour to use. But it wouldn't be the same without it, so I hope I manage to take care of it right. Maintenance is key.

I've been more or less neutral towards the topic of tattoos and sometimes even against, because of how nothing lasts etc. But more recently I started to recognize that there are things that I hold on to and I stopped seeing reason in discouraging the concept.
Besides, a tattoo also happens to be pretty darn cool.

---------

The design is very close to me, and comes from modest beginnings. Over 2 years ago now, I used MS Paint to place an infinity logo over a smiley face. I sat back and said "YES".

I tried to make it my own. A depiction of my values and my faith in integrity, in happiness.
A depiction of my way of being.

I've held it close for a while now and it has kept me going, along with the people I hold close - and enabled me to live free with any pain or negativity.
Like a reminder, that staying positive is worth it.
Hoping is worth it. Smiling is worth it.

The pursuit of happiness with an effort towards the perspective of infinity.

- The perspective of infinity here is to say there every point of view can hold value and that there is always another way to look at, or approach an idea.
- The white in the eyes to depict the vast, open space of everything and nothing all at once. Of possibility and scope. Of the universe in thought.
- The yellow face to express good and strong energy. Vibrancy.
- And the smile. To say that happiness is the best way to go.

The inifinty-eyed smiley helps me remember. This is my tattoo, my elegant anchor.
A display of my Weltanschauung.

And the smile isn't perfect. The edges are different.

A scar can get in the way of a smile... but not in the way of what it represents.

Yours indelibly,

Varun!

Disenthrall (30th May 2010)

2010-05-29T15:36:00.002+05:30

I'd like for you to watch this video and then immediately, the video after that. It's a total of 38 minutes that you won't get back but you'll be happier for it, I'm certain.

1.

2.

I've been thinking lately about where I'm headed and how I got here. I've been thinking about the people around me and their opinions, the stigma surrounding our choices and the fact that at 21, I probably don't know any better.

Through this conflict, I've tried hard to hold a few things close. Simple maxims like do what you love and believe in yourself and other classics have always made sense to the world so I don't see how different it needs to be in practice. Which is a milder phrase for 'in life'.

There are two types of people in this world. Those who divide the world into two types and those who do not.

He talks about disenthrallment. It's a big, beautiful, four-syllabled word to describe the process of liberation. In this context, with respect to every day concepts.

Try and examine the things that you take for granted. It's difficult, because you take them for granted. But if you make an effort, if you put some thought into your values and your understanding of the world and why you think things are the way they are, you may be able to free yourself from the bondage of established ideas. This sure helps to re-appreciate the human capacity and aptitude to do virtually anything.

The word 'but' is really starting to annoy me. I use it all the time, I admit. But what it stands for, what it represents is something I am beginning to disagree with. I showed those videos to my beautiful mother. She's a teacher. She laughed and smiled and nodded her head in unconditional concurrence and once we were done, uttered the sinful and oh-so-familiar 'but'.

Why? I happen to think his argument is sound and more accurately, complete.

"But..."

I'm sure you've heard it before and amidst the times you've gone "yeah, yeah I guess you're right" there has definitely been at least one solitary instance of that three lettered word striking a nerve, triggering a spot and causing a sense of discomfort and loathe-some displeasure everybody hates to be acquainted with.

You know, these are things we talk about and read about and watch in movies all the time. We agree with them, we are inspired by them, we read the Lance Armstrong books and then... and then... we go on with our lives. We endure our daily routine and wait for the weekend, as he put it. If there's someone you know who is sincerely or even remotely making an effort to deny this ungainly existence, I say either encourage him or step off. There is no middle ground.

I'm sure he appreciates the motivation with which you express your concern or disdain for his choices. But the more you force him to dwell on his circumstances, the higher the chance of him buckling under the pressure you and everyone else in the world regrets to create.

We are in a hurry to settle down. Imagine that.

A hurry to settle down.

Sir Ken Robinson is right, you know. This linearity is obsolete. We are no longer in the era of industrialism. Standardization has served its course. Destroy the conveyor belt. Art has room to breathe now. So do chartered accountants. Whatever floats your boat, man. We are in the age of agriculture, where everything and everyone is personal and truly enough, we're getting back to basics.

He says we need to prepare our children for the future. Thanks to our busy lives, the future is closer than we think.

He says we need to prepare for the World of the Organic.

And guess what?

It's T-60 seconds to take off.

Indiecision (22nd May 2010)

2010-05-22T14:55:00.001+05:30

If everyone is Indie, is anyone Indie? Assess the significance of the idea of independence within popular music.

Abstract: Are labels and names and classifications slowly losing their significance to give room to free flowing multidimensional and interdisciplinary art that only uses those labels for their own promotion and publicity? The trick is stigma. We are now convinced that it is cool to be unusual, off the beaten path and exclusive. Less known is alluring. Calling something indie is like tagging it 'hep' and that unfortunate consequence is a result of this revisiting of the 1960s we seem to be going through. Awareness and getting "in touch with ourselves" seems to be the theme of the decade that has gone by, right from Chicken Soup For The Soul to that movie Crash.

I read somewhere about how the artist experience seems to be making a come back. In the 60s and 70s, the music was personal. People knew about the artists and their lives were a big part of the world. The late 70s disco and all through the 80s up until the late 90s showed us how it was about the music more than the people that made it. We were thinking about AIDS and the Berlin wall and liberalization and MC Hammer's can't touch this. We didn't care about MC Hammer. Or Salt n Peppa even though we DID want to talk about sex. We had mullets and watched Lethal Weapon and got career oriented. Computers and Chris Gardner.

Since 2000, we are now very interested in the music we buy. When I say buy, I mean invest our attention in. It's 2010 now and twitter acts as a way for our celebrities to give us a glimpse of who they really are. Following someone on twitter and seeing what they write about (read: John Mayer) makes you feel like it's your facebook home page and Mr. Mayer is just another friend talking about his last trip to the doctor and everything is getting personal again. If we like and understand the artist, his music is definitely something we're going to put on our iPods and in our cars. And then there's another side to it. Like the Gorillaz. Hiding behind those animated characters makes us curious.

But then the music better be darn good if you're going to pull that off.

Anyway, my point is... I think you might want to explore indie as a cultural shift more than a genre. Is there really a distinction between indie and popular music?

Or maybe indie is a means to describe music made by artists who really are about the music more than the sales and the propaganda. Which translates loosely to everyone who doesn't work with Timbaland. I mean, the ones that do are still out to have fun but maybe the indie scene is more about the art-form than Sunset Boulevard.

Sometimes the two mix... but not as often as when indie music crosses into popular territory.

Salvation - Citizen Cope (21st May 2010)

2010-05-22T00:27:00.002+05:30

If there's one song that has never failed to get me to cringe my eyebrows, nod my head from side to side and use my unfortunately un-melodic voice to sing almost as though all the pain and anguish in the world has finally been understood and accepted by one solitary soul, it's this.

"Since I was the age to speak, Haven't you been listening? Salvation. I'm calling. Salvation"

It is heavy, it is poignant, it is moving. It is everything music is supposed to be. Each chord and each painstaking syllable used by Clarence Greenwood's beautifully unique voice manages to stir and shake everything inside me.

"I'm downstairs on the Motorola. You know, I got 3 golden bullets and I'm shooting for your soul. Salvation. I'm calling. Salvation"

You don't need to understand it. You just know it's there.

Like the blonde-headed kid with a left handed guitar.

"His first shot grazed my eye

I lost half of my sight and my first born's life

Yeah, the second shot knocked off my guitar moon

And it made my guitar kind of play out of tune

But I just kept strumming like I had nothing to lose

He turned the third on himself

'Cause the bastard knew.

Salvation. I'm calling. Salvation"

Put the gun down. Put the gun down. Put the gun down. Put the gun down.

Dog Days Are Over (15th May 2010)

2010-05-15T18:12:00.001+05:30

I love how my dog pretends to ignore it when I take his bowl into the kitchen to fix him his lunch.

He just sits and looks at me from the corner of his eye (and then immediately looks away if he can tell that I am watching him) as if to suggest that he is oblivious to what's going on. Then, as I mash up his food into the required consistency, he looks at me big-eyed and waits for me to bring his bowl back to its home.

I think he does it because he thinks each meal is even more exciting if it's a surprise. He's all about the happy, this dog. If he had it his way, nobody would ever go away and every door would always be open. But all he really wants is for someone to be around and occasionally give life to his worn out toys.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iWOyfLBYtuU&feature=fvst

Where Has My Coffee Been? (15th May 2010)

2010-05-05T18:04:00.000+05:30

It's happening again. Time has lost its essence. The days are merging.

I was afraid of this. One minute you're sitting back watching reruns of popular sitcoms and the next minute... you're face down on the mattress while those popular sitcoms continue to play out their despicably fabulous existence. But wait, it isn't Tuesday any more. It's... WEDNESDAY.

How did I spend the last 24 hours?

WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE?

No need to panic. Ok. Regroup.

Day 7 of Isolation.

The past week has been a blur. The past hour is no different. I watch television with my glasses off so that when I fall asleep, the chances of me breaking them are exponentially reduced.

Things of significance: Iron Man 2, Party at Lonavala, Subway Visits. And sleep. But that's for my subconscious to decide.

Fast forward to Day 14.

I was unusually on edge today. But that was this morning.

A few more days of this imposed solitude and then back to regular-willingly-brought-upon solitude. I feel excessively comfortable lying on the cold floor with my eyes open.

The drive back from Bombay was an introspective one. (Couldn't be helped; my passengers were asleep!) "No need to get excited" the way Jimi Hendrix sings it, played over and over in my head. I need to write. So many ideas, so little time is usually the justification I give myself. But who am I kidding. I am fighting with my mind about whether sloth is actually a marketable quality.

I am the Steve Jobs of sloth. I need to get to know the things I know. I need to get coffee.

Can I Pet Your Wolverine? (21st April 2010)

2010-04-25T16:00:00.000+05:30

(wrote this on the bus to bombay a few days ago. gotta love the blackberry)

Hello and welcome to the show. My glasses are off and I find all sorts of clarity in the blur. The guitar solo in freebird is on and playing in full volume in my head. Boofuckingya.

What is it that you want? Ok sorry, I don't mean to pressure you. What you want is personal. Purse Anal. Ok.

So the visuals in this country are amazing. Without a doubt. We have hills and shit, goddamnit. I don't know other countries well enough, though. I ought to.

I'd be lying if I didn't say money is posing itself troublesome. Why can't I hang for a bit?

What does it take to get a drink in this place?

Musicians and film makers are doing it right. Bill Hicks was too. Peace and love, y'all. P and L. RnR too. Respect and representation.

Hey-ee-ayyy. There's something very magical about the subconscious. Heck, I don't want to call it the subconscious. Why can't it be undefined? Like God and piousness. Or the length of your penis.

There's a tipping point somewhere in your mind and I feel like I'm tipping all over the place. It either means I'm doing something right or completely and utterly wrong. But then Superfast Jellyfish by the Gorillaz comes on and it re-affirms my belief in transitive meaning. All hail King Neptune and his water breathers. Don't waste time with your net, our net worth is set.
Gotta have it.

Gulp (15th March 2010)

2010-03-22T15:52:00.001+05:30

He sits and he stares and he stares and he sits
How much longer?

He looks out the window and the sky is seeping in
How much longer?

There she is, the woman he’s been waiting for.
All of a sudden, she’s here.

Stand up, he asked. His legs wouldn’t listen.
His legs just wouldn’t fucking listen.

Speak up, he thought and his mouth stayed shut.
His mouth just stayed fucking shut.

What’s the point, he settled, as he looked back out the window.
I’ll do this tomorrow, I will, I know it. It will be done.
Just another day now.

He sits and he stares and he stares and he sits.

Then all of a sudden, they’re here.

His foot starts to kick, his legs spring up.
He advances.

His fist is clenched, his hands are swaying.
He comes to a halt.

His eyes are fixed, his stare is certain.
He’s certain. He is certain. Gulp.

He takes a quick look around and sees the office, lying dead in its eternity.
Of course, he thinks to himself. He needed out.

He smiles at her and says
“I’d like to carry on with my life now, thanks.
Which is to say… I quit.”

Fools Rush In (11th March 2010)

2010-03-22T15:41:00.006+05:30

“All I’m looking for really, is someone I can have a conversation with… someone I enjoy being intimate with, someone who you know, looks at life similarly… I mean – it’s just a ride. I want a co-pilot.”

May not sound poetic but hey, this is it, isn’t it?
Brass tacks. With time, however, and experiences, views tend to change. Modify.

“That portrayal of love you see in books and movies isn’t real. Or even if it is, it’s a rare thing. We need to be more realistic.”

-----

Fuck you. Here’s some realism – that shit IS real. It happens all the time. The experience that you had that made you think otherwise should not bog you down. And how dare you try and ruin it for others? Fuck you.

You want it, you can have it. Life will smite you and taint you, but if you’re going to be weak about it, please for the sake of love, don’t sodomize the rest of the folk.
Give them a chance to know better.

I won’t stop believing. Love and peace are not and will not be out of my reach.

The point of being idealistic is to stay idealistic. If you don’t, then you aren’t being very idealistic, are you?

We’ll be real soon, if not now.

Cheers.

MHC (1st March 2010)

2010-03-02T17:56:00.004+05:30

He looks down at his plate, and looks back up at her.

This can’t work. This won’t work.
He stares at it again. The words “strawberry flavoured yoghurt” stare back at him from a little piece of paper.
This can’t work. This won’t work.

“All you need to do is look her in the eye and say the words. That’s all there is to it. I’m telling you man, you could totally use this.” Jerry wasn’t usually someone he could trust. Shifty fellow, not much for real work. It’s always been side jobs for him.

“Man, I have this sweet set up at the McDonald’s near Garden Street. Starts at 4 so that gives me plenty of time to recover. I’m done by 11 and this girl there, Mindy. She is FIT. The things I would do to her… I haven’t really spoken to her yet, but there’s this party coming up at Dave’s…” he drones on. I don’t know how he does it. It’s been 6 years now and life just isn’t the same for me.

How does he do it? I’m better off. Right? But you have to hand it to him, he sure sounds like he’s having a good time. Maybe straight shooting isn’t the point.

This is shit. I’m actually considering it. “Here, the fries are on me. Do it man, really. You may as well make this trip of yours exciting. Heck, it should be the only reason you go if you ask me. Not your gay conference…” He glances up. “Alright, ok ok I have to go… she’s looking this way. I think I’m going to ask her.” And he’s off. Off to his life. We used to be so similar, him and I. Weren't we?

I guess it depends on the context. I look down at my plate. One last fry. Heh.

I look up at her again. She’s gorgeous. I could do without the make-up, though. I guess they need it on to make them more ‘aesthetic’. Who decides what’s aesthetically superior then? She doesn’t need it. You know, looking a bit natural doesn’t hurt anyone. Whatever, she’s still stunning. I’m going to do it. I’m going to ask her. Ok, here comes my hand… higher… higher… THERE!

It’s visible and it means that I am asking for her to bring herself to me. She sees me. Great. Smile, Bob, smile. Fuck! That fucking steward sees me too! C’mon sweetheart, beat him to me. You can do it. You have great calves. Alright focus, focus. There, she’s here. Now what was I going to say again? Oh yeah.

“Umm… Excuse me, miss, but do you happen to have any strawberry yoghurt?”

I look at her knowingly, yet unsure. She stares right back, but with a puzzled expression. She opens her mouth to say something. The pause is stark. The anticipation is real.
Her eyebrows point as if to say, “Are you sure you’re in the right place, pal?” but the words that come out are “Certainly, sir” and she walks off, exposing her criminal behind tightly wrapped by that cloth she calls a skirt.

This is what the industry’s about, I tell myself. It’s tainted. A moment, and she’s back, handing me what looks like… YES! IT’S FUCKING STRAWBERRY YOGHURT! I knew it! I knew it was too good to be true. Jerry is such a bastard, I knew he was full of it.

Oh, what good is that now. “Thanks, dear.” Shit, why’d I say dear… I just called her DEAR? Brilliant. Just eat your fucking yoghurt, Bob. Scoop up that spineless rubbish. Yeah, I mean YOU.

I take the crummy little piece of paper filled with so much hope and I grin to myself. I knew this wouldn’t work. Ha. Wait a minute. Why the fuck am I so smug about this? This is just great, Bob. Now you have another unwritten story. Another fucking waste of space in your shitty memory. What good are you?

They’re telling me I’m going to be Vice President of Sales in the entire North Zone next year. That’s how good I am.
Wait, aren’t you selling magazine subscriptions? Haven’t you been doing that for 6 years now? Oh yeah, I forgot, you started out SMALLER. You’re a big man, aren’t you, Bob. You have a charming condominium in the South. You have wonderfully quaint furniture that accentuates your Moon sign. You must get laid a lo… oh yeah, that’s right. You DON’T. Why is it so important?? Maybe not, if it were something you would do maybe once in a YEAR. But not you, nooooo. You are too good for that. You want her to be smart, and funny, and cute and have dark, medium length hair and dimples when she smiles and someone you could go to the park with. She should own a German Shepherd, which means she’s warm but still a good task master. Right? An efficient, sensitive woman will make a great life partner, won’t she? Fuck you, Bob. I don’t know why I got stuck with you. I want out.

GET OUT THEN! AAAARGH! I didn’t choose this, Bob. You did. It’s your pathetic ride I’m a part of. Not the other way around. You’re lucky to have me. You’re just a voice in my head. I probably have loads more. But you PICKED me, don’t you get it? Like when you pick a car, or a colour, or a sofa, or that embarrassing litchi flavoured gelato you always do. Hold yourself responsible, kid. For once.

That’s it! THAT’S IT! There you go. No no, that’s IT! He waves a little piece of paper as his neighbour wakes up to the strange animation. “Flavoured! I didn’t say flavoured!” He shoots his hand right up, this time with more vigour and confidence than he has ever shown in the past six years. The blood rushing through his veins, his head, his phallic limb gesturing to the woman to come. And she does. Right fucking away.

“Strawberry flavoured yoghurt please.” She smiles. Her lips widen and it’s as though her teeth sparkle. No kidding. Right, this is it. What next? Let’s let her guide me, then. I saw the way she was pointing at the emergency exits. She knows her stuff. Yeah.

Wow, this is going to be excellent. Her eyes point to the toilet. She says it again, except this time the words have so many fucking awesome connotations. “Certainly, sir.” Certainly fucking A.

I’m doing this. I jump out of my seat, and stroll towards the bathroom. Like a Bee Gee, I walk by all the suckers listening to their iPods and reading their lifestyle magazines.

Haha, ironic. Lifestyle magazines.

Well, they ARE the windows to the world.
Ok, no shop talk. This is going to be off the hook.

ENOUGH! Get out if you’re going to be lippy. But stay, if you’re finally ENJOYING THE RIDE, BITCH. Hah. Look at me now. Take a look at me now. This is going to HAPPEN. The sign says vacant. I have to keep it that way, Jerry said.

Alright. Vacant it is.

I check my hair in the mirror. The twirl is just right. This is perfect.

*Click.* She walks in. Smiles. Wow, what a smile. What a woman.

She sits me down. “You’re new”, she grins.

“I know.”

The End.

(tasteful song here) (depending on taste, of course)

(I'm thinking If She Wants Me)

Backwords (27th February 2010)

2010-02-27T00:44:00.000+05:30

-Hi Atus, we seem to be running into each other often enough. How are you?
(long pause)
-Yeah, that’s right. You’re all about the pauses. Never mind then. Let’s get on with this.

We’re four months in now, even though it feels like much longer since I was cast away. Self imposition.

I’m sitting in the lobby of a fancy hotel working on a primitive laptop. Got my glasses on. Getting my groove on. Now where are the single malts and single ladies?

Who am I kidding. I need to regroup.
Boys, you’ve got your work cut out for you. Do you think you can manage?

Of course I can. There’s lots to do but they’re only just pedantic tasks. No real brainwork. What a pain.

People think this is a really big deal. I can’t seem to compute. It’s supposed to be a fun-filled EVENT. The word ‘Games’ is in it!
“Come out and play”, all sorts of sport, 70 countries, a big bonanza.
But no, involve the Man and bunches of Ministries and get everyone to hold their breath. Taking things seriously is everyone’s favourite game.
“This is the largest sporting event, second only to the Olympics”, and we’re bringing together countries originally brought together by colonialism. Right.

The eye of the storm is blind to me.

Here I am, taking each day as it comes, looking forward to the night and ensuring that there’s always good things in store the next day. It’s a survival tactic.
I’m in a big, unfamiliar city that is unfamiliarly becoming familiar to me.
Where am I? is a superb question to wake up to. Especially whilst driving by myself.

My constants of music, thought and energy assist in confusing me. Can’t help it.
This shit is bananas.

“You know it’s time that we grow old and do some shit”
- Broken Social Scene
(Listen to the version in the Bee Hives album. It's great. Plays in an awesome movie called Half Nelson)
-------
There is a space at work that is affectionately referred to as “The Stairs” where my associates and I indulge in some flippant conversation about whose boss said what to which underling and so on. We also turn our attention to nicotine and caffeine. Fun.

I was at The Stairs the other day with my wonderfully wonderful new-to-the-workplace Director. He’s a 60 year old man who has spent most of his life smiling politely in the hotel industry and is fluent in at least seven languages. Props. I don’t really think much of him in a professional light. I mean, I’m just looking to do my job and go home afterwards and I’d prefer it if there were a smaller number of people (that matter) having an opinion about my work. In any case, nice chap. Warm voice and his french is impeccable. He is also additionally charming because of his slightly awry sense of humour. It’s eccentric.

So we’re at The Stairs and he offers me a cigarette. I decline and so does my accomplice. We’re just giving him company, really. “You’re a good girl”, he concludes, directing his stare at my friend. And after a long enough pause, he adds-
“And I’m a bad boy.”

Warms my heart, it does. He talks about being consistently smokey since he was 12. Proud of it, he sparks off my desire to estimate how many cancersticks that actually amounts to. Over 350,000 which also translates to 700,000 rupees (considering the average price per cigarette, which, is obviously his information.) and before I finished playing with these numbers, he starts what seems like a completely disconnected story. Part of the ‘eccentricity I admire’, I dismiss – but Nay! “There was this American…” (here, you may note that he pauses to look into your soul, just to check if you’re paying attention, almost 5 times per sentence. His moustache covering his pout only makes the man cuter.) “standing near a car, smoking a cigarette. A sardar, like you (that’s me), asks him how long he’s been smoking and quickly works out the figures and says – ‘if you would have kicked this nasty habit of yours, you could have actually owned this car and the building you stand in front of!’ The American deftly responds, ‘This IS my car and that IS my building.’ The End.” He grins. I have absolutely no idea why. It’s marvellous.

Anecdote No. 2:
I was driving to the office this evening. To meet a colleague after her work hours so that we could have a drink and maybe do some shopping. On my way, the music reminds me of friends and times back home and so the calling begins. Whipping the phone out, I dial a good buddy and I laugh away as I drive into a major road. Hark! Police! The fellow gestures for me to stop. My first reaction is to wave my hand apologetically and decide whether I’m going to be driving away or stopping up ahead. I see him mount a motorcycle so I figure I’ll leave the exciting, high speed chase for another day.

I put on my sorry face and plead and show him all sorts of identification cards until he’s sore. He decides to let me off with a warning, which in his terms implies a smaller fine for a smaller crime. A crime I did not commit but it’s a mutual compromise that we’re happy to live with. He tells me the fine is a 100 and I’m alright with it. I open my smallet (small+wallet = new concept, great one at that) to discover that the beverage buying this afternoon left me with all of forty rupees. Damn, this could get complicated, I muse as he goes over to note down my registration. I’m going to have to go to an ATM and I don’t know how that’s going to fly with our crusader-man.
But wait! Over the past few months I’m sure I’ve made quite a collection with the spare change I accumulate now and again… and I dive into my dashboard tray to find all the thick coins I can. Two minutes and sixty rupees in circular stainless steel/ cupronickel later, I hand over my pittance and I’m free; free to do all the important things I told him I had set out to do which formed the basis of the illegal phone conversation I was having in the first place. (fib)

One important man to another, that’s how we do it, innit? :D

So yeah. Life in the capital is pretty sweet. I’m just not always in the mood, you know?
And this inability to teleport is something I think I’m never going to get over. I feel as though I’m regressing on so many levels as I move forward on the other ones.
Is that possible? What about that “once you learn to ride a bike” expression? I’m concerned that my writing is becoming more primitive and less coherent. Backwords.
Where’s the glue? I need to regroup.

One thing’s for sure – people here may be more legit, but they haven't broken any mould.

B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

Tonight is SO Last Night. (13th January 2010)

2010-01-13T11:10:00.001+05:30

Over a month since my last post, I need to be a little more regular with this. It is the way forward.

What is not forward, however, is the recent re-scheduling of The Tonight Show and poor Mr. O'Brien has indeed been treated unfairly. I happened to really enjoy his show and found his delivery and over-all fun quotient to be superior to Jay Leno. (No disrespect to Mr. Leno, but one does tend to make comparisons, especially in this line of work, especially when one major television icon gets succeeded by another.)

Conan O'Brien is clever, tasteful and astonishingly tall. I remember when he did an episode with Snoop Dee Oh Double Jee, I found myself wondering if our dear dizzle wasn't as vertically impressive as I had initially thought. But it's been Conan all the way and I wish him the best for what ever he wants to do with himself, and his wonderful crew. The words "In the Year 3000" will forever ring in my heart.

This is his letter to the People of Earth:

In the last few days, I've been getting a lot of sympathy calls, and I want to start by making it clear that no one should waste a second feeling sorry for me. For 17 years, I've been getting paid to do what I love most and, in a world with real problems, I've been absurdly lucky. That said, I've been suddenly put in a very public predicament and my bosses are demanding an immediate decision.

Six years ago, I signed a contract with NBC to take over The Tonight Show in June of 2009. Like a lot of us, I grew up watching Johnny Carson every night and the chance to one day sit in that chair has meant everything to me. I worked long and hard to get that opportunity, passed up far more lucrative offers, and since 2004 I have spent literally hundreds of hours thinking of ways to extend the franchise long into the future. It was my mistaken belief that, like my predecessor, I would have the benefit of some time and, just as important, some degree of ratings support from the prime-time schedule. Building a lasting audience at 11:30 is impossible without both.

But sadly, we were never given that chance. After only seven months, with my Tonight Show in its infancy, NBC has decided to react to their terrible difficulties in prime-time by making a change in their long-established late night schedule.

Last Thursday, NBC executives told me they intended to move the Tonight Show to 12:05 to accommodate the Jay Leno Show at 11:35. For 60 years the Tonight Show has aired immediately following the late local news. I sincerely believe that delaying the Tonight Show into the next day to accommodate another comedy program will seriously damage what I consider to be the greatest franchise in the history of broadcasting. The Tonight Show at 12:05 simply isn't the Tonight Show. Also, if I accept this move I will be knocking the Late Night show, which I inherited from David Letterman and passed on to Jimmy Fallon, out of its long-held time slot. That would hurt the other NBC franchise that I love, and it would be unfair to Jimmy.

So it has come to this: I cannot express in words how much I enjoy hosting this program and what an enormous personal disappointment it is for me to consider losing it. My staff and I have worked unbelievably hard and we are very proud of our contribution to the legacy of The Tonight Show. But I cannot participate in what I honestly believe is its destruction. Some people will make the argument that with DVRs and the Internet a time slot doesn't matter. But with the Tonight Show, I believe nothing could matter more.

There has been speculation about my going to another network but, to set the record straight, I currently have no other offer and honestly have no idea what happens next. My hope is that NBC and I can resolve this quickly so that my staff, crew, and I can do a show we can be proud of, for a company that values our work.

Have a great day and, for the record, I am truly sorry about my hair; it's always been that way.

Yours,

Conan

The Fix (2nd March 2008)

2009-12-13T12:57:00.006+05:30

This is a song I wrote a long time ago about the first girl I ever loved and the break-up we endured. I suppose it can be said that I got the short end of the stick... but in retrospect, I think I learnt a lot about love and loss that year, and all of it is priceless to me now. Everyone goes through heartbreak... this was my rendition of the hope I felt in reconciliation and I guess now I feel okay to share it, since so much time has passed and so much comfort and closure has been achieved. I think the title is inspired by a book I was reading at the time, A Million Little Pieces by James Frey. Go get your fix.
San, if you're reading... I hope you enjoy it :)

THE FIX

It’s as though we met on a sunny day
Picture perfect in every way.
And while it was all thick and thin,
And as we sipped on our juice and gin,
A timeless world we drifted in.
Things would move from stop to spin,
From high spirits to pantyhose,
From eyes to ears to lips to nose,
First times and many times and all the time we’d be
And everyone would know us - Sanaya and me.

From moments filled with love more than lust,
For all of it to turn to dust,
Or dissipate or transform or just plain go,
What we felt, did we even know?
All I’m saying is – you should’ve said so.
There were times I’d still see it in your eyes,
Other times I’d hope or even despise;
I looked at you the same and songs would know it,
Films would scream it and my face would show it.
Melancholy, despair, agony and pain,
I still love you San, if it’s all the same.

Chorus:
And that’s what keeps me fixed
All the stones and the sticks
Don’t seem to turn me away.
And every time it moved
Hot and cold it ensued
Still didn’t turn me away.

I don’t know how
To look at you now
And all the while
I fake a smile
And stop to pretend and pretend to stop
Through so many games I hip and hop.
Until finally I conclude through logic and reason
To love you still is pretty much treason.
But then it hits me hard and fast
I find myself caught in the past
Back to that warm sunny day
Picture perfect in every way.

Chorus:
And that’s what keeps me fixed
All the stones and the sticks
Don’t seem to turn me away.
And every time it moved
Hot and cold it ensued
Still doesn’t turn me away.

I don’t know why it grew to be this way,
Life has no purpose I’d always say,
Except to create one and when I had you
It seemed so easy, so pure and true.
If you’re out there, and listening alone,
I want you to know you can come back home.
I’d greet you reluctantly with open arms,
We’d drive by sea, and country farms,
I’d hold you close and kiss your shoulder;
Every minute I’d grow stronger and bolder.
Grab your waist and bring you near,
Press my lips upon your ear,
“I love you so much”, I hope you know;
Then I’d wake up and let you go.

Don't Stop Believing (3rd December 2009)

2009-12-03T17:11:00.001+05:30

You're at a live gig or a concert. You're at a recital or perhaps a movie hall. *Poof* Out with the camera phones.
These technological marvels flaunt high resolution cameras that double as music players with in-built internet browsers. Gadgets of the future.
Oh yeah, and they make calls too. Pfft.

This is a good question: Why is it important to Mr. X to record this event on his cellular phone, a video he is in all probability not going to use afterwards?
His logic: He may use it - he may want to play it again to re-live the experience, he may want to send it to his friends and finally, he might even put it up on the God of all video sharing sites - YouTube.
These are representations of the endless possibilities he is unfolding by whipping out his little toy and holding it up with his hopefully-not-so-smelly arms.

The answer does not lie in the Why but instead the Why Not?
At least this is what I think. Feel free to create new reasons, I don't mean to douse the fire.

Maybe we're supposed to ask a different question. Maybe a better question is "When did there rise a need to document nearly everything that is remotely remarkable or unusual?"
I think the justification here is something that is actually pretty progressive. I mean, c'mon - there has to be an upside.

And this is it - we are becoming a friendlier race, intent on including every Tom, Dick and Harriet into our lives so that the story we tell is
1) more relatable and
2) legitimate.
When I say "story we tell", I mean it existentially.

I'm sure we can come up with more reasons here but the point I'm trying to make is that society is tending towards finding more comfort in sharing and even though that's always been the case, (neanderthals went apeshit on their cave walls back in the day) these technological advances are enabling us to get closer and feel more familial. Communication is the heart of any relationship and if it takes a silly video of a dog walking on two legs to bring a Muslim guy and a Hindu dude to watch and laugh together, by all means!

Ok, all of a sudden my idealism is turning into sappy-soppy stuff. Shit, make that shit. (sounds more masculine AHEM)

So yes, back to what I was trying to communicate.
I think facebook, Twitter, YouTube, and all the forms Google chooses to present itself in are stepping stones toward a community of one and hopefully (stress on hopefully) there'll be some intellectual growth and progress in the mix. (I heart Wikipedia)
Because I'll be the first to say that more people need to start articulating their thoughts and expressing them in any medium.
Be it film, music or literature.
No fucking way is sitting around watching that same dog do hula hoops the answer, you know?

Damn. I have this frustrating love-hate relationship with rambling. I can't help myself. Think of it as ego-food.
If you've come this far, you will be heavily rewarded because I'm about ready to conclude.

Any time now.

Facebook photo albums and videos, Twitter tweets and retweets are brilliant. I seldom use MySpace but hey, that's cool too. Power to the people.
But those darn applications and silly fucking pirate-vampire games (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S7MuwPlOiNQ) and also, I just have to put this in here - the whole "Like" option are things that are holding us back, man.

Why am I hating on "Like"? I'll be happy to tell you. Its ok for people like you and me. Heck, it saves time and its a quick and easy way to appreciate something. But honestly, all it's really doing is enabling and perpetuating the lifestyle of folks who can't come up with their own things to say in the first place.
Ooh and toggle case. Let's not get started.

*takes a few breaths*
Seeing is believing, I think I understand now. Because believing is a process that needs to be facilitated and seeing is a big leg up.

When I was a kid I felt like maybe the whole 195 countries in the world thing was a hoax and for all I knew, India was it. The rest of the planet was a clever ruse devised by the powers that be for reasons only known to them. I wasn't buying it. I haven't seen any other country. Yeah, there are pictures and I've watched things on the television too, but that's the funny thing about reality isn't it?

I know now that this "world" thing is real and I am not the mark in a large, large confidence trick and The Truman Show really helped push that idea out of my head but I still can't help but feel like I need to see things for them to be established. And vice versa.

For example, I'm here in Delhi now and my wonderful mother is at home, in Pune, sitting in her room and reading a book. Why am I in Delhi? Well let's not get into tha.. a job, I'm here to work. But my mum doesn't really know that I'm here except for the fact that I left her at the station getting onto a train leaving for Delhi.
Yes, I changed my phone number and Yes for a number of other things but really, the rest is an assumption. What if I planned my escape and what if I'm living in another city or the same city even and keeping it from her?
An elaborate lie, I know and completely unnecessary too. But it's possible, right? Of course it is.

No, Mom I'm not still in Pune... this is just a hypothesis. Mom. Maw-om. MOM! Could you just let me finish, PLEASE?
Phew.

Does anybody else out there think like this? Some times? Once in a way?
I cannot be alone here.

Alright. I'm done. This has been fun. Just a recap:
1. Wear deodorant, especially if you have a camera phone.
2. Keep YouTubing, facebooking and Twittering. It's healthy.
3. Smile.
4. Repeat.

I Never Metaphor I Didn't Like (2nd December 2009)

2009-12-02T17:25:00.001+05:30

I see metaphors everywhere. If only there were a way to document the ones that make a heck of a lot of sense so we can use them for further application and allow them to spread into the culture of today's world. I mean, why is it that it is so difficult and tedious to infiltrate the dictionary and books of phrases nowadays? Everyone's become so much smarter and creation is such a regular event now, people ought to have a way or a forum to put their shit out there in a way that makes it official, you know?

I say if you have something note or quote worthy to share, the world needs to give you credit for it. There's always so much fuss over who came up with what and all that jazz. Wait, let me stop here. Who came up with "all that jazz"? I'm going to look it up. Hold on.
---
Ok so it's inconclusive. I did some light research (I say "light" because I only looked at the first couple of hits I could find and there are numerous "theories" and most are plausible. I gave up soon after, since I decided this digression has lost its point.)
OR HAS IT?

I am a compulsive looker-upper. A pretty girl not long ago started calling me "GoSee" as a result of all my endeavours for truth, or something like it. And I'm sure there are more people out there like me... Some not as twisted, but most with the same intentions.
And curiosity.

And with this train of thought, I submit to you a metaphor I thunk up earlier this week - "The Theatre Seat Compromise"

This is an analogy for that wonderful disequilibrium in a movie hall or any theatre where your hand is usually allowed only one arm to rest on. Why? Because the other arm is occupied by another gentleman or (gentle) lady's hand and this phenomenon exists across the entire row. It's a perfect example of a compromise that is conducive for all parties to accept it as fair and favourable.
Win-win? I'd like to think so. I am a firm believer of win-win. It's like my favourite sport.

It reminds me of A Beautiful Mind, the movie about a Mr. John Nash and his delirious experience with university, love and intellectual society; complete with spies and everything. So anyway, he comes up with this delightful theory at a bar to maximise his group's scoring-with-women chances. This theory later graduates to become the Nash Equilibrium.

See, in any competitive game your outcome is usually one winner and one loser. His idea is to change that dynamic and maybe create a possibility for each party to win. Personally, I am not a big fan of competition myself. I mean, I am all for working hard to improve my game and obviously this is relative to others but heck, as long as I'm having fun, everything else falls by the wayside. And you can have fun losing too. Not to say that losing is a favourable outcome, but I am suggesting a perspective shift so that everyone wins, so to speak.
This is not unusual, and it certainly isn't something new to society. (While I write this, I'm imagining a basketball game - but I'm sure you can see how it applies to day to day things.)

Apparently it's called a non-zero-sum game, where "some outcomes have net results greater or less than zero. Informally, in non-zero-sum games, a gain by one player does not necessarily correspond with a loss by another."
"Stated simply, Amy and Bill are in Nash equilibrium if Amy is making the best decision she can, taking into account Bill's decision, and Bill is making the best decision he can, taking into account Amy's decision. Likewise, a group of players is in Nash equilibrium if each one is making the best decision that he or she can, taking into account the decisions of the others." (Wikipedia)

So why is it so hard to come by? Why must everyone work so hard to defend their so called "honour" and "pride" when all we're really doing is kidding ourselves.
There is pride in the process.

Ok I'm trying to focus but I'm at the office and there's other people here (employees and such) who are asking me all sorts of questions and in turn, being awfully distracting! Pshhh, the nerve!
*puts hands on hips*

Later!

P.S: http://plus.maths.org/issue47/features/rey/index.html

Baby Steps (13th November 2009)

2009-11-23T12:56:00.000+05:30

I spent 15 minutes watching my 4 year old cousin write 5 words with a pencil.

It was like witnessing a miracle. Honestly, to see those puny fingers wrap around a pencil and press against paper to create script from nothing was nothing short of magical.
Don't tell me it's just me who feels this way.

It was fascinating to see her put the letters together. Each word was an adventure and I felt like I needed to be a part of it, even if it meant I could only watch.
Sigh. I can't wait to be a father.

The Turn (24th March 2009)

2009-11-16T18:31:00.000+05:30

I came across this script I attempted to write and complete for a friend of mine earlier this year. He's doing a course in Direction. He wanted something slick and Guy Ritchie-esque and I guess I got a little carried away.
(So what else is new?)

Disclaimer: this was an email directed at said friend, so excuse the lower case and haphazard structure.
--------------
Scene: there's a stray dog. the camera moves in closer and a hand reaches out with a piece of bred or something. the dog snatches the bread as the voice begins: (camera moves from dog to the ground and his feet.. and the rest follows)

"It's a dog eat dog world mate, a dog eat dog world. I mean, in today's world, all one needs to learn to do is keep your cards close to your chest, and bet big when the hand comes along. Don't trust nobody, look over your shoulder and smile at the pretty ladies that walk by." (here there'll be three attractive women going by and we show them grinning in acknowledgement at the protagonist)

(distracted) "So as I was saying, in the world today, a simple fucker like you or me can't make it without a set of rules, a code. You do your business and you watch your possessions carefully." (camera is at chest level as he removes his rolex and looks at the time.)

"You wake up in the morning, have your cup of coffee, walk out the door with a happy face and some money in your pocket and you face the day. Go to work, go to the park, go to the fucking pub if you need to, but you get up and just go somewhere, you know? I mean honestly, how many of you fuckers (the camera pans across the street, focuses on the pedestrians and there's cars too) manage to make your day's keep eh? The world is filled with slimy, despicable filth mate. Nobody's clean, not even your own fucking mum. It's a shame there's no one around to clean up these streets, to do some good in this bloody old world." (camera reaches his face, he stares straight into the camera, takes a blade out from his pocket and cuts his forehead slightly) "I mean, how's a man supposed to make an honest living, eh?"

(he smiles, suddenly straightens his face, blood dripping from his head, takes a few steps and gets hit by a car. he groans and the driver rushes out to see if he's ok. driver helps him up, looks frantic, gazes around to see if there are any cops. our protagonist staggers a bit, holds his head, there are a few gestures made and within ten seconds the driver takes a wad of cash out from his wallet, places his hand supportively on the protagonist (let's call him "bob" for quick reference) and acts apologetically. briskly moves to his car and drives off. as he's driving off, bob limps towards the camera with a pained expression, which quickly transforms to an evil grin and he continues walking)

(all through this scene, there will be no noise. this is where we introduce his line of work, by way of a narrative, so it continues straight from when he steps onto the street and towards a booze store. the rest of this narrative will be quick, and he will swig his little bottle on the way to the bar to meet ricky, that way his alcoholism is conveyed)

"The thing is, I don't. I'm an artist, a grifter. Sort of like Robin Hood. Except I don't have a crew. And I don't wear fucking tights. I pull the small con, I find these douches that can't think right, simple enough marks, and I give them a run for their money. Literally. I mean if you have the money and not enough sense to protect it from the two-bit scum that walks these streets, you don't deserve it now do you? How many times have you looked at the change the cashier gives you? How many times have you taken someone's word for it? How many times have you put your faith blindly on something, without really having a go over it in your head? That's it mate. That's confidence. And I'm one of the best." (pause) "I've been living off of it since I was a kid; my mum couldn't pay the bills and my dad... well he wasn't in the picture much. Someone's gots to put the bacon on the table, right? It started out with petty stuff, stealing veggies and all that. But I soon learnt that there's a better way of taking stuff from folks. Right under their noses, taking it with their consent. When the prick comes out and gives you his money, his food, his liquor, you know you've earned it. My mum, the poor lady saw the pearly gates 'cause of pneumonia and now I'm on me own and I have to say, I couldn't have it better. I've been stashing away some for a while now, with all these grifts and a couple more should put me into retirement. Then it'll be on a boat some place on the mediterranean and our boy can have the easy life, maybe settle down with a girl from Spain; those girls are always fit; and make a couple babies before I knock it, eh?" (pause, as he imagines it in his head, and nods) "Yeah, sounds about right."

(he pushes the door open and walks into the bar, there's loud music playing and he scans the tables for his friend ricky. locates him, they exchange a warm hug and a smile, and sit down. the narration continues, now focusing on ricky, as bob starts describing how similar him and ricky are and how they are friends from back in the day. there's a close up of ricky holding a 20 pound note up towards the bartender, asks for a round of beer, the beer comes and the camera watches him switch the note into a £10 and he takes the change.)

There you go. I had bigger dreams for this than a mere blog post. Maybe one day I'll add to the story and take it further... maybe. Thanks for reading you lovely readers you.

Blueberry Cheesecake (11th November 2009)

2009-11-10T17:22:00.001+05:30

Slice One - Standing in a crowded bus, covered in sweat.
It isn't my sweat. Unwillingly subjected to the grime these 9-5ers seem to have accumulated, I stand grinning because one of my senses is distinguisingly privileged.
I have music.

Slice Two - Sitting at someone else's desk at the office.
Trying to use the internet; the server is down, but I will persistently hit the refresh button, hoping it will catch a little signal and then I will have the world at my finger tips. What do I need it for? I don't know yet but it's nice to have the option. The A/C runs dry air consistently through its vents and my fingers are cold. Not entirely sure how to keep myself busy but I've put my friendly face on and it's Day 1 on the battlefield.
Looking forward to Day 2... mostly because it means Day 1 will be over.

Slice Three - Staring at a beautifully lit wooden stage in an auditorium.
One of those classy halls with heavy carpets and comfy seats filled with people wearing mufflers... and reading glasses. There are two elegantly dressed Spanish women bowing to the audience; then they begin their recital. Piano and violin. Classic. They swim through symphonies and give me a lot to think about. My ears and eyes are soaking in the music, but everything else is everywhere else. Where am I going to go after this? Who am I going to meet? How am I going to get there? What am I going to eat? When am I going to find a house for myself? Is this the life?
Well it sure is exciting.
-----------------------------------

"That's enough, thanks", I said to the waiter. The spread is amazing and I am stuffed. This cheesecake really hit the spot. I want to go home now.
But it isn't for me to decide, I need to wait on my Uncle and his wife. I'm at a 40th birthday party, and it is hopping.
I'm outside the city; outside the state, rather. Magnificent house - so many rooms, so much space, yet still very homely. No frills spared, the caterers walked around serving fancy hors doeuvres to the fancy guests. Needless to say, I felt out of place.

But then I also felt completely in place. I watched as these people twenty years older than me were dancing and singing awkwardly and it was exactly like the parties I've been to, minus the fancy stuff.
Honestly, this generation gap business is a myth. Yeah, we were born into the internet and yeah, we are quicker to grasp shit but NO to everything else.

Intelligence is a language by itself and if I looked a little older and wasn't introduced as anyone's nephew, the whole of that night would have been an experiment in camouflage. It made me reflect constantly, like a fucking house of mirrors this party. These people knew each other in all shapes and ways. Some went to college together, some work together, some slept with each other but things didn't work out, some are somebody else's friend and so on.
Sound familiar?

Of course it does.

Their language, their relationships, their concepts felt so synonymous and I felt like I could relate. Once we were comfortable, we got to talking about everything from naming kids to psychoactive drugs. It was amazing. I stood fascinated at how everyone gelled together and I thought about how everyone who grows up with you is obviously someone you consider close. But then there really is no finishing line to the process, is there? We're always growing up.
And then we die.

Haha, I'm only kidding. I mean, yes of course, we do die. Eventually. But there's loads of room for some fun in between. And I was witness to a heck of a lot of that at this soiree. Good time.

This new city life ain't so bad.

And I fucking love blueberry cheesecake.

These are the Days. (5th June 2009)

2009-09-10T05:22:00.000+05:30

I pressed my back against the seat and placed my head closer
The wind swept across me and pushed my grin wide
My eyes can see fleeting pictures of dark covered streets and the hills at the distance
My ears listen to the cascading melody and the precise euphoric beat
My skin can feel the touch of soft faces beside me
My thoughts are filled with energy
And my lips taste of scotch.

These are the Days.

Bill Hicks (17th May 2009)

2009-08-25T01:52:00.000+05:30

Well, hello there. It’s been long enough since I’ve written to you. I find the best times to write are when you have a lot on your mind, but you’re not quite sure where you want to lead yourself.

So, what’s it all about? Eh? Familiarity is a funny thing. It’s nearly halfway through 2009 now and if the first bit is anything to go by, this year presents itself to be an entertaining one.

Have you ever felt at any moment that you are dreaming up this existence? You’re walking down a street, or driving your car when all of a sudden you think about yourself and how you are perceived by the people around you and you wonder – is it all pretend? Are we under an illusion of sorts, in which we are led to believe that we continue to exist, when actually, we don’t really have a place in this world anymore. I know I started that out as a question but perhaps this needs to lie as it does - a statement of provocation. We need more of those.

Take a second to understand your friends and yourself. Evaluate and assess the dynamic you possess, or think to possess and speculate whether it could get better than this. It probably can. You’re probably sitting atop a whole mess of junk and nobody has the cahones to pick it apart, one by one and sort it all out. Not even me.

For once in my life, I’d like to feel absolutely limp. As a puppet, perhaps, only directed by strings and sticks and my every action manipulated. Your actions are always manipulated, of course. The worst bit is when you manipulate yourself and don’t even know it. Those folk are the sufferers. But who am I kidding? I like feeling this way. I like thinking I’m in control and I like believing I’m not a puppet. In fact, I even go to lengths to rebuke and berate these so called puppets and think to myself, ever so cynically, why don’t they learn? Why don’t they question? Why don’t they understand? What is it that separates me from them? What is it that separates our entire fucking existence? Subjectivity? Bah.

We’re free, you and I. Free in a cage. Do you see how I see it? Do you see at all? Filthy, blind, deaf and mute bastards. Unfeeling, yet sensitive to change. Sensitive to each other, sensitive to themselves. How is it of any consequence?

Right. I seem to have a lot of pent up writing to expel. I try very hard to remain stoic in social situations. I come off sociable and interactive, but all the while refraining from actually engaging in a conversation of conviction. Why, I ask myself and I know the answer already. I’m done. I’m done having to feel like these things matter, and that we’re all really here to help each other figure this massive puzzle out. Piece by piece, brick by brick, each of us has something invaluable to offer and we’re not about to stop proclaiming it for the world to know. We want recognition for our genius and that’s perfectly understandable. But just for one moment, imagine that what you have to say or show or explain to your collocutor is absolutely pointless and borderline retarded. Wow, maybe that’s a little harsh. But honestly, you reach a point where it’s refreshing to find someone who doesn’t pretend to have thought of everything. Maybe I need to pick up a job at a school because I’ve obviously found myself in the most hypocritical of situations: where I want to teach and not be taught.

Unless of course it’s someone like Bill Hicks.

Cigarette Breaks (24th January 2009)

2009-01-24T21:49:00.000+05:30

I’m usually stronger than this.
I’m usually bigger than this.
I’m usually better than this.
“How are you?” they ask, with good intentioned earnest and considerate motivation.
“Fine”, comes the reply. It isn’t false. It isn’t fake.
It’s lack of choice.

Give me a second to take it in.
I may be invincible but whatever happened to my cigarette break?
So what if I don’t smoke? Give me a fucking second.

Being who I am comes at a heavy price.
It’s mostly always worth it.
I lose myself while finding the meaning of the word ‘threshold’.
The burden makes me dizzy. Being invulnerable doesn’t mean I can’t feel dizzy, does it?
Maybe it does. Maybe it’s time to redefine these silly terms and unfortunate titles.

There is no better feeling than punching a keyboard with fingers filled with grit and temper.
Dexterity and accuracy are also key. The backspace and the enter buttons make for brilliant release.

And I can feel the fatigue creeping in.
It invades me and floods me. I wheeze.
Slow down. Shift into second gear. Crawl into a groove easily sustained without having to try.

There it is.
Hardened... and back for more.

Wait, not just yet. Let me get off my cigarette break.

A Great Way to Spend Your Day (17th July 2008)

2009-01-21T11:05:00.000+05:30

Hello and welcome to the show. My name is V and I am about to recount my experience with LSD. It’s hard to explain... but you need to know. This line will recur, but I assure you, that you need to know; in spite of it being hard to explain :D

We are all trippers, you and I, listening to different kinds of music. That’s what it seems to be about, and I guess it can be described this way. I hope you agree. But I guess that all I can hope for is that you’re listening to the song I’m listening to, at the moment. If I were to be foolish enough to hope in the first place, that is. You and I may even like the same type of music, but that doesn’t mean we need to be listening to the same song at the same time, and that minor difference, is what separates you from me. I cannot deny that you are separated from me. Well I cannot only because I can’t seem to imagine how. But however connected you and I may feel, it is only fleeting and temporary, as is ‘life’; and you can always walk out the door while tipping your hat to that statement. “C’est la vie” and all that. I seem to be brimming with wisdom right now... and it’s hard to explain.

But you need to know :D

Reality is this little party that you and I are attending. So is everyone else. So don’t forget to get fries with your steak, and make sure your glass is empty. Aside from all this rubbish I seem to be on about, I think what my friend here is trying to say, is that reality is what binds us. You and I. We are all left to our own devices, our own journeys, our lives and our Sunday ‘trips’ to the park... but what connects us and what brings us back is this ‘real’ stuff. See now, you may see pink and I see blue, but when we see red together, that’s what we can refer to as REALITY! You dig? Even if you don’t, what can I say? It’s hard to explain... but (you know how this goes:D)

Wait, what’s this? I came here to read about some trippy guy’s trip on trippy stuff! What’s all this real nonsense? Get to the flipping diamonds already, Lucy!

People will and do not believe me when I say I have done acid. Not that it’s a difficult thing to digest, but, oh wait; we’re not talking about the acid yet, are we? So yes, LSD. What it’s like. How does one describe it? Hmmm.

It is one massive mind game motherfucker. For the rest, and if you care to read up, the former portion of this story, I would politely ask you to imagine that I am referring to life. (Life being my topic of discussion). So yes, one large mind game. It is what it is, I’ll give you that. Perception in its truest sense. If there is a true sense, mind you. It basically gives you the freedom to do with your mind what you will. If you want colours then by jolly, you will see colours. Patterns and shapes galore, your trip will seem full of ups and downs and best of all, gives you the ultimate control to decide whether you’d like to see the up, or the down. And that control starts to slip from your fingers. You’re still in control, but less in control of what you would believe control to be. But no, don’t be nervous or wary. EMBRACE IT. Ride the fucking snake. (Yes, I’m still talking about life)

Your brain takes you from one moment to the next in the most elegant and organized fashion, and you see this pattern form in front of you, as each individual’s little autobiography, and it’s brilliant. But ah, with acid, you understand that it is in holding on to that loss of control that counts. “Stop tracing, start spacing”, as he put it.

Music comes alive on your trip. Well it did for mine, anyway. (No, I’m not done with life just yet). The notes and waves bounce around as you see the sound in its utmost clarity. Everything is b-e-yootiful. But this could just as well be me tripping. Haha honestly though, your trip is up to you. You come into it looking for gloom and despair, up comes a double order of depression with some melancholy on the side. But if you’re into it for the divine pursuit of happiness, boy! Do you have an amazing trip in store for you! As you drift in and out of reality, as you stray from exceeding forms of awareness to being absolutely, yet comfortably numb, you start to recognize and realize what it is you truly think it’s about. And that, dear reader, is another way of saying that your favourite artist is left on queue. So get to it. REVEL.

Yes, there are boundaries, yes, there are limits. The Coming Home at Five chapter is quite possibly the epitome of my trip-limit, but you move past it; you transcend. Take it as it comes buddy, and wave at the friendly folk that walk by... because TONIGHT, WE PARTY. Ladies and gentlemen, it really is your trip and I would much prefer to let the space do the talking. So please understand that it is hard to explain, but I cannot possibly stress on this any further - YOU NEED TO KNOW!

Oh, and about that acid. Well what can I say? It’s a great way to spend your day :D

Rage Against the Machine (7th October 2008)

2009-01-01T21:37:00.001+05:30

Hello and welcome to the show. My name is Varun Mukerji and I am presently sitting in the most important building in Pune. This worries me. Here's why.

The wind is pushing the trees over and introducing our city to near cyclonic air. The rain is coming down at a pace quick enough to fool us into thinking we're extras in a big-budget-late-90s Christian Slater movie. I am sitting indoors, safe from Nature's wrath. I have a beautifully clear, large glass window separating me from the disastrous goings on. I see it. I stare at it. It won't stop to glance at me.

Right now, however, Nature's wrath is but a mere spark compared to the flame of fury that is human. My writing usually doesn't involve this mildly poetic flavour. But this isn't a usual story. I find the tone appropriate and feel inclined towards the exaggerated. Sort of like Tarantino. This particular piece does not follow my usual, "less is more" theme.

It all begins at the workplace. My office is filled with large, beastly women who will stop at nothing to get what they want. They devour men and children alike, without mercy or repent. They exude power and strike fear into those around them, all the while chewing on vile, processed weed, the juice of which inhabits their mouths and leaves a red film over their teeth as if to signify something a little more... crimson. Young, strapping men tremble at their feet. I feel intimidated, but I tread on. On towards the core of this burning hell that lives in their hearts. I find nothing. What made them so heartless? The games are upon us. The word is in the air. It's on the streets, and in their houses. People can feel it coming. It is coming.

In this very structure, lies the brain of this monster. The blood is rushing and gushing and pouring into each and every one of us. The force is electric. The atmosphere suffers a gruesome manifestation. Purple coloured tentacles embrace each other to create an aura of evil. The humans are sucked in, and put under a spell. They move about, in a trance, fixed upon a destination. Like an army of ants, they swarm together and disperse into tributaries. In this world of ill-will, reigns chaos. But the message flows through like clockwork. Within this chaos, lies organization, and it is evident. People can feel it coming. It is coming.

Amidst this fire, amongst the monsters, between the realms of hell and earth, sits I, with an uneasy sense of confidence but a brave sense of belonging to this unsteady place of doom and despair. It's as though I find meaning in living amongst the meaningless. The contrast incites me. It inspires me. Evoked by this beast, I trudge towards safety, knowing fully well I can live to battle tomorrow. The end is nearing. I can feel its breath.

The evil in man continues to plague the Earth, and for centuries the bold have thwarted its scheme. This time seems different. Overwhelmingly different. The energy invites us, seeps into our veins, mixes with our blood. We cannot help it. The power escapes us, as we let ourselves become it. Each of us a link, all our blood turning to oil, this machine cannot be beat. Chained together by our own fight to survive, we are now components of the monster, feeding it, making it stronger. That which we loathed once, is now what we rely on. Under the influence, and thriving in it.

But wait! What's this? He's trying to escape! Who is he, why would he do this? Jeopardizing all we have worked towards, attempting to ruin everything. We must stop him. Zing! His claws have dug deep, his talons unrelenting. Why doesn't he submit? Naive boy, don't you know this is home now? You can never *snorts* LEAVE! What a fool!

Ignorant and revitalized, this boy pulls and yanks and tugs. He tries with all his might and grit and uses force he never knew he had. Determined little fucker, the colony admits. Poof! He punctures a hole! Like a vacuum, the pressure ejects him immediately. Then silence. It's over. He's gone. The hole is closed, patched up, more callous with this scar. Once broken, the monster reacts to the virus and immunizes itself. The skin, although withered, is mending. It grows thicker. As it hardens, the citizens are baffled. Could they do it too? Did they even want to? Who was that boy? Oh fuck it, we're in this now. Let's not fight anymore. We have everything we need. Foolish kid, he got lucky. Let's not call it luck. His crime was unforgivable. And he will pay for it every single day. It is his penance.

The machine is unstoppable, unbeatable and infallible. Those who stand in its way will cower and perish under its weight; its glory. It is, and always will be, the system.

The Stimulation (3rd October 2008)

2009-01-01T21:34:00.000+05:30

Another piece stumbled upon whilst cleaning my room. Apparently I find a lot of time for personal literature during my exams :)

The Stimulation

Standing there, so unaware
A distant look, an onward stare
We meet with our eyes.

She intrigues me, excites me
I feel connecting, unrelenting
It’s as though reality deludes us.

And then I saw her face!
Now I’m a believer!

Haha so it’s raining outside as I sit indoors and write inane script on an inane piece of paper about development – general economics. C’est la vie, n’est pas?

Fresh Prince of 6th Grade (1999-2000) (Re-written 27th September 2008)

2009-01-01T21:17:00.000+05:30

This is possibly one of the earliest comic pieces I've written. I must have been 11 or 12 when I came up with this and proudly recollected my prepubescent talent on the back of my midterm exam paper since the front side was boring me with all sorts of economics questions! When I think of it now, I see a lot of clever satire used along with some hidden pop culture implications. e.g. the word gay applied derogatorily. Kids really do say the darndest things, eh? Haha so here it is -

I was walking down an alley when I heard a groan
So I went to check, it was Sylvester Stallone!
I was curious, so I asked him how
He said he was run over by a big fat cow!
I said, “Now?!” He said, “No, two hours back!”
“So you’ve been lying here all this time, is that a fact?”
He was like, “Yeah, it’s true.”
I said, “What the hell am I going to do with you?”

So I took him to the hospital quick and fast
The doctors said he wasn’t gonna last
I yelled, “Oh no! What the hell!”
“Oh well, this is going to be a crazy story to tell!”
So Stallone died, people were sad
I said, “Hell no! It ain’t so bad!”
So that’s it, that’s the whole thing
I want to write some more but I got nothing to sing.
So bye, see you and have a nice day,
And I pray to God that you aren’t gay!

Does he Fall or Fly? (18th September 2008)

2009-01-01T21:15:00.002+05:30

(I wrote this at work one time on a little writing pad and only just found it while cleaning my room -1st January 2009)

The weather is exquisite.
There’s a soft breeze blowing that makes the trees sway ever so gently.
The green overwhelmed by the concrete, but still, everything is almost idyllic.
At least from where I’m sitting.

The droll and boring environment coupled with tremendously dull conversation makes for a delight to exit.
The filing of papers and the organization of the filing,
The post-its and the pens and Kangaroo’s punch,
All coloured vibrant pink, purple and blue,
Shiny and well coated but utterly monochrome.

Underneath all of the hustle
And behind all the bustle,
Sits a young man getting a feel of his surroundings.
An average young fellow probably yearning to earn
And earning to learn
And start a career that’s lucrative and profitable and enough to make a living
And more to save for later
And to buy a car and make rent
And pay for tuition and possibly, yes possibly,
Buy that motorcycle he always wanted.
But is he really that guy?

He sits
Bored out of his wits
How much longer must he smile politely at the woman sitting at the desk to the right in accounting who doesn’t look like she’s changed in days?
She’s probably just scared of change; to change.
She doesn’t want what he wants.
If he wants other things, why must he sit there?
You have to wait your turn and you have to play only after your cards are dealt and you can NOT put all your eggs in one basket, he is told.
But he can feel it. It’s his ace in the hole.
BIG OR BUST.

The breeze hits his face as he stares down twenty storeys.
HE JUMPS.
Does he fall or fly?

System of a Down (8th September 2008)

2009-01-01T21:15:00.001+05:30

Before I begin, let me assure you that I am no cynic. I am a peace-loving, easily contented fellow who tries to see the lighter side of life. That said, some time in May, I lost my wallet. Now that may seem like a predicament to some, but I resigned myself to the fact that there wasn’t much money in it, the papers were replaceable and I could always buy myself a new wallet. I should have taken one more aspect into account – I live in India. That translates loosely to – yes, the money and the wallet are not a big deal. But the papers? Ah, there’s the rot. My driver’s license and ATM card were the only valuable items I needed to replace quickly, and so began a tedious and troublesome adventure that I am about to recount to you, as painfully yet pleasantly as possible.

Thankfully, I am familiar with a certain ‘agent’ at the RTO so the driver’s license worked its way back to its owner in due time. Of course I had to grease a few palms and the occasional trip to remind the fellows at this quaint governmental enterprise their actual job role. But a little determination and some decent luck (the official in charge must have woken up on the RIGHT side of the bed) finally culminated and I was in happy possession of a brand new license. It took a month, of course, but one really can’t do much more than wait. I choose to exclude an event that took place some time in the interim, when a police man refused to accept my story, in spite of the fact that all my car registration papers and even that darn PUC slip was in place. After coughing up 200 rupees as a ‘fine’, I decided that it was a cost I would have to bear for my carelessness. (the loss of my wallet, still being the topic in question)

The ATM card, however, was an entirely different story. I acted briskly, and within a day, an application for a fresh card was issued. This time the running around was less of a task, considering my branch is 5 minutes away, on foot. But then of course it needed to be done. I was discouraged to hear that a new card would take 21 days to be replaced. But again, I decided to cut my losses. After all, it could have been much worse, if some large bills happened to be in my leather money holder at the time of its escape. And so begins the wait. I try not to let it bother me; I’d just have to resolve to borrow money from the mother or perhaps,when in dire need, visit the bank and stand in a queue and write an application to withdraw and all that jazz. (shudder)

21 days pass. 22. 23. 30. 45. 60! It may seem that I have lost my grasp of ascending numbers, but unfortunately, two months was the holy figure. But I had gotten by alright, and everything was downhill from here. Look at the bright side, right? So here I am, armed with my new card, marching straight to the sacred place of money. Wait. What’s this? Incorrect pin?

I am gently informed that I was to wait for a new pin and that it would take a few working days. I have never yet understood the significance of the word ‘working’ in that statement. If you ask me, it’s just a stalling mechanism, to further alleviate the responsibilities of the powers that be. A few working days pass, and then a couple ‘working’ weeks. But hark! An envelope in my mail box has the mystical number that would prove to be the gateway to my bank account. I rush to the ATM and am greeted with a message that goes something like this – “I’m sorry, dear valuable customer. Apparently some twit went and pushed the wrong pin too many times and now we’ve gone and blocked your card. Have a nice day, sucker.” These words do little to comfort me, and this peace-loving narrator is beginning to lose his patience. But tread on, he does, and applies for a new pin, after a thorough justification of his mistake. I will not talk about the time I have spent waiting in lines in this entire process, because it would bore you to read it, as much as it bored me to be involved in this grueling procedure. Unfortunately, the word ‘entire’ used in the previous statement is fallacious, because that would imply a finish line. As you continue to read, please don’t expect a pot of gold, because this tragic tale is unmistakably not a rainbow, you silly leprechaun.

Present day: 8th September, 2008.

Your humble and charming narrator pays a visit to his favourite bank because he has been summoned to collect his brand new card and pin! It is indeed an exciting turn of events, considering he had almost lost all hope. He drives to the bank and picks up his card and pin and proudly goes to the ATM across the street. During this epic walk, he recalls not so long ago, he was asked to lend some of his precious account money to a friend and actually resorted to withdrawing the money from the sorrowfully not-so-digital tellers at the friendly banking institution. His friend was at the hospital, and needed a meagre sum of Rs. 600, so he used an ink filled vessel with a nib like machine at its end to mark in what seemed like English letters on a piece of paper and submitted it at the counter. The powerful man at the counter needed to see more than the poor man’s pass book, useless ATM card and driver’s license. He wanted to see the man’s cheque book. Cheque book? Our protagonist had never applied for one, so how was he supposed to present it? “Oh wait,” says another uninterested employee, “we have it right here!” Relief and surprise filled his mind, and after taking ten times as long (without exaggerating) this, your cheerful narrator, had successfully withdrawn money from the bank!
This was it. The moment of reckoning. He pushes his fated card into the machine and uses his newly issued pin number and is very precarious with his usage of the wonderful machine he hasn’t seen in so so long… Incorrect pin! He is not in the least bit amused, but also, not unexpectedly, not too distraught. He knows too well, the pain a victim of the system must face, in their endeavours at co-existing with the beast itself. He goes back to the bank and tries to rectify this new found problem. Apparently, the bank’s beautiful online system hasn’t kept a record of its recent issue of the card. This man stands poignantly holding his card, as he stares at a screen telling him he isn’t. He looks up at the ceiling.

“Relationships beyond banking”, read the sign. A smile swept across his tired and long face. The irony seemed a bit much. Perhaps they’ve gotten too engaged with maintaining their relationships that they’ve forgotten to do that ‘banking’ bit, he muses. Then again, their relationship aspect is in itself, a piece of art.
The wind blows in his face, and the fresh air chimes against his body, as he drives away into the sunset, back towards his own private den. A haven for his contemptuous albeit peace-loving mind.

Good day to you, dear readers, good day. The difference is in difference.

And the shoes come off (2nd June 2008)

2009-01-01T21:14:00.000+05:30

It has come to my notice that I notice how noticeable and/or note worthy the choices I make are.
This disturbs me.

I am an obsessive compulsive thinker and this I will and can afford to admit. Obsession. Without taking a look at the dictionary, I am made to believe that it’s derogatory. But then I don’t even buy into ethics so why do I even care? I think that’s it. That’s the crux of the matter. I am torn, confused, conflicted about whether or not I should care... and more importantly, what falls under my circle of care/concern and what doesn’t. I also tend to think about whether I should even draw a circle around my concerns. The debate there, is to do with the fact that I am going to be concerned about certain things anyway, so why not organize the situation, considering the fact that I like and indulge in organization pretty much 25 hours a day. Now see that 25 hour witty bit there? I don’t actually appreciate that. What’s with the unnecessary hour just to show how much of a thing I do is done? I mean, you get it. So why the generic and silly 25 that’s supposed to take your mind through the following thoughts: “25? Hey wait a minute... oh! Haha how remarkably witty! Tee hee”

I have found that once I get on a topic, I move somewhat briskly to other connected topics only to find myself back and yes, definitely feel responsible to complete everything I’d like to express including the tangential topics, but the sense of rambling sets upon me (take now for example) and I feel unsettled and once and if I’m done finally, what was it that I even took from the little monologue? Why do I begin monologues? Is monologue the right word?

I want to delete this little document. But I’d also like to keep it for later when I can browse through the shitty bits of writing I have gone and done now and then and ever so often. Most of them are deleted. Particularly the ones I’m ashamed of. But then shame walks out the door just as soon as morality does, which is closely followed by ethics.
I’m an immoral idiot who would like to spend the rest of my life whimsical and carefree, with loads of fun and sex and brilliant food. Just like the next bloke. So there’s nothing “wrong” with this... but can I? Can I float through the rest of my existence? Can I survive and revel in this world without buying into society and paying extra for the tee shirt near the cotton candy stall? Who am I looking for? What am I looking for? Rush. Immediate happiness. That’s what. And I know that... but heck, there has to be an organized way of getting it damnit. The pursuit of immediate happiness. Just for the sake of seeing and further proving that I can, here comes a 3 minute poem/song on this very pursuit:

Pick up that wrapper and put off that light switch
Oh what does that matter to me?
Well it doesn’t and shouldn’t but then again, you’ll see
A hundred years from now the world will melt and all you’ll have is plastic
Well not you, but your great grand daughter and her little sister.
Global warming, poverty, child trafficking, molestation and AIDS for good measure
All a bunch of hogwash
Life is and must be filled with cold beer, women and plenty of leisure
The rest is.

Balloons, butterflies, kittens and fluff
Pink roses and ice cream and other stuff
That’s what you’re looking for aren’t you?
Go get it. Go fucking get it. Have sex along the way.
Go murder that chicken and swim with the fish
Sharpen your blade and act on your wish
Today’s the day to reclaim your life
Do what you want
What could go wrong?
C’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon.

Nothing to prove and nothing to lose
Nothing to pick and nothing to choose
Existence is beautiful, now lift up ‘em bricks
Walk away and slam the door
Build your own house and fill it with sticks
My back is feeling sore.
Just don’t be tripping on those fucking ethics.

I like nothing of what I’ve just written. It’s nearly 11 p.m. and here comes another party. I’m consumed with alcohol and society and friends and opinions. No room to drift or float and no drive to get out and do it. I feel tainted. I don’t like that. Nothing to prove and nothing to lose, V. Now go and have yourself a good time. Get in the shower and wash away that dirt, that taint. Soap off the dust and get out, you must. But first, off with those shoes :D

Weather (5th June 2008)

2008-12-19T02:45:00.004+05:30

When you’re not really sure
Of the words to explore
Or the reasons why you just cant forget her.
When you’re angry or sad
Or just plain confused
And you don’t really know the weather.

When you’re calm and composed
And find it easy to see
The truth in the lies and the lies of the free
Then give us a call
‘cos we’re really not so small
And for fuck’s sake, we can handle the weather.

If all you could say is
That’s not the way
Would that really do us any good?
If all you could do is
Sing a little blue
Would that really hit us like it should?

Tell us you bloody heathens, tell us
Tell us oh mighty martyrs, tell us
It’s clear to me now
The difference between how
And why we are who we make
But I say when I'm certain
And I'm certain when I say
We can handle the weather for fuck’s sake.

And then it hit me. (5th June 2008)

2008-12-19T02:44:00.004+05:30

Good morning, he said, as he walked across the beach
A beautiful island completely out of reach.
Hey everybody, she cried, as she looked around
The house of mirrors hardly uttered a sound.
Oblivious and charming and intelligent and more
A large built man with a voice of proud
The mind of many, I’ve lost all score
No one’s allowed, no, no one’s allowed.

Hues of pink and purple and marks of black
Like that dog in the manger who’s never in danger
We trap it and grab it and occupy our sack.
Oh the joy of killing, the killing of joy
As that beast sodomizes fifty girls and a boy.
No this isn’t what I wanted, this isn’t what I planned
Concepts banned and ideas rejected
I grow indifferent and swim on the land.
And as I trudge along, it still seems connected.
Can I have another glass of cranberry juice?

Tick tick tock tick tock tick tock
Turquoise pajamas and a hefty tool
A fist the size of a twenty pound rock
And all that’s left is a crimson pool.
When the sound of a gun and the sound of a guitar
All seem to hit you and stir you and fix you
Thoughts mix threat and remorse and regret
Our eyes pop out and your mouth turns blue.

And then it hit me.

X (5th June 2008)

2008-12-19T02:44:00.001+05:30

It’s a wonderful feeling
To be free.
You are you and I am I
And that plane is where it is while those shoes are here.
But we are all under the blanket.
And outside of this blanket is more blanket.
We are but one and perception is the flaw
Consciousness is the assumption while reality appears dual.
Welcome to infinity, my friend.
Smile as you like and frown when you mean it.
For it all matters but nothing matters, so you see-
It depends on how you look at it

Illusions come about for many reasons
And perception allows for illusions to exist.
Time and consciousness and death and life
Are mere words and classifications that hold the weight of the world
And this weight is nothing.
But we tread on.
And we must... so go forth my fellow traveller
Go forth on this journey of none
Come back when you will or move forward to the end
Make oil and water and enemies, dear friend.
Be who you must, for you are free. You are condemned to this freedom.
Let us all tread on, with our heads full of dignity
As I said before dear traveler, welcome to infinity.

Moral View (4th May 2008)

2008-12-19T02:43:00.001+05:30

I stared at him as he stared back
His eyes weary and his face worn
The skin on his face exposed his age, or should I say fatigue
But there was something about his eyes
Something clear and true yet subdued
It was hard to describe, but easy to perceive
It talked of life and love and meaning and futility
It spoke, uttered words of wisdom
The truth flowed down his face and over his scar
These scars, he said were more than superficial
But then are scars more than that? If a scar is a symbol of healing
Why is it that we talk of pain? Because it’s a process, alright
But then it is still a mere modification, physical modification
People call it deformation, but then doesn’t that imply a modification still
Why did we give it this negative angle? Why did morality even come into the picture?
How tainted are we? How impure? What is it that we’re all striving towards?
He stared at me and his face was cold and stern
I couldn’t help but submit to the power, the strong and hard power
Within his eyes. It was almost divine. Haha, divinity, I thought to myself.
Ok, morality, come at me. I’ll open my arms, I swear. What choice do I have?
Haha, choice, I thought again. I am but a victim. And I accept it. Because there is no other way.
Deny consciousness, I thought to myself... but all the man would say were unspoken words
He told me unseemingly, “don’t concern yourself with these trivialities. Don’t concern yourself at all.”
I’m hardly bothered, and I’m doing great. “Indifference is virtue?” I ask.
Virtue and vice aside, indifference is intelligence. If all we are is nothing, or if all we are is everything
What difference does it make? Are we not ‘condemned’ to death? Are we not ‘condemned’ to ‘freedom'?
These concepts are fleeting and eternal and this duality is apparent
But still, concepts are concepts and within these human constructs,
We are aware of the end. It comes to all, without discrimination
Nothing is discriminate, at one point of view. Come here, my son, and I will show you.
And then it all became clear, as though it wasn’t before.
I sorted my business. I finished with purpose. I left for my family the world and more.
I walked away from the glass, and walked out the door.
I walked into darkness.

Acceptance (13th March 2008)

2008-12-19T02:42:00.001+05:30

A little humour please, he said, as he stood on his knees
Don’t chop my head off just yet
Something funny and light, perhaps lacking insight
Nothing dark or morbid or full of satire
Four more sticks were added to the fire
Before you begin, let me propose a toast
Time’s a-wasting, shall I start to roast?
Oh dear, he cried, but his cry was unheard
Almost dream like, this seemed plenty absurd
Pain unfeeling, his skin began peeling
He looked up at the sky
The smoke filled the air as the clouds were burning
Third grade, he said, while honing his blade, was all about learning
He agreed and sighed, as a corpse he lied
Poignant verse amiss, ignorance is bliss, and the words did ring
‘Pain is temporary, experience is everything.’

Intellectual Property (13th March 2008)

2008-12-19T02:41:00.001+05:30

My body shivers, as my lips, they quiver.
Streams of notes join to form the river.
As the water ran down his sinewy throat
It quenched his thirst and salvation did burst
As he sailed on the magical Slice of Life boat.
As it entered his mouth, he couldn’t help but exclaim
Thine divine but mine sublime for Arganoff is my name.
Words stolen, he kept them in bags and it felt quite risky
He moaned then scoffed, as he sipped his whisky.
Purpose is yours for I have your toil
Your brain is futile for I am the soil
And we’ll grow together and we’ll sail together
I am your alias and you will lie silent
Beware, I tend to get violent
Patent and right, might I add, I expect full loyalty
I will earn as you will learn that mercy is your royalty.

Please understand as you have urges, so do I
So what if they’re different, at least they exist
He tries, but in vain, to lacerate his wrist
Give up, said the killer, don’t begin to test me
After all, this is merely a matter of intellectual property.

Memory (13th March 2008)

2008-12-19T02:39:00.000+05:30

The eyes are precise and the face is concise
The nose and the ears and the lips are the same
The smile is broken but the name remains
As I stare into the dark iris of my pupil
I tell myself, ‘Little did you know’
He looks up at me, almost innocently
Saying, would you rather have known?
You stay in your world as I will mine
Leave me to a life of my own
Buddy, leave me to a life of my own.

Smoke (6th March 2008)

2008-12-19T02:37:00.000+05:30

Thick black smoke is what fills your air
Monsters that terrorize, apparitions that scare
You see anguish and remorse and all the while hurt
As the blood red pain makes a stain on your shirt
The stains may go, but the scars remain
Blurring the line between crazy and sane
Death seems appealing, conformist almost
All balance is lost, burnt bread and toast
A yellow umbrella in a sea of black
The burden is heavy and weakens your back
You lose the will to cling onto hope
Find more use in that dirty old rope
It’s when even the glass that reveals your eyes
Lets you see yourself, but can’t help despise
It’s the end of the world, and you know it.

You sit in splendour and the birds are tweeting
Your mind is quiet but thoughts repeating
Hate and despair, pathos and waste
The least I did was have my taste
Now let me go, enough of this ride
Plummet to depths of suicide
But time drags slowly and so do cigars
Eternity fills just a couple of hours
And once that bloody smoke blows clear
Solace and comfort is found in fear
Imagination manages to keep you alone
Exquisite notes exist in monotone
The world is filled with graves, my friend
In spite of the fact that you know it will end
When the point of futility stares at your face
“Embrace and endure. Endure and embrace.”

Flow of Harmony (6th March 2008)

2008-12-19T02:34:00.001+05:30

I know what digs underneath my skin
Even the shape my head is in.
I think about where I think I belong
I’m not quite sure it fits in a song.
So I know what it does and I know what I do
But something about this just doesn’t feel true.
I guess what I’m saying little buddy mister man
Can you work out the system and make me a plan?

Introspection reflection collection rejection
Dejection suggestion I don’t really know
The frame of my mind that I leave behind
So it’s all harmonious flow.

A circle of questions that move all around
Negligible content is what I have found
Thoughts of ethics my soul surrounds
Resonance? Or just plain sounds?
If I could perhaps stumble or subtly fall
Deep down inside a large rabbit hall
And it showed me creatures I never could see
And it showed how all them creatures were me.

Calculation circulation elation cremation
Station creation I can’t really tell
To be free of mind or mind of free
So it’s all harmonious spell.