Love Lost For A Good Cause!

After a very long time yesterday I felt that once very familiar restlessness that comes when a poem takes shape in your heart... It's been a very long time and I have no idea why this one decided to be written in Hindi - Urdu. Anyhow, here it is...

Un dino jab mohabbat ki mehfilein hua karti thi, kuch shaayari, kuch mosiqi hua karti thi.

Ab tanha si teri koi adaalat lagti hai. Kabhi tere liye takreer, kabhi teri hi vakaalat karte hai.

Intezaar hai ab, kabhi uzr hua karti thi. Ehsaason ka dera hai jahan, aiyaashi hua karti thi.

Buth parasti bhi raas na aayi, ek aisi dahriyat karte hain. Tu tha to khuda ko bhule thay. Furqat mein ab teri ibaadat karte hain.

The Wayside Boy

I am the wayside boy

I see the world go by

I see days turn to night

And nights turn to day

The world goes by

I stay

I have seen love blossom

A thousand times

I have seen births and deaths

And smiles and sighs

The pavement underneath me

Never sprouts weeds

My screaming calmness never dies

Yesterday she was alone

Today he is with her

There are only three today

From that group of five

That lady in the car

Used to take a cab

That guy on the wheelchair

Broke his leg last month

They all have their sorrows and laughter

Quicksilver highway with stone-paved sides

The pavement turns here and joins that way

The world goes by, I stay

Married, By the Way

Yours truly was invited to yet another wedding. And she went. She hogged and she returned, full.

My condition is on the upward slope. Yester-night, I could use the expensive body lotion I have bought. (Before, I was using Vicks, which was not bad. Skin used to feel soft in the morning. In fact, post observing result of the expensive’s use, self almost felt inclined to continue the use of Vicks.)

But that is beside the point.

I was thinking, what’s the big deal about weddings. Let us look at a few undertakings at an average Indian wedding. I personally noticed all of them taking place at the one where I was invited.

• The bride and bride-groom are the least informed about the goings on.


• The guests are inquiring, usually post dinner, where among the premises, are the bride and bride-groom seated.


• The bride’s thick make up, being meant really for the photographer’s ease, makes her look droopier to the naked eye, than she actually might be feeling.


• The misconception about her droopiness makes most female guests lavish her with kisses and smother her with their jeweled sarees, making the makeup look murkier.


• The groom is the only one not drunk.


• The groom is sulking, as a result.


• The groom is pretending to be gay (meaning happy).


• The groom looks gradually minus (neck plus spine), former owning to the sinking in under the weight of the pagdi and latter to the gifts which visitors from both sides usually heap on the groom.


• The bride and bride-groom are eventually left isolated, while the guests are found surrounding the food stalls.


• The bride and bride-groom are seen furtively inquiring from passersby, as to the remnant of the procedures.


• On keen observation, an answering friend or relative may be espied in some nook or cranny, gesturing wildly to communicate to the couple, the remaining number of minutes or hours of their endurance test.

I have concentrated here, on the bride-bridegroom because I feel a natural tenderness for the underprivileged. The reader may, of course, add from the guest position.

However this too is beside the point.

I started this post intending to tell you about weddings at my native place- Bengal. There it is a lengthy process. Starting a week before D Day, the bride and groom are fed constantly, and separately, by all willing members of the society. Much like chickens. The day before the marriage, the specimen are seated, and fed in unison by all members of the society, specially the senior members; separately in their respective homes. Sweets and water are heaped in obscene quantities in front of the cross legged specimen and then the social members take turns to shovel the eatables down their (the specimens) throat, washing it down with enormous quantities of water. Post this the specimens are put to bed (separately, at their mutually distanced abodes) after many short, but significant ceremonies. I have observed the average time of retirement to be around midnight. From here on, I will focus on the female. Readers please be informed that similar proceedings are taking place all along at the male specimen’s residence. There is equality in these matters.

The female specimen is dragged from her bed at about 3 30 am on the morning of the wedding, for a bath. Yes. Bath. Water-bath. After bath she is fed. All conventional food items being barred however, she is fed a random assortment of husk, puffed rice and watered curd among other things. This is her last, I repeat, last intake of food for the following day and night. Then she waits…

In course of time, dawn breaks. Family members assemble. The priest arrives. Auspicious times are discovered, and accordingly the women of the family, and interested and idle inhabitant females of the area proceed to a near-by pond to get a pot full of water. The pot is brought home and kept at a threatening distance from the specimen seated cross legged (as usual). Female members then compete with each other to smear her with a paste of turmeric and water in a ‘no holds barred’ sort of an event. Next, the contents of the pot are dumped on the specimen’s head. She is in this way bathed - twice, in a matter of hours. And then she is sent for a bath. Yes. Bath. Bath again. Water-bath again.

After the third bath, she waits…

By this time it is afternoon and family members and early bird guests have lunch. Some of them, plates full of conventional food items, queue up to meet the specimen. Starving, she pretends to be asleep or lost in thought to avoid them. The make up woman arrives and handles the specimen. By evening the remaining guests arrive making the place look like a bee hive, with guests filling in for the missing bees. The specimen is seated in a certain corner and guests start showering her with gifts and blessings. Let me remind the attentive reader, the last time the specimen ate was at about 4 am, directly after the first of the many baths. It is now about 8 pm. Guests, of course inadvertently, have eatables in their hands. As a result many times during the gift giving session, the bride mistakenly- owing to being lost in thoughts of love -moves towards the food item instead of the gift.

The groom arrives and is seated separately. Reader must have noted by now, that the trend here is to keep the couple separated. No doubt this is to aid them with a ‘we came together despite all odds’ kind of a love story for handing down to posterity. Young girls run to and fro from bride to groom telling each that the other party looks beautiful and jubilant. Both parties know that on the contrary, both must look groggy eyed and dismayed after the infliction upon them, of the above mentioned. The marriage is short and sweet. The groom is seated on a chair. The bride is made to take seven rounds of the groom, while he stares at the ground and she hides her face with beetle leaves (she is led by female members of the family.) Then both specimens stand on opposite sides of a screen and the screen is upped with a shout of joy by society surrounding them. The instinctive jumping retreat on both sides, which is the result of the specimens seeing the other’s unhappy state, is mistaken to be a joyful leap by all present, and the couple is led to the altar for a prayer to the almighty, thanking him and seeking his further blessings. It is by now at least midnight.

The couple is taken to a hawan (nature worship). All seems well to you, reader? It is, except that the groom is now in a loin cloth – one of the many mysteries of life. The invocation begins. The fire is lit and kept alive by means of ghee. Male species of my native place generally being hirsute tend to sweat profusely. Now the tendency takes over given the heat generated by the fire. This results in the female counterpart tending to faint from the odour. The couple makes rounds of the fire, sits, stands, walks and is finally, after a few hours, taken to bed followed by about 150 chaperons. You ask why on earth chaperons? The couple is not to embrace yet. The trend to keep them separate continues. The couple is given leftovers from the wedding dinner to gorge on. Chaperons make merry, crack vulgar jokes accompanied by the ‘poke’ many times into the groom’s ribs. After the fashion, the bride is to look demure and suitably unhappy with the proceedings.

Dawn breaks. Groom and bride take bath, eat (all the while kept awake by gentle nudges from well wishers) then sleep. Family members from both sides take count of the wedding plunder jointly. Evening comes and amidst general grief, the bride and bridegroom leave. On reaching the groom’s residence, the bride is forbidden from looking at him - to ensure that the story for posterity is really long and impressive. They sleep separately. Next day is the day of the reception. Bride and groom are now given leave - in theory - to mingle, but the practical application of this is far from possible with the bee hive now replicating itself at the groom’s residence. More so with some of the bees being the same. The day passes with the groom taking care of the bees and the bride continuing to look demure and suitably unhappy with the proceedings.

After the guests have departed, the couple cleans up and - hold your breath readers -is ushered into the wedding bed-room, minus - wonder of wonders – chaperons. Do they consummate? 100% of my bong acquaintances who have been married say ‘No’. They sleep. But you never know, some people may want to add one more chapter to that posterity story. ‘We did it! That same night!’

So that’s the wedding.

But this is beside the point - which is exactly my point. Nothing in a marriage seems to be 'the point'. The marriage – the coming together, of… hearts – seems to happen by the way.

PS: I must give this some serious thought one day.

Time Enough!

That’s it! I have had enough. I mean, how many times can I hear that we don’t have time! Makes me weary. I am spending my days coughing, currently. I don’t know for sure, but if I die of pneumonia or something, do accept my regards and wishes, and my apologies for not doing my duty by life. I mean I don’t know for sure- didn’t have time to visit a doc- but this wheezing and sniffing bit has been going on for a week now; more than my usual welcoming of the winter season. Reason – I didn’t have time to buy a bed. I mean God in heaven must be thinking I had time enough to make this thankless specimen, and she does not have time to try and live!

I remain positive, however. I can barely speak – maybe that’s why I got back to blogging with a vengeance. The coughing has made my onion warmer. I got thinking yesterday, how come we, in this generation, never have time. If you have read even one post here, you’ll know that most of what goes on in my top story, originates in someone’s mouth. I have heard some TV babas ask at the beginning of their spiritual programs, “How are we any different from, let’s say, the worm or the pig? We are born, we live, eat, drink, clean up, we die. What do we do which is so great, which the worm or the pig does not do?” When people have pondered in silence for a minute or so, baba continues to their immense astonishment, “Then why are we so sad, while worms and pigs live their humble life peacefully?!” This generation’s answer to this poignant question would be simple – we don’t have time to live our lives in peace, while the worms and pigs have.

It confounds me to think how they managed time in the earlier days. Byron had time to write 15000 or so lines of decent poetry, besides being in love, in orgies and in intoxication. Shelly, that great man, died at 30! In 30 years, he married twice, eloped once, survived a couple of wars, was an expatriate, wrote multiple volumes of first class poetry, among other things such as taking care of a depressive wife! While Gandhi had time to fight the war of independence and Nehru had time to build a nation, we don’t have time to read the newspaper! When we meet up, we have time either to guzzle on whiskey or talk. We usually vote for guzzling because talking would require thinking and that would mean making time for two things – talking and thinking.

The other day I was out shopping with a colleague, and we could not hear each other due to the blaring music. Of course we cursed the mall managers. To think back, the noise all around is the result of this same lack of time. We want to be busy. Being busy shopping is not enough. We need to be busy with more, for example, listening to some crap music (most of the malls play that brand). Multitasking is in. Breakfast on the go, mobile news feeds, video conferences, we have an alternative to everything, and still kids are in crèches and old people in old age homes and the all pervasive excuse is – we don’t have time! Being a logical, albeit dumb creature, I can’t help contemplate on the inactivity in our techno-savvy lives. We have an easier alternative for everything and yet we are forever finding simpler ways of doing things. People used to write letters in olden days. We thought that took too much time. To improve interaction, we devised the email. Then we devised the mobile and then the sms. Today the popular tool of communication is the missed call- no interaction! What was that word ‘redundant’ all about? Make some time to look it up, will you.

Sir J. M. Barrie says, ‘You must have been warned against letting the golden hours slip by; but some of them are golden only because we let them slip by.’

Guys think. Time alone is timeless. Indulge in it. As we all know, there may not be tomorrow.

I Am Back!

Writing after a long time, this is déjà vu felt backwards. I see myself gingerly clicking here and there, trying to figure out how the blog is made. Being technically imbecilic, it took me almost a fortnight to just type the dreaded url. I wanted to do it alone – why should anyone be witness to my incompetence!

Well, here I am, eight posts in a quick succession and a six month long lull later, once again keyboarding my thoughts. The process started yesterday when I had a discussion with ahem ahem… you know, and we mused upon public and private lives, and opinions. Whether they matter or not and do we lead public or private lives as individuals.

I have said earlier on this blog that we are all voyeurs who love to live in glass houses and very precociously perched ones. Why is the other so important? Why does everything we believe in have to come tumbling down in the face of one stray comment? Somehow I think, this is related to the fact that we are looking for reasons. Every time you think of that third party perpetrated mess up in your life, rethink. How many times have you followed someone’s advice or believed in someone despite yourself. I will bet upon the answer ‘never.’ It is only when we seek that we pick up.

I am carefully dressed each time I go to a boring party while the gang always meets in a pyjama party! The other’s opinion matters only when I am not happy with my own. Then I am on the look out for what others will say, if they wow me, I’ll tell myself, it’s good; if they trash me, then well, I’ll be ready to change till they wow me. Couldn’t care less is the attitude of the confident. I think this is the reason why arrogance is attractive. Real arrogance I’m saying, not the loudness adopted to make oneself heard. Such arrogance is without cause - the result, simply, of being you. The kind Rochesters and Darcys are made up of. My friend once said, “I am here to feel important; whether I deserve it or not, I don’t care.”

Public opinion is like an ocean. One can’t see the rivers. But if each river thought they would anyway be lost to the ocean and so decide against travelling that far, there would never be an ocean. I similarly, have to overflow into the world, otherwise the world might be an ocean, and I would still be empty. The society might be living by the social rules, but each individual action makes up these rules. So let us all do our thing and before we know doing one’s thing will become the new social obligation.

And before you post a comment saying the F word, let me tell you… I am here to write, whether it’s worth reading or not, I DON’T CARE! :D

The World's Cutest Picture

Something in this photo makes me very happy

Roots of Existence

‘Never forget your roots’ is something we have grown up listening to. No matter how high up you reach, always remember where you came from. Humble, down to earth and essentially unquestioning is what the successful man is. I have also heard this time and again; and there was a time I actually believed it. I have always had problems at home. Always, what I said was right, was termed extremely, vulgarly wrong and unthinkable by my parents. I was not a family person and without feelings consequently. As I grew up, I apparently forgot my roots and therefore lost touch with myself.

Myself! What am I? This is the question I asked myself suddenly when I saw this picture- ‘Roots of Existence’, clicked by a dear friend, Sudip Chakraborty. What does it tell us? That roots are all important? No. Not for me at least. When I looked at it, I saw strength and an incompleteness which whispered, 'live'. Then when I walked out and saw a tree, all of a sudden I saw the height which branches reach. Are they connected to their roots, I thought. The branches come from the roots, but they are not connected. Their nourishment is through the roots, but what would happen if the roots don’t let the branches go? We will have only retarded trees growing in on themselves.

I am, what is live in me. And what is live in me is what grows. What grows always grows away from me. Growth backward is redundancy! I would go so far as to say, that the sign of life is the ability to let go. Each point in the branch is live only till the next point is built on it. Then, it is that which is live. I have always been told that the root is what matters. The root is strength for you can cut any amount of the tree, but if the roots are intact, it will survive. No one ever told me that the reason it survives is because it dares to let go- once more. It does not fear the axe, though it knows it exists. That is the strength of the roots. And that is my strength as well. The adaptability which helps me take in new thoughts, new ideas and change.

This is what I am. I am not connected to my roots. I know where I came from, but I don’t hold on to it. I want to let it go. I want to reach out and this does not make me without feelings; on the contrary. Feeling is the desire to reach out. And then I realized why the picture got the first prize; it is because it subtly tells us to dream, to go beyond. The bud would never open if it fears, if it wants to remain humble. The desire to touch the skies is what pushes the tree upward. This is not a down to earth feeling at all- not to me. Trees are proud of themselves that is why they dance; they are confident that is why they grow- they help us with fruit and shade, but in the meanwhile they don’t stop preening.

Dev D- Revelation

Valentine's Day was going waste and with nothing to do, the idle mind replayed a certain take off of one fine evening which changed the course of my life. Shadows from the past preyed and I could not but notice how gloomy life was; what's more it seemed irreversible. Potato chips for lunch and innumerable cups of coffee later a friend called at 7 pm.

"Let"s go for a movie."
"Now!"
"Right Now."
Silence prevailed. I started hearing the sound of the take off once again.

We watched Dev D. The movie ended at 10:30 pm, and we sauntered back home at about 11: 30 pm. The roads were deserted and we were the only two people walking. My high heeled shoes were making a tick tock on the road. I hummed a song from the movie…‘yeh kaisi kaisi aankh micholi khele zindegi…’ We didn't speak a word for quite some time. “Dev bhi aise hi sadko par ghumta tha.” "Thumbs-up hai?.” “Sir Coke.” "Vodka ke saath." Back home, we sat down on the terrace and stared into space. The leisurely winds played around and I hummed.

I have never seen a more imaginative adaptation of a classic in my life. Devdas is not an easy novel to adapt. The basic problem is its irrevocability. Each element of the story is written and fixed at that. 'The moving finger writes; and having writ, moves on…' Deva, Paro, Chardamukhi, they are all doomed. Prisoners of fate. They can wait stoically, like Chandramukhi, fail like Devdas or just reconcile with their lot like Paro. But they can not change it. Nothing can change. The plane took off in the evening. As I saw the airport becoming smaller and smaller, something in me rebelled against all the people in the plane. There was no where to go. "Are you OK?" "Hmm”; "That's the sky." "Hmm"; "See that light? That's the…" "Hmm.", "… so when you…Got it?" "Hmm."

I just had to get out. The loo would be empty.. "…so after the sun has gone down; Where are you going?" "To the loo." I got up and steadied to my feet. Holding the back of the seat, I tried wriggling out. "Didn't you have any other t-shirt?" "Why?" "Try not to wear this one again." "It was a good movie,' my friend said, 'coffee?". "I'll come with you." We started talking about the movie- Abhay Deol's sexy abs and Mahi's passion.

There is a lot of youthful sex in the movie and I personally feel it's a milestone in the history of Indian cinema. Paro sending her nude pics to her Dev, their furtive meetings in the fields and behind doors are all taboo for the screen but equally mundane for the private lives of teens. The brilliant use of contemporary controversies- how Lennie becomes Chanda for example, or the BMW episode- and the new light in which they have been seen justify a low bow to Anurag Kashyap.

Being a student of literature, I had many misgivings when I read Devdas. Why should Paro pay for Dev's indecisiveness with a lifetime of chastity and mothering. Why on the other hand, should Chandramukhi's salvation only be promised and yet never attainable. Kafka's 'Trial' has the protagonist standing at the door of the court. The door-keeper will only tell him that his time has yet not come. And he will also blame him (the protagonist) for being lazy in not making an effort to enter! This existentialism finds its way into the heart of Devdas as well.

These are people who have challenged the door-keeper. Chandramukhi is the one character who ends on the most positive note, because she has the least to lose. She is also the one who dares the least. Paro has loved. She has crossed the threshold of feminine modesty. She will be redeemed only by a lifelong sterility, while fulfilling the properly womanish duty of child rearing. Dev is a man; he can't be punished for loving. But he has questioned. He has dared to tip off the caste balance. His sin is against society. This cannot be forgiven. He must die fighting, like a man. The end is decided. Life is the prelude to that end.

All this changes in Dev D. The dreams they saw in Sharat Chandra’s novel, Paro, Deva and Chandra live to fulfill in Anurag Kashyap’s movie. They are not doomed. It is no longer a pre destined world. Dev D is not a movie. It is art work, and that too of the highest standards. “What’s wrong with being a prostitute?” my friend asked. “Nothing. They too do a job and jobs can be changed.” “Yaar lekin usne pant kahan pahni thi!” Our laughter resounded in the silence of the night.

‘Chaan gaya mujhpe jaadu karke vaari tore jaaun main sadke dhol yaara dhol… man mein mere hunk uthi hai koyal jaise kunk uthi hai dhol yaara dhol…’

Letter of Thanks

As I must have said before in my posts and as the ones who know me know very well, I am not at all religious. In fact, some godly beings have also gone to the extent of calling me an atheist. I disagree with them, but that is beside the point. The point is that I suddenly had this overwhelming realization yesterday that I am one of the luckiest people on earth!

I have been selfish not to thank the loads of people who have been involved in my life, trying to make it blossom and even the others who have tried hard to wither it (my special thanks to these for taking so deep an interest.) But today I have realized I must thank the most important people in my life.

To avoid any unlikely damage to their person, I have decided to keep their names confidential. In case you approve of some of them, I request you to please inquire in confidence their particular names.

Thank you,

You who gave me education, and brought me up. You who taught me to fight to win despite all odds. Who taught me to feel, to cry, to try and to succeed.

You, who were my first friend; I would like to thank you for exploring the hidden places… ahem… of school with me. Thank you for bunking the first class and for flirting with the poor scared little boy in kindergarten.

You who taught me to love dogs; who said they are cute. Who held my trembling hand and put it on the doggu’s head. Thank you for that wonderful feeling when the doggu tongue licked my hand!

You who were the first furry brown doggu to become my friend; the first to give me the doggie nose feel!

You, my four legged messiah, who wagged me through the most difficult times of my life. I hope I have the privilege of bearing you my friend as my son, in my next term. I have not been able to repay you, and I am deeply sorry for having betrayed you.

You who were my first love; who taught me what love could be; who were with me in the innocent pleasures of childhood. Thank you for making me feel beautiful, wanted and strong. Thank you for teaching me that an opportunity lost is never returned. Thank you for teaching me the importance of being earnest.

You who taught me all my music and most of life; thank you for being my mentor, teacher and friend. Thank you for protecting me and yet never making me feel closed. Thank you for letting me know the difference between indulgence and obsession; for being my guiding light. And most of all, thank you for telling me if I dream it, I should do it.

You who taught me the real value of sacrifice; who showed me what love could inspire. Thank you for teaching me that the greatest riches of the earth are the heart. Thank you for showing me the treasure that one gives, and the more one gives the wealthier they become.

You who taught me what bad management could do to a perfectly winning situation. You who showed me what happens when one has everything except courage- and the importance of self respect and belief. Who taught me it is not enough to dream; it is important to make it happen.

You, my Krishna; thank you for showing me what love is, can be and must be. Thank you for teaching me that laughter is shona. Thank you for holding me where the path was most shaky, and for hammering my self confidence back into me. Thank you for helping me revive my belief in god, in myself and in angels; Thank you for being with me in music and in laughter and for showing me that ‘sickness and pain’ are useless times to be considered, because life is not about sickness; it is about music and vibrancy.

You for showing me what patience is; to what extent one can go in love with someone. Thank you for putting up with my stupidity and making it so easy to be different. Thank you for telling me that time does not decide the depth of relationships, feelings do. And thanks for saying, 'It does not matter.'

You who have been with me through thick and thin; thank you for extending to me the best friendship on the face of the planet. I admire you for your courage and innocence. Thank you for accepting me as I am, and finding among my innumerable faults reasons you thought you could love me for.

You who showed me what fear is; how constrained suspicious and miserable a human life can turn into. Thank you for making me feel how privileged I was for being able to smile freely. Thank you for teaching me that the biggest gift to mankind is not money, not education, not technology or food or pleasures or looks. It is a mind; a heart; a soul- without these a king is ultimately a rat in a dark wet dungeon, running from himself, round and round and round... And most of all, thank you for giving me the assurance that I can rise above anything. Thank you for teaching me not to take life’s simple things for granted, because for some people they are at an immeasurable distance.

You, Sri; for showing me that God is everywhere, in any form, you can meet him.

Thank you Almighty, for blessing me with all these wonderful people who have helped me be proud of myself, despite the natural flaws I carried into your pristine world.

Obituary to Myself

I was told by a well-wisher not to publish any poems on my blog. He said they would get stolen! 

One day Mirza Ghalib started missing a poem of his, and went all over the world in search of it. He could not find it. A few days later, all Gahalib’s friends received a letter from him- he had found his poem. They went to his house to find a miserable beggar royally feasting on the choicest delicacies at the great poet’s living room. Ghalib introduced this man to his astounded friends, “This is the man who gave me back my poem. I found him singing it on the street below my window.”

Thank you, anyone who wants to steal any of this. 

Obituary to Myself
Down the way on a deserted path
At the turn lies an upturned stone
Looking at it from a distance
On a little shrub a pink bud grows

I am inspired and I think
What could have been here to mark
Who might have dug so deep
To a couch a stone in soft dark

Beads of sweat roll down my neck
The yellow tells of a wasted life
Yet the unshakable weight sits
Recalling a thousand nights of strife

On a path no one treads
Guarding his territory, the sepoy stands
Signaling a road to nowhere
A prominent land mark on no man’s land

Suddenly the monster oozes blood
I spot among yellow a dab of red
The air smells sweet as the wind blows
Over a red rose on the grave of the dead

I stand still eying the fresh flower
A token of unknown love, untold
Words on an unmarked grave stone
Of an obituary to myself unfold.

Mumbai Blasts! Mumbai Blasts!

In the past two days, all I have seen, heard of and read is Mumbai blasts. It all began with a somber feeling of shock. Then it turned into anger and hatred but none inspired me to post a blog. Finally, since yesterday I have had a few laughs and that inspired me to post a blog. First, Kolkata TV (My mom’s favorite) aired a long documentary on the lack of security in Kolkata. A bunch of shit-scared journalists scurried around the city’s posh-est areas with a basta full of explosives and a couple of battered, fourth hand mobile sets. They entered various electronic monitoring doors and parked their ambassador-taxis in the middle of the roads, all the while speaking into the mike of an accompanying cameraman, how they have been making a mockery of the cops and never been caught. Meanwhile, the surrounding shonar millions huffed and pushed their way past the crew, some of them spluttering their rage at the hurdles, into the same mikes!

Then, I received a great many messages telling me to think, ‘Why do blasts take place before elections?’ and, ‘How many blasts have taken place in the past five years?’, ‘What is greater- 50 years of work or 20 days of false prachaar?’ Think! They urged me, so I did. As I did, a feeling of disgust caught hold of me by the neck. Rushing downstairs to refresh myself with the latest news, I landed on pages and pages of articles telling of the body count rising, of Ashish Chaudhary’s grief at his sister’s death, of Amitabh Bacchan’s blog and Amir Khan’s view on the present circumstances. All of this news was interspersed with body counts and the plight of general Mumbai. On every other page there was a one page advertisement- ‘Zara yaad karo qurbaani’ with a snuffed out diya image in black background. ‘Aatank ko alvida kahiye. Vote for BJP.’

I switched on the TV. Various channels were airing talk shows. An extremist said, ‘The aam janta should come out on the streets and grab the aatankvaadis by the throat!’ He was countered by a more sober politician who said we should let the army solve it for us by declaring war on Pakistan. A staunch supporter of his own party said, ‘War happened in 67 as well. Kuch nahi badla.’ Suddenly, in front of my tired eyes it all turned into a political campaign! No one thought of the economy going down the drain, as a consequence; of lack of proper training for the cops; of the sheer idiocy of not learning from mistakes. I started missing our CM, who had she been present, would surely have reprimanded Mumbai for ‘being too adventurous.’ Changing channels, I was taken to more light hearted shows, doing surveys. A few of Delhi’s suave nightclub owners said, ‘We had huge plans, but these are not the times to celebrate. Tonight, we will only host simple dinning at our restaurant. The bar will remain closed.’

I switched off the TV. Folded and kept the newspaper away, and was seized by uncontrollable laughter. I am not writing this to provide answers- not for the reader and certainly not for myself. As I write, I can’t help but recall a couple of lines from one of my favorite poets- William Butler Yates- ‘I see my life go drifting like a river from change to change.’ That’s what I see for India. Changes are never smooth. Growth pain is a scientific truth; disdain is not needed, nor despair- just a little medicine to ease the pain and make the bones stronger. The times, they are a changing.

The Heroic Mundane

Before I start, I must thank my friend whom I will not name, for inspiring me to write this one. He has till date an entry on his own blog, which upholds the importance of rhyme in a poem. In a qawwali style fight with a fellow poet, he defends poesy and her charms; the lilt of her melody and the curve of her bodily virtues, while the fellow poet says something to the effect of:

Poesy will be poesy, irrespective of whether she rhymes,
A lover is a lover, no matter if she’s black or white.

I do not wish to intrude this friendly banter with my own point of view, but while reading the blog, a different and far wider perspective hit me in the face, compelling me to post a second article on my infant.

As I read the camaraderie on-line, I inadvertently recalled many of the poets I had read in my M.A years- Shakespeare, Shelly, Browning, Coleridge and many others whose words transported me to a different world of fantasy and pleasure-pain-pleasure. I recalled those unbelievable stars- Clark Gable, Taylor, Dev Anand, Madhubala. And then I recalled those magical words; Gone with the Wind, Anna Karenina. Many a lives sped through my eyes and many a tales unfolded. Then I asked myself, why not any more? Why does today’s world feel satisfied with the God of small things? Why do we feel privileged having John Abraham and Rahul Bose? Why does anyone- even me -write a blog, a book, and find audience a plenty.

I thought for a moment that maybe, desires change with times and today’s desire is Akshay Kumar and not Rock Hudson. But in that case, I should not remember Hudson! Then what is the reason for my complacency, that I should feel gratified with the next door writer, actor, poet, artist. Has the mundane become so heroic that there is no more use for the heroes. Or, has the heroic become so mundane that there is a desire for something really mundane. Or is it just that the world has turned into a small place and there is no more anything elusive enough to be heroic for. This last thought holds with me. One of the side effects of progression is the loss of mystery. As nothing remains impossible, nothing remains desirable.

Gone are the days when Sindbad went through oceans and mountains to the ends of the world. The ends of the world are now accessible via Air India, and Sinbad’s sword has been outdone by a Visa-stamp. There is no treasure hunt out there. Consequently the hunt has turned inwards. Each person wants to read his own book because that is the only book he/she has to achieve- every other is available over the counter. The rarity of a Michael Angelo or a Picasso is long forgotten. The only collectibles today are one’s own bedroom photos- Picassa for Picasso; the only biography worth reading, one’s own. And this feeling of our own worth gives us the perfect reason to share our heroic lives with all the world- through orkut, blogger and other labyrinthine channels for fellow Sindbads to sail through!

The reason? The fact that there are not enough reasons or that everything these days has a reason- which ever you like. Fantastic rhymes are no longer needed, because there are no longer fantasy lands to talk of. ‘Want’ has moved out of our lives. The era of civil wars and world wars, iron curtains and black deaths are long past, and so is the heroism needed in the face of such trials. Life is easy, abstract, and so are its artists and their art. So is it a good thing or bad? Reasons! We want reasons for everything. Now why should we know whether it is good or bad. It is none, or maybe it is both.

Life moves in a circle and so does the world. So does history and so does evolution. We started from Adam and Eve, and came full circle when Paradise was lost. Since then, many times we have destroyed and as many times raised from the dead. Now, we are looking for reasons- in Mumbai blasts, gay rights, opposition of gay rights, constitutional changes, IPL so on and so forth. Soon we will find them and grow sick of them. Then the old world charm of fantasy will revisit our till then logical lives. And if during this logical period we are drawn to our own minds and hearts; why, it is not so bad. After all, the greatest unsolved mystery is the human being.

Through reality shows and talent hunts, every one lives the dream of conquering a difficult situation. Since the Big Boss’s resignation, we have appointed our own. The age old Freudian ‘Other’ has moved beyond horror films and sexual voyeurism. The desire to spy is no longer relegated to the dark subconscious. It is out in the open. Every one rightfully lives his/her dream through the pain-pleasure-pain of others. And for those who can’t find a carrier of their dreams, they can write a book, take a picture or start a brand… anything. The desire is for poetry- beautiful, fantastic poetry- poetry that overcomes pain, struggle and war. And for that, what is first needed is pain, struggle and war- inspiration. Some make war, miss-orienting their ultimate motives for poetry, while others make poetry of their own internal war. And thank God they do. Look inwards, says Krishna, and you will find me.

Why Indulge?

This being my first post, I thought I should write something about why I chose this header for my blog. I have never really understood, nor ever been able to fully realize the need for the other world. Not that I am an aetheist. Niether am I a pagan. It’s just that not the prettiest, most exotic description of paradise, has been able to give me the feeling I have when the grass touches my feet as I walk in chappals down the dusty road to my grocer. So I am basically an earthy person (maybe the result of being a Virgo).

I have had many discussions with people who say they are spiritual and godly and that sort of thing. I have many times heard their reasons, for the need for sacrifice and taking on pain and worship and what not. And try as I might, each time I have thought that they were fulfilling only their own need. A need to be sad; a requirement for self pity- to tell themselves how infinitely important they and their tears are! God certainly does not require tears; if he had, he would not have wasted so much infrastructure building a Heaven when all the sadness of the world was already here- on Earth.

A few days back my Gtalk status said- The highest point of indulgence is the Devine. My belief is that any indulgence- anything that makes one happy can not be the road to Hell. Be it music, or a daaru party with friends, or cuddling a puppy, or loving someone you love- each of these is a heavenly feeling. On the other hand, anything that makes one feel deprived can not have come from above. But of course, moderation is required. Meditation is different from sleep. One should not have so much daaru that he looses the sense itself which gives him pleasure. One should not fall unconscious while meditating. Senses must be cared for; otherwise one looses one’s Heaven.

Very recently, I was alone in my room musing upon this thought, when a little kid from my neighborhood came in and sat quietly in a corner. He was having a big bar of chocolate quickly and with relish. I asked him why he was hiding, and he said, “Chotu dekh lega.” I said Chotu also has an equal right to it. “Why should he not see it?” “Arrre,’ he said, ‘usko pata chala to sara dabba khali kar dega. Main to ek ek karke khata hoon na. Usko kahna parta hai ki khatam ho gaye.” So, there lies the use of the other world. The ‘Chotus’ of the world need it, which is not a bad thing after all, if it saves their teeth. And when I reached this conclusion, I thought I’ll name my blog ‘Indulge…’, because I am proud I am not Chotu.

I would like to only add those ever beautiful lines of Mirza Ghalib:

'Humko maloom hai jannat ki haqeeqat lekin
Dil ko khush rakhne ko 'Ghalib' ye khayaal accha hai.'