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.'