At Anoushka Shankar's concert 'Home'

Yesternight, we were at Anoushka Shankar's concert 'Home' in Mumbai. It sent me into multiple reveries. First I can recall is thinking about my happiest moments, and contemplating where I would love to be (perhaps provoked by the thought that this must be her happiest place). One strong visual was of me debating somewhere on a stage, or interviewing someone (with an audience listening intently, always). 

Only a few minutes into the concert, I could feel myself calming down in a weird way- I say weird 'coz I was calm walking in; it was a relaxed day with the wife, good lunch, easy evening, and a nice drive and chit chat with her. But somewhere it seemed to slow me down (yeah 'slow me down' feels more like it than 'calm me down') in a way that I felt the desire to be in that state for longer- a feeling I can last recall from a meditation camp in Rishikesh. 

I then remember thinking physical beauty is not redundant. I was not enjoying looking at the Tabla waadak's rather unpleasantly colored hair (contrasted for instance with the beautiful curly hair of Zakir Hussain). I was conscious of myself feeling a little pleasure every time Anoushka Shankar smiled- I think in part it was because it was joyful to see an artist enjoy the performance so much as to smile, but also because the smile made her look prettier. The shehnaai waadak, who walked in about an hour into the show- he had a more pleasant physical presence than the tabla waadak, whom he sat next to. And I remember enjoying his presence even before he blew his first notes out of the shehnaai. I was soon more consumed by the symphony they started building together. The tabla waadak was extremely playful, with his head movements and gestures, egging on the mridang waadak, which I found lovely. It was as if in the middle of a professional performance, he was stealing his moments of childlike fun. Anoushka joined him, reciprocating with head gestures and smiles, and it was endearing. The mridang waadak responded, but almost solely with the rising ferocity of his beats on his instrument, not so much with gestures. 

In all this, the symphony was growing in tempo. What they were producing on the stage was increasingly charming. If I could see myself from without, I would've found a 30 year old man, neatly dressed in ironed pants and shirt, going into fits of head swings like a junkie, and suddenly clasping his face and watching intently like a child, his smile growing beyond conscious intent and his body magically finding its rhythm as the symphony on the stage found its own. 

It wasn't all mystic though. The person to my left kept fiddling with his phone, the screen's brightness distracting me often, rather disturbingly at times. I felt irritated for a while, but then I remember feeling sorry for him 'coz he was missing something; and then going back and forth between being irritated and feeling sorry. At some point, I moved into another seat to distance myself. physically from the person and mentally from that see-saw of emotions, both equally corroding my experience with what was unfolding on the stage. A few times, I looked at my wife who I found enjoying the music in her own less animated way. She was attending to some office chats once in a while. I think I thought she was as involved and enchanted by the music as I was, but was magically finding in her, the resolve and patience to handle the disturbances and come back to the music rather seamlessly. 

Meanwhile, what was happening on the stage was unreal. The percussionists repeatedly challenged the Sitarist, and she obliged every time, upping the game. The flautist and the shehnaai waadak had their own little match going on; and then every one joined in to raise the tempo not once but over and over again, beyond certainly what I could imagine. The audience must have found many highs on the way to the group's eventual high. Like a man skillful enough, would make such love to a woman that she peaks repeatedly before he does and they finally descend. By the time the group finished, I was more than satisfied. I had no qualms getting up. I had had a beautiful journey, though I didn't feel the urge to shout the usual 'once more' as we have grown used to doing at rock concerts we enjoy! 

The two of us walked out, immediately as engrossed in each other as were before walking in. A few minutes before the finish, she had made an innocent face indicating she was hungry. As we walked out, all I wanted was to find out what she wanted to eat. Which isn't an easy pursuit on most occasions. But she was quick to narrow down on 'Chinese and Thai', and almost as quick to find a good restaurant on zomato. We could have walked to the place. It was only 600 meters on the map. But we chose to drive. 

main likhta kyun hun

कभी कभी मैं सोचता हूँ, मैं लिखता क्यों हूँ 

क्या मालूम 

हाँ इतना ज़रूर जानता हूँ कि जब लिखता हूँ तो अच्छा लगता है। और अक्सर जब मुड़ कर पुराना लिखा कुछ पढ़ता हूँ तो मज़ा आता है।  

चलो यह पहेली सुलझी मानो- मज़े के लिए लिखता हूँ।  

अब कोई पूछे भला, अगर लिखते हो, और लिखने में मज़ा आता है; तो फिर यह सवाल क्यों, की लिखता क्यों हूँ!

मसला यह है कि लिखने में इतना मज़ा आता है, कि कई बार मज़े की तलाश में जान बूझ कर लिखने  बैठ जाता हूँ। और जब ज़िद्द से बैठो ना, तो लिखते नहीं बनता।  सूझता नहीं क्या लिखूं।  फिर मन मचल उठता है, और सवाल खड़ा होता है- मैं लिखता क्यों हूँ।  

चलो बहरहाल दोनो बातों के जवाब मिल गए।  और आप समझ ही सकते हैं कि आज लिखने को कुछ था नहीं।  सो … 

Link some glory

I have had emotions stacking up for this post for some while. Banjo da's note 'Legends and Oaths' finally prompted me.

At one point, he says 'I love watching movies'.
When I was growing up, 'going to' movies was not much reason for applause. Not just because I was a kid, and I could do better than wasting hours at cinema halls. It was an 'indulgence' which was best avoided. With least critical eye, it was something men and women did when they could not muster enough will to engage in anything productive.

When I moved to Pilani, with in a short while I experienced a 'revolutionary' thought. Men of honor, men of taste, men of intellect watched movies! Suddenly there was glory in announcing 'I love movies'. For one, I had never used the word love for whatever I felt about movies. In fact I had not seen many before Pilani.
How many? A dozen! Two dozen. Definitely not more.

Soon, the world of cinema hooked me. I was talking about movies, reading about them, looking for certain 'kinds' of them. And there was this dawning sense of connection with another 'love' I had always had- novels! I realized it was all about stories. I enjoyed reading stories. I enjoyed how different people told different stories and often quite differently. And movies offered all the more options with subjects, characters, styles. Most often in less than 3 hours. Any novel would take me no less than 2 weeks of mad reading to finish. I always enjoyed detail and never skimped through even the most pumping mysteries.

Anyway this post is not about my fascination for movies.

Let's talk about entrepreneurship.

When I was growing up, I always hated the idea of doing 'business'. I thought businessmen were men who wanted nothing in life but money. Simple.
Around 2nd or 3rd year of college, the word 'entrepreneurship' started making a buzz. I clung on to my faith in science and engineering and literature. Business was business. Business was to mint money. And money was not what I wanted in life.
Suddenly, best brains were talking about their entrepreneurial dreams!
People were talking about the concept of 'lending' financial 'worth' to their projects (ventures). I held on for a while.
But it was a strong wave. Steve Jobs was becoming a hero. Albert Einstein was losing.
Smart people were quoting the Steve's of the world and and not Albert's.
And then social ramifications got associated with it, and hence was born 'Social Entrepreneurship'. Glory!

I saw myself getting pulled to 'Conquest' more than 'APOGEE'. (Only BITSians will make sense of this)
I saw myself growing keen to talk to and learn about people of Steve's clan.
I saw myself talking to friends about entrepreneurship and the social variant more so.

But this post isn't about entrepreneurship. (btw do you know how difficult it is to spell this word! I err nearly every time)

Let's talk about biking. Or we can talk about meditation. Or should we talk about youth in politics? Photography?
There's so much to talk about. This is why I was so muddled when I sat down to write this post.

Ok I'll jump to the point.
Glory is a brilliant thing.
It can be maddening. It can be fueling. It can be your life. It can be your death.
I say- nothing moves man more than desire for glory.
Not money. Not sex. Glory. Maybe every desire is but a variant of the innate desire for glory.

Why does anybody seek to climb a mountain? Why would anyone want to swim at the North Pole?
Why do I fancy rafting in Amazon! Why do I fancy cycling to Lahore!
Glory!

I'll leave you with a quote I recently read somewhere. Sums up everything I have tried to convey via this post. Everything I have managed or failed to say.

"If you want to build great ships, do not gather people and teach them about nuts and bolts and wood and metal and wind and waves. Entice them about the sea!"
------ Link some glory! -------

What glory are you after?
WHAT GLORY ARE YOU AFTER?

The art of referencing

Let me call it so ... 'the art of referencing' !

I can recall moments from as back in time as primary school when an idea would strike me, and as it happens even today, I would become very restless, eager to share the 'idea'.
At times, on quick retrospection, the idea would sound more brilliant to me than in the first instant, the instant it was born; at times it would begin to sound atrocious, but almost always more remarkable !

What happens with remarkable ideas or remarkable people or things or food ... anything ... is that the focus often gets restricted to the sheer remarkability quotient of the subject (some thing the recent revolution of 'sensationalism' in TV news channels has brilliantly cashed ... they draw your attention not to the subject but to its being remarkable ... so it makes your eyes pop out ... it gets talked about and they make money or whatever else they are after).

To me this is saddening. Imagine a thoughtful gift wrapped in a very-very-bright paper and frills pinned to it, maybe a wordy cardling taped to it as well. It's very likely that what catches attention and hence absorbs attention is the wrap, not the gift. Sad!

When I take an idea to a person who I think might appreciate or critique it (both are sought as dearly), I often fear any frills taking the gleam away from the idea. One thing that I've experienced very commonly spoiling the party is the spontaneous need to acknowledge and say 'Wow what an idea!' Over years I have grown to rather dislike people who are instantaneous in their appreciation. It frightens me. I am not sure if the 'idea' even sank in. As opposed to something having been found, something being conceived is a 'bigger deal' where in lies the perfect setup for its demise. If I write 2 stanzas of rhyme and take it to someone to be read, it is less likely it will incite as original a response as would a stanza I say I found on the internet perhaps; coz in the latter case the remarkability of it having been created does not eat into half the reader's soul.

Now, in a bid to shrug off the baton of ownership of the idea, I often attempt to create a story of how I 'discovered' the idea. I would randomly name a philosopher (he said this), blurt out a fancy name of a fictitious book (where I read it), talk about a random person, live or imagined (I heard it form him). To prevent the spurious 'awwww' or 'wowwww'.

Why this whole spill?
Because of late, meeting new people, talking to people with varying histories and geographies, browsing through videos and blogs on the internet (yes I am jobless and have all the time in the world for nonsense pursuits), I have had multiple deja-vu's. Bizarre things I imagined, nebulous ideas I conjured, I realize aren't completely unrealistic after all. They exist; in varying shapes and modes around the world. And I'm discovering terminologies for my whims!

Back in 2nd or 3rd year of college, I had built an imaginary school of research only to slate my fancy for the possibility of phonetic sounds carrying meaning. I find out via a TED talk 'phonesthesia' (http://www.ted.com/talks/golan_levin_on_software_as_art.html). I was possessed with the idea that sounds and images do inevitably have a relation. They have coined terms like 'the sounding image'. I had a hazy notion of what I later found was called associative memory. And now I see an Arthur Benjamin demystifying mathemagic and a Bobby Mcferrin making a point in audio adaptivity! It's all making a complete circle.

But this is digressing from the subject. Back to the 'art' of referencing, I say is one's veil from beneath which one can trick the smart-ass Heisenberg and record observations of the inside of a nucleus and not wake up the sleeping neutrons! It might be a classic case of name-dropping for some but it may well be thought of as inverse plagiarism!

Database and Networking

A chain of incidents over the last one month brought back memories of the time we bade farewell to our last set of seniors at BITS (I distinctly remember how vulnerable and fragile I felt at the thought of being the eldest). I was reminded of some stark words that the-man-that-is Rohit Koul said :
"To grow/develop/prosper, a man, just like a computer system, needs two elements- database and networking"

It was much later that I made sense of the profound words!
Database = one's knowledge/skills/information-bank -> of course vital !
Network = the people one lives-with/is-connected-to/looks-at and listens-to !

I don't intend to bore you with details of the story. But I wish to share a lesson I learnt:
"One's database and network nourish each other"

The smarter one's network, the better his database grows.
The better one's database, the finer one's network grows.

Thank you Rohit Koul!

Love Krishna in n ways

Yesterday, traveling to Jalandhar, I read an article in TOI on different expressions of love towards Krishna. A bulleted summary:

1. Vatsalya bhav: love like a parent (read Yashodha); cuddle him, caress him, pamper him and feel ( even inexplicably highly) proud of him
2. Madhur bhav: love like a partner (read Radha); be fond of him and visualize in him all glory and pleasure.
3. Sakhya bhav: love like a friend (read Arjuna!); see the ultimate companion (and perhaps guide, I think) in him.

Minutes to go before the mid night bell marked Krishna's birth, I was recollecting how last year me, Somu and Sheeri wore white Kurta Pyjamas, went to ISKCON temples in Noida, Delhi and even did the Maala Jap.
With the melody of hare krishna hare rama flowing from the TV next room, the mood sank in again.

I was just typing a new status mssg "Happy Birthday flute genius" on g-talk and fb, and my grandfather comes chanting hare krishna, walks to the Pooja room, lights up an agrabatti , swings Krishna's cradle (which chachi decorated earlier today) and my grandmother follows suit.

It struck me: another classification of ways to love Krishna- the Pooja room chant and the update on social web; both virtual, both as meaningful (or meaningless) !!

Where is our patriotism?

Back in the days when our British mates were around to drill us from behind, it was easy to define patriotism. One had to either stand up in processions, stage hunger strikes or plan bombings in state assemblies. If one dared to stand up with a firm voice and steady head, one sure had the germs. If he/she felt those germs kicking from within, and could find an apt vent for the same, patriotism was identified. Men and women thriving on the vast motherland of India had been gradually encaged in an ever shrinking virtual jail. The suffocating ambience bred those germs and the germs clearly knew what the motto of their being was- to eat away the confining walls. Of course some wombs nurtured these germs better than others, and they went on to be known as the Gandhis and Shastris and Bhagat-Singhs And Chandrashekhars.

The challenge facing the generation of the sons-of-soil was massive, the oppression sickening and hence turbulence was a given; the gravel of vengeance churned the tummies and men and women hurled. The epic of attempting to digest tough weed gave way to histrionic tales of shoving fingers down the throats and smiting the enemy with what was a poisonous gluten of their disregard and our discontent.

Times were tough. Times were impregnating.
Six decades have passed since we earned our political autonomy.
There are no visible daunting walls. If at all there are cages, they are silver coated.

Our generation has too much to think about; nothing to worry about. There are careers to plan, movies to go to, sports events to follow on TV, globalization to debate, tourism to venture,economic showers to bathe in; and on the other hand, corruption to loathe, terrorism to detest, growing materialism to mock with pseudo spirituality, global warning to warn each other about. But nothing really is seizing us by the neck. If we gaze at the horizons, there are dark clouds looming. But far and scattered. We are't yet scared enough to jump out of our seats.

With smirk or smile, one witty soul aptly pointed put:
"We humans are like rockets. We don't work unless our asses are on fire."
So perhaps the need is for some fire to set, some clouds to burst. We don't lack patriotism. It's lying dormant.

I am an average Joe. I am not out on streets cleaning the clutter but I don't like clutter and I talk about it. On my part, I try not to contribute to the clutter. I get goosebumps as most Indians do, I believe, on hearing the national anthem being played out by military bands. I like to watch 'Border', 'Bhagat Singh', 'Lagaan' once in a while. I am not one to suit up with the rising sun every 15th August and 26th January. But I take pride in standing upright in reverent silence when Tagore's poem of salutation is recited. I am not one with markedly boiling blood, but I like to meet people with boiling blood. I hold such people in awe.

Today, after many years, I suited up in blue jeans and a long white kurta at 6 am sharp to attend the Independence-Day parade. With only 3 hours of sleep, my body was not at its agile best. But the excitement kept me up. I was not to march before the waving tri-color but what stopped me from walking with long strides! So, I walked with long strides. When the meticulous squads of state police and CRPF jawans walked past us on the beat, with the rousing melody of military band flowing, I was awed by the display of discipline and by the tales of vitality of various battalions narrated by the Hindi and Urdu commentators in turn. I was smiling. When the school students marched by in their squads with added fervor, my smile grew. When the students' pipe bands played and marched past us, my smile grew to where it could not grow further and it held on. Right after the parade, a 500-odd strong student group drilled in vibrant colors to the tune of ever enchanting A.R Rahman's 'Vande Mataram' and my whole self was filled with joy.

Am I patriotic?
Did my love for the country fill me up with joy and pride or was it the same high one receives from an Arnold Schwarzenegger film?
This thought infested me as I drove back home after the ceremony. I thought 'may be it's a mix of both-some truth in my patriotism and some in my love for highs'.

Now I have this insatiable desire to share with people my joy whenever and wherever I find it; people whom I love, people I revere, people who inspire me, people who soothe me. If I've watched a brilliant movie, I have to talk about it with friends who have fine taste in movies. If I've discovered a new soul crunching track, I have to share it with friends I spent nights with, raising toasts to the Kobains and Scott-Stapps. When I feel a stream of patriotic blood gushing inside me, I have to talk to my friend Rahul Azad, who without any marked heroics taught me a few lessons in patriotism.

When I read his post (http://www.facebook.com/notes/rahul-azad/im-sorry/106321289424434), my excitement deflated; although what he wrote was not surprising. My post is dedicated to this friend and attempts to deliver a pragmatic answer to the questions he has indignantly asked in his post. Incidentally, our dear friend Deepak Sharma too had a question to ask a couple of days back, which is very pertinent in this context. I am hoping for a few more posts from him, from Rahul Azad and from more 'average-Joes' who might have felt excited, exhilarated, indignant or even ashamed at various instants when the son-of-soil in them felt summoned, mocked or challenged.

Skipping meditation

When I first held her, I fumbled. She didn't come to me for I was not deft. I looked around to see if anyone was laughing. Assured, I returned to my endeavor.

I find myself nearly voodooed by her. My days are spent yearning for the evenings. All day, I long to get a grip of the witch. She sings to me, waves to me and smiles to me every time she passes my eye. It's as if she tempts me, and teases by disappearing for a split second. I crave not to let her off my sight, so I roll my eyes with her. But once she's behind my back, I'm restless. So I turn my wrists with fiercer animation and my legs have to oblige. I hop, I land, I hop, I land. My legs like it when they can feel the ground. But I can see her only when I'm off it. My heart is anxious. I don't want to lose sight of her and this fuels me to go faster. The firmness in her voice grows as she begins to whiz past me. The music now flows. If I close my eyes and listen to it, it's as if I'm being served lashes. But the pain is sweet.

And once the sweat begins to trickle down my forehead and wets my eyelashes, she grows resplendent. The feeble light of a setting sun, filtered by the sweat pearl impregnates the space between her and my eyes with colors as brilliant as a rainbow's. And the tale of striving turns into a saga of gratification. Now I can't feel the pain in my legs. I can't see the faces or hear the voices around me. My world has spiraled inwards. She emerges in her glory and I smile and lick bliss off my lips. She has kissed me. I have touched the zenith and I'm quenched. I halt. I'm panting. I lay her on the ground and sit by her side. Her passive self is serene and I touch her gently. Then drawing a deep breath in, I twitch my brow and rise up.

When I joined the neighborhood gym last month, for the nth time in last 5 years, once again with a 'firm' resolve to round my shoulders and flatten my lower abdomen, the trainer handed me a skipping rope. "3 sets of 100 and then come to me". I fumbled withe the first few. I looked around to see if anyone was laughing. Assured, I returned to my endeavor.

In three weeks' time, I have grown so fond of the rope and enchanted by what she does to me that I long to hit the gym like never before. The few minutes of insane skipping prepares not only my muscles but my mind to hit the machines. The routine is tiring and energizing at the same time. In my earlier attempts to learn meditation, I had come to associate stillness with the art. But this recent experience with the rope has taught me what I now call 'skipping meditation'.

the LEH chronicles

SMOKE

Virein fancied lying in a big lounger, in an unlit room, before a huge LCD screen, his circumaural surround-sound headphones hanging by the skull, a remote in the right hand, a cigarette in the left; he took a liking to smoking with his cigarette dangling between the forefinger and middle finger of his left hand, felt a symbolism in what his shaky left hand finger did to the cigarette, rings of smoke waywardly rising up, much like the cigarette did to the colloids in his head. In darkness, in solitude and in burning tobacco, he sought and discovered repose. Light would bring to fore, malevolent visions, company chaotic emotions and abating cigarettes a fear of being harrowed of his delirious calm.

Awakened by thirst on a dry April night, he stood shaky, rubbing his brows and swallowing his tobacco laden saliva. His sweaty armpits and chest were itchy, and as he ran his fingers through his unkempt body hair, he felt his nails sharp, breathed a puff of warm air around and staggered to the fridge. As he gulped half a bottle of cold water, his body jittered and he sensed his soles burning; he spilled some water and stepped into the puddle and suddenly a wave of youthfulness ran up his stale whole. His one eye opened wide for an instant and a warm tear wetted it, he shut the fridge door, smeared other eye with his moist finger. Now he could see.

As he sat back on his bed, he felt like he was elsewhere before he woke up. He had been dreaming again. Of the faraway hill, the deserted hut with a slanting wooden roof, a creaky door, built of left over planks fastened with rusted nails and wire, which allowed but a steak of moonlight into the room, as Virein swiveled his head to music pouring in his ears and swooned eventually. He had just dozed off in his dream when he woke up. Yes, he could follow the trail.

He walked out to the next room, switched the CFL on and half closing the door behind him again, pulled his cane chair and settled into it with a cushion under his bums. Stretching his legs out, planting his bony feet on the table, he grasped the TV remote and started surfing the channels. The dim light from the adjacent room, lit half the wall in front of him, and that gave him the same eerie feeling as the moonlight in the hut. Leaning to his right, he found his pack of Marlboro lights. As he looked out at the tree through his window, he could sense the breeze playing with the leaves; he stared on for a while and then smoked away.

He made an effort to rise and walk out to the balcony. It was cool outside and the next drag brought him a gasp of pleasure as he wondered where the wind might take his smoke, mix it with scents of flowers in the night sky, odors of decaying bodies somewhere, blue-black smoke from the demons of road at night, the leviathan trucks and perhaps more little wisps of smoke breathed out by sleepy menaces running the menaces. And almost as if the wind clutched his wrist and drove him, he climbed up on the railing and began to imagine to fly, fly in search of his last puff of smoke and the one before that and ran his tongue on his dry lips, musing how it might taste if he inhaled it again with his mouth. In the small grooves in the grill, he fixed his feet and swung his arms wide, a gust of cool breeze hit him in the face.

Gusto!

He could fly!

He knew he could fly!

 

My grandma called it chamber

My grandma called it chamber, and at times office; my father called it garage, my grandfather called it daftar

The place where I grew up, we had a small room with a low ceiling, in the front corner of our house that belonged to my chachu. It was his workplace. On the outside, hung a board that read ‘Advocate Puneet Gupta’

Our house had an assorted flair of grandeur and succinctness. I realized this when we moved to a new house. I was 15 then and I took time gathering strewn fractions of myself from the place I had known as home all my life, and conform to the change. I remember, for many months, I would spend lone minutes thinking about the place. My fondest and most distinct memories were in this small room.

With a big table in the middle that stood on a rugged carpet, a rickety, green-colored table fan which made an annoying humming noise until we patted and it obeyed like a mannered kid, and a ceiling-to-floor large glass case in the rear wall laden with chachu’s AIR copies, it embodied an archaic compendious spirit.

Of the many memories, is one with the GLOBE. Proportionate with the table it stood on; it was a big globe. For the first time in my life, my chachu showed me India on the globe. Before that, it was a mere ball for me.

I was amazed.

By two things.

One, the very idea of this being the earth. And the other sank in as I asked him ‘jammu kahan hai’ and he showed me a tiny dot and went on to explain how scale works. I took a minute with myself to contemplate if a dot blows up into the whole of our city, this globe should swell into something gigantic. Of course, I did eventually read about the size of earth and I can remember smiling proudly to myself in a geography class. After all I had figured it out years ago while the other blokes in the class had to come to school to learn about it.

Whatever it was; a globe or a ball, I liked to sit on the table and play with it while chachu spent hours with his multi colored files and those white and green tag-threads. These things fascinated me. I often felt envious and thought I should own some, one day.

I asked him once why these files were in different colors. I can’t claim to have made complete sense of what he said, but the conversation must have sounded something like this:

Alag alag colors ki files kyun hoti hain?

Alag alag cases hote hain. Ek color ki file mein ek case.

Case kya hota hai

………

Back then, the ambition of my life was to become a carpenter. I thought to myself when I do accomplish it, I’ll have different color files for pictures of the stools, chairs and doors and almiras that I would design.

When I look back at those days, I feel I shared a very easy relationship with my chachu. It is striking, or maybe in a sense it testifies the relation we had, that I called him Tu, despite having grown up in a family where civic manners were glorified; rather beyond relevance. I can remember my grandma often pointing it to me how disrespectful I was being by calling him Tu, and now I understand her concern was obvious, but it never occurred to me then. He was more a companion than an elder.

Like most kids, I liked kites; but unlike most kite-lovers, I wasn’t very good at flying them. So I had to convince my father to come up to the terrace and fly one for me. All this while, chachu would sit in a corner in his characteristic squat, his face cupped in his palms. He would smile to me, wave to me, but never quite participated in the sport! As I grew up, I was to realize he never liked it and it dawned on me, that he sat there only to watch me go through my endeavor.

Back to the small room I was describing. This room, to a person who hasn’t been there, spent lone time there, would seem like an insignificant little thing. To me, that was and remains one of the few places where I find solace. The low ceiling, the meager space, and the packed shelves swooning under the numerous and vivid books, in a weird sense, assure me that I am not going to get lost in this world, that I have an identity of my own, and that there is one ‘rabbit’s hole’, I can return to, anytime in my life.

That’s probably why, as a kid, I added to the tally of names this room had and called it ‘my study’. As time went by, it became my full time study room. In a way, I ousted my chachu out of his own room. Gradually, it became little Setu’s study-room and while she complains it’s too small, hot, secluded, and not happening, chachu has taken to his little wedge and is happy burning the midnight oil there, his favorite squat still denying to leave him!

And as far as the story of me and my room goes, I believe he knows what the place means to me, more than anyone else. I must confess though that not much was ever spoken between the two of us. Even today morning, when I called him to greet him on his birthday, all I could muster up and burp out was ‘Raam raam chachu .. Happy Birthday’ and all he said was ‘Thank you Beta. Kya kar raha hai tu’.

But so it has been over the years. Nothing has changed, except that I stopped pronouncing him Tu some 10 years back, more out of my embarrassment than his; and he too seems to be transitioning from ‘Chhote Laal’ to ‘Beta’ which is warm and sad at the same time.

iPod bean-bag tea

I live in two worlds, or as I come to think of it, perhaps more than two but not one. I had spent the day, I hope my seniors at office never get to know about this, in the library scanning journal after journal, sticking to a book for a few minutes and searching for more the next moment, my iPod fixated in my ears, my mind fixated on the various contrasting lyrics, while my eyes scanned and absorbed more words, more phrases, as I attached meanings, separately to the words read off the books and the words poured into my ears via the iPod, which though I felt the desire to switch off more than once, but couldn’t.

Was I searching for peace in rumble, patterns in chaos?

I was half lost in the fantasy world, but half alive in the tangible world that pricks, to remind of its presence and either soothes by reassuring there is hard ground, not far from the wielding mud of the mystic world, or irritates by way of sad enlightenment that the other world is lost in translation as the half tired eyes open to frightening light.

I wanted tea.

I struggled out of the bean-bag which when I looked back at, was giving me a false sense of terror; bean-bags take the shape of our body and looking back at the large depression I had caused in the middle I was irked enough I had to feel my bum to reassure myself I had not grown drastically out of proportion.

I needed tea more. I walked up to the dispenser. I took two tea bags and added no sugar. I needed tea, I didn’t care if it was or not tas-tee!

It was caffeine my body had ordered and I obeyed.

Some people like to gulp their tea down, some like to take it in slowly, sniffing the aroma and gazing into vacant air. It’s about the sense of rejuvenation, the feeling of revival.

How I drink my tea, I have noticed, is often driven by my mood.

From the carefree laziness of the afternoon, an old familiar sense of unease was settling in. While I am not the best of disciples of discipline, missing deadlines I set for myself irks me no end. I wanted to get to my desk quickly and bury head into the paper I was reading and had left unfinished. So, I was gulping my tea.

Not good for the tongue. Burnt!
Not good for the palette. Burnt!

Dinner tonight, I thought, would not taste. Good in a way for I would have one temptation less to leave my chair and hit the mess. But I could still relish the aroma. A smile followed a frown. What could I do to keep my sensories in check? Pick a straw & suck up some hot tea and burn my nostrils!! What was I doing with my tea, I wondered. Was I smuggling back into the lazy fantasy world?

Nooooo
I shook my head and blinked my eyes twice and walked up to my desk.

BMW, murder and daal-lauki

When in a span of 5 minutes, she spoke of BMW, murder and daal-lauki; I was somehow reminded of an article on Indian women I recently read in Times of India.

When I read that article, I thought it was neither definitive critique nor a mere amalgamation of facts, and I wondered what the author intended and whether the reflection is quite in cohesion.

One moment, it appeared the author’s study was comprehensive and was inspiring me to hold in my hands, a rainbow in all its glory, look through each color of the spectrum, prick the canvas and see for myself where the touch complements sight; not quite indicating where she herself found resonance, if she did and thus intelligently leaving open ends for me the reader. As I began to feel disillusioned, it struck me if there was a chance the author was trying to blame her myopia on fog and chose to celebrate the grandeur of rainbow because that was not to be challenged; if leaving the thread untied was not a choice she made but impotence she submitted to. But then, this would steal from me the pleasure of reading. So I tried not to be conclusive or judgmental and just read on.

It was around 10 in the night and a rather stretched walk around the campus had brought me to FD 1. I felt like sitting in IPC for a while. A long walk, cold winter night and nostalgia of those early days when we used to rush to IPC- between the lectures, right after the insti-hours and again after dinner, ah the days without LAN!! Time it seems has come one full circle; now the LAN is sluggish and IPC is again a better place, if  internet be on mind. My walk and my gaze must have been telling of my nostalgia ‘cos more than once, someone looked at me with what felt like sympathy, a look we don’t give to people we don’t know. I grew conscious, pulled up my shoulders and walked in.

At ease again, I logged into g-talk. A green against her name was a new thing to be seen. I pinged:
“Online at this hour and green?”
“I’m at home. Just came back from kitchen.”
“oh! Kya banaya?”
“Daal-lauki”
“Waah. Tu to expert cook hai yaar”

The conversation took the usual route. I asked about her day, she about mine. I complained I had no work to do and how my life was becoming increasingly mundane, she told me she was being burdened with too much work at office and that was making her life uneventful. Such are the ironies of life. Personally, I’ve been in both places and I can only say a tired man’s sleep is sweeter and more welcome than when she slothfully plays with you, teases you but denies to sink in before you’ve lost all hope of enjoying her. She embraces but is cold and waking up is not so much of smiling and stretching your limbs but about begging her to get back in bed when she’s already buttoning up.

I tried to humor it up with a mention of a funny bank-incident that happened with her a few days back. One of my friends had told me she got an extra paycheck accounted against her name by her previous employer. If a 10 rupee note unearthed from an old shirt, a small sum lent and forgotten when returned brings a smile, twenty five thousand in your account you don’t know of is sure one treat. Jokingly, I suggested she should plan on buying a car, pat came the reply:

“Pehli gadi to BMW hi loongi”

I replied with a laughter-smiley but soon I was not sure if it was entirely comic. She was talking about a new model from BMW, how the interiors were pamperingly posh and the horse-power better than any previous model. As she went on to explain it rose from zero to 100 kmph in less than 6 seconds, I realized I never knew more about BMW but the trademark headlights and circular logo. I began to compare her knowledge in cars with my mother’s, who only could go as far as calling dad’s mobile or mine if her car got stuck somewhere, who never knew of a word called mileage and if her humble Maruti was only cleaned with her favorite ‘Kleanex’, she would admire it more than any flashy car on road.

Indian woman sure has come of age.
I asked her when she was buying her BMW- no reply.
“kyun ferarri ka man bana liya kya?”- nothing
‘let’s cut it’ I thought.
“aur koi nayi movie dekhi?”
……………

There’s one funny thing we do when we chat. She would often break away from the chat, no notice. No replies coming my way, I would e-shout
“Nehaaaaaaaa……”

I couldn’t resist, I did that silly thing:
“Nehaaaaaaaa……”

When I finally get a reply, this is how it sounds:

“murder karne ki ichha ho rahi hai meri”

Now I am stunned. What did I do to deserve that? But I soon realize the angst is for her mentor at office who had just called, supposedly to detail her about some assignment. Thus the delay. As she put it, he was being an ***hole for some days, trying to extract too much work and behaving very rowdily. Perhaps he had read that article too and got defensive.

The author was a female and believed that women, with their inherent patience, vision and creativity are sure to outnumber men in the top ranks. She stated women already made a strong chunk of millionaires in India. There were crisp quotations from select power-women and of course how could Shobha-De be missing. For us men, it is often an easy escape to call such ideas and such people feminist. But she sounded plain in her disposition. Moreover, how can facts be feminist?

In the mean while her brother has come back, she bids adieu ‘cos she is to lay dinner- the daal-lauki she had so fondly cooked, she hopes he likes it.

A lone walk to C'not

I have been weirdly sulky for two days. I guess it’s another of those fits I get when I don’t feel like working, I’m lazy but I wouldn’t sleep, I would want to read a book but get irritated too soon.

So around 6 in the evening, I figured out there was pretty much nothing I could do to while time away, I wanted to feel active again and so in a bid to fight my boredom, I just put on my jogging shoes; it’s beginning to get cold late in the days so I put a sweatshirt on and set out for a long purposeless walk. I wore my spectacles too. Perhaps to avoid having to wave to and smile at people I barely know and might find on the way. Winter evenings are not too bright and you can’t tell through someone’s glasses whether he’s looking at you or not.

So I’m neatly packed, with my shoulders drawn up and arms folded and close to my chest, letting the arrival of another cold Pilani winter sink in. I head off. I’m still aware of people around me so I haven’t started talking to myself. But I’m lost enough not to be conscious of what routes I’m taking at crosses. Walking leisurely but dodging the mischievous crows, I reach Gulab Ji’s redi. That’s when I realize I didn’t pass the saraswati temple. I like to walk past it when I’m in an indescribable mood. At times I get pulled in by some force which inspires me to silently recite to myself, the shlokas I learnt at school. Although I never felt convinced I could be invoking God by doing this, I enjoy it because it reminds me of the days I cherish most. My days at M.H.A.C Nagbani where I learnt my early lessons in Sanskrit and memorized Vedic shlokas. In those days, I never thought these would make a fond memory.

So I see Gulab Ji busy with his chai n samosa. Oddly I don’t feel like pausing to say raam- raam which I nearly always do. But alright, my glasses come to rescue and I walk on. The smart shopper in me is poked every time I walk past akshay but I feel like a juice first. There’s a back-ache capsule I want to buy and I need a recharge coupon for my mobile. So I walk up to C’not. I quite like the early evening silence there. My hello to people there is not enthusiastic. I stop at the medical store, buy my capsules and eye-drops and come to the Blue- Moon’s. Here I order one mausammi juice without ice, to mark my submission to the dawning winter, ask for the recharge coupon and take a seat outside.

Groping in my pockets, I take out my phone to send and read a few text messages. In the mean while, mausammi has arrived. I sip on it slower than I usually drink coffee. I’m enjoying the lull. I’m beginning to think about things not quite related yet one leading to the other. One funny day at school, a fellow from school I haven’t talked to lately, a book I read about a page-3 columnist, a prank me and Deepak, my first year roomie played on our wingies. I’m wearing a smile now. I quietly get up and make a slow walk back to akshay. I walk in intending to buy a bathing soap (borrowed one in the morning) but I see a banner reading ‘penguin book festival’.

Big fancy book stores, road side book stalls, hawkers in trains with magazines and digests stuffed in their arms, my friends' personal libraries and book fairs- have always had the same effect on me as does a passing ice-cream vendor on a child. They tempt and I invariably give in. I gave in. I’ll be in the book fair in my next blog!!

jab i saw 'jab we met'

I’m not very proud of this but I have a chauvinist in me who comes alive once in a while, denies to slumber again but eventually does.

When the proud chauvinist in me dies, I search my identity in the weaker liberal in me. I seek refuge with the victor. More often than not, I convince myself that the liberal half of me has wittily won over the impulsive, stubborn chauvinist, and for good. But at times, I am left irked. Either because I feel the chauvinist was wronged or perhaps I’m not sure if he really died.

When I first saw a kareena kapoor film, I nearly pledged I wouldn’t watch another. The chauvinist didn’t like her. But out of curiosity whether he was right or plainly out of tremendous boredom, I started watching ‘jab we met’. In a bid to be true to my chauvinist self, I religiously wanted him to win. And being the optimist I am, I played unguarded.

I was convinced this would be another sisyphean attempt to produce admirable romance.
I watched for 47 minutes straight. It occurred to me I had come this far, when shahid kapoor remarked to kareena, “tu original piece hai. Maloom hai na tujhe aisa doosra nahin hai.” Amused by the unbeaten chirpiness in her character, I spoke out to myself “seriously. She is”. And that’s precisely when I realized the chauvinist was losing. And suddenly I felt no urge to be loyal to him. I sought refuge again.

Now the protagonists reach Punjab, the land of frivolling mystique. And fittingly enough pretty much all that happens in the next half hour is foolish- sweet n sour. While the character ‘Geet’ keeps me amused, kareena kapoor is bewitching me. I try to shrug myself off the enchanting lullaby but cease to be sure who I love more- kareena kapoor or ‘Geet’. The blend is perplexing. The chauvinist is irked but I deny identifying with him.

Again neatly into his character, what shahid kapoor does in the following half hour would have ordinarily made me either frown or laugh but it makes me smile. I have given in to the story. A witty soul would nominate him a gimmick. But that’s being parochial. A due share of credit has to be given to the effort previously made in enticing the viewer to clutch the wonder broom personified as ‘Geet’. Now I wish to fly along with the exhibited free spirit.

The last section sees the story winding through a series of gimps which only makes it more enthralling. Not losing the implicit humor which is to me, the trunk of the tale, the movie takes us to the predictably romantic end. I’m not complaining.

I no longer have the desire to cling on to the chauvinist, but I don’t quite know who won- Geet the character, kareena kapoor or my witty liberal self.

raring to live on

i dont know what this is- a true-to-its-name [:P]senti[:O] feeling, a realisation or an entombed sense of belongingness to this place, but i feel a lot differently about pilani and BITS from how i used to in my early days.

4 n a half years is more than a fifth of my whole life. a longer period of time @ BITS than most BITSians spend. every six months, i would discover a new connection to this place, a new relation between my dreams and this place.

from being a place i never saw in my dreams to a place where i started hatching new dreams to a place i thought would help me realise my dreams and finally THE place of my dreams, Pilani has meant different things to me in all this while, but never so significant and inseparable as it is now. when i look back at my years @ BITS, i feel i spent the most enigmatic time here. a scary place, a dreamland, a solitary meadow, a wonderland, Pilani, it seems, wore so many masks over the years. feels like i was in a halloween party and it's only fitting that i'm writing this on the halloween's day. [;)]

and like any party one njoys, i am reluctant to move out of here. i came in and i'm abt to pack- the time inbetween seems to have flown in a flash. a lot remains unseen, undiscovered. these days, when i fall asleep and i dream, each night i see myself doing something i haven't yet done. n when i wake up, pilani seems to be clutching on harder.

i know it's time to leave. time to die. but .... i'm raring to live on.

oasis 2k7

Is it really my last ???
A real journey it has been. i've spent more time in BITS than most ppl do. 4 n half years n still raring to live on. the enigma in this place does that to me.
n what greater enigma than OASIS.
to most of the new kids, OASIS is an enigma with the huge build up and endless talk of how last year's edition was awesome. it charms. it kindles. it mesmerizes. then successive editions come with less surprise, more ease.
to me, the fifth experience with OASIS did just what the first did. only, unlike the first shot of this drug, the enigma settled in after it ended. i was left asking myself- is it really my last?