Germany 0-1 Spain

The roar of pain and anger on the face of bastian schweinsteiger said it all..As Puyols vicious header ripped through the stationary defence and into the back of the net.That 73rd minute goal and an increasingly nervous german attack, saw the white shirts out of the WC.. (and took a certain octopus to heights of glory- which i am sure it does not understand, nor care for, except for its extra bit of meat)
The German dream.. so surprisingly sprung on its people by its unlikely gang of unassuming heroes.. had been cruelly dispatched.. again.
Almost every time at the world cup finals.. the german team comes with not a tinge of expectation.. and performs better than most people give it credit for.. And more often than not, it is not individual brilliance, but regimental gameplay that lets them do what they do.
So many sobriquets for the new german team - the machine, the marching eleven .. and every time they reach tantalisingly close to their dream, and with so many resounding victories behind them, only to fail at the last moment.. almost as if they were chokers.
Maybe they are..
If only a suspension had not happened.
If only pique had headed the ball.
If only wishes were horses, beggars would ride.. Spain, with its impeccable possession and meticulous probing and undaunted patience, deserved what could easily be another victory on the road to its maiden World CUP.
This defeat smacked of two at the same time.
The Euro cup and the loss to italy last time.(which spain will be taking heart from, because italy were champions last time).
Only remains to be seen if germany win third place today.. and find some peace of mind, some solace, for the bewildered german supporters.. who surely feel that their unlikely and spontaneous heroes have flattered to deceive.. like so many german teams of the past, yet again..

Who killed The Rhyme?

He was new to the city and in search of a job. He was tall and lanky and had a week's growth of stubble on his chin. His sunken eyes spoke volumes about his hardships and his ready smile,  if melancholy, suggested pain as a constant companion.The workings of his creative heart, which made him appear restless and aloof gave him an added aura of mystique.People who saw him could see him possessed with ideas beyond his day and principles beyond his age - they radiated off his old but clean kurtas and gave him that presence - solid but stick-like, proud but impoverished.
He was, in the way of his looks, perfect for the job of an upcoming poet.
The problem was, No one was quite ready for his poems.

They spoke of a pain deeply embedded in all of us; the pain of failing to get what we yearn; the pain of falling short of our own expectations; the pain of a god who has forsaken us or a love which has been lost; The pain of separation and the pain of an eternity of forced company; His poems stripped his listeners of any pretence and laid bare their souls for them to look and grimace at; and sometimes cry upon.
Circumstance and conspiracy, those two bullies which serve Time were wielded like weapons by his words, moulded by the cutting edge of his rhyming wit. His poems took your breath away, shamelessly and without a disguise to their hurtful nature.His poems were true.

Everywhere he went with an example of his art, he was shunted aside and excused. Boards of indignant people met and discussed and failed to figure out the source of pain in his poems and the nature of words that so disturbed them.Producers had no use for his ballads of woe in their movies, albums could not be sold on grief alone, Girls could not dance to heady music set to his biting phrases, boys couldnt court girls with such pain; not in this age.He was born with the intuition for heart-wrenching wordplay, a century too late into a fast-world of pleasures, yet he looked ahead into a world of happiness, born out of self-realisation, for the pain in his poems was cleansing and inward-looking, the feeling that those boards and producers and script writers couldn't understand; that which caused them so much anguish and left them with no explanation.

He needed one person to understand him, just one to employ him and after some years and a few more kilos lost, he got them.
One who employed him, and the other who married him.
He now teaches english at the local school, where his daughter studies too.
He is fond of watching football and takes his family on yearly holidays to small hillstations.
He owns a scooter and a mobile phone and takes tuitions three days a week.
Needless to say, he is not a poet anymore.
He is happy and content and happy and contented men don't make good poets.
So i wonder who got to him.. the people who didn't understand him, or those who did; for the former didn't pay him and let him be himself and the latter gave him money,security,happiness and whatnot and he lost himself instead.

Are you a doctor?

I have a medical condition.It has no name.Yet.

The problem is I have a lot of thoughts camping around my idle brain.As a result, i keep wandering from one nice train of thoughts to another, without sitting down anywhere.The result is that hours pass by and my 'to-do' list keeps accumulating, (which gives me guilt trips every now and then)but my mind keeps loitering.

My mother says its hereditary.She also shoots a scathing look at my father, who she is pissed with because he is watching the world cup when she wanted to watch one of those regressive hindi soaps, which are so tedious that their names have to be long phrases.(Sigh, my parents use my illness as a one-upmanship tool).

She also says a good spanking was a good remedy when i was a kid,but i have grown too old for that.

Needless to say, without adequate attention, my condition has aggravated to the point where it has become an alternate world.

Let me elaborate.

Recently i have come across a spate of blog-posts on the well-rehearsed topic of social networking-its propensity for false identities and accumulation of previously unimagined junk(Have you seen the latest facebook app?).Most of the people i have asked are confused about what is really the deal with online-avatars and stuff.What is the parallel universe of online-existence? The freedom of personal space? The modern application of "georgesque" buffer space to all acquaintances (and not just parents, what? you havent watched seinfeld? what are you doing here?)? Dont get me wrong, i head that list of the disillusioned, who get fooled into clicking every facebook notification and re-tweeting everything we pseudo-like.But i am digressing...

The THING is, people are disconcerted about the splurge of social-media on the online scene(if only in the closet), because of the uncomfortable squeaky new untested feel of the virtual world- just that they dont say anything for the fear of being branded dinosaurs(or WTTHFU) .

And my problem is- there is the 'real' world of world cups and balika badhus, there is the virtual world of buzz and tweets and there is this EXTRA world i dwell in, in which i ski the alps, climb the qutab, visit my dead grandparents at their new scientology ashram in california.I am not confused, i am mega-confused.. and that is just the symptoms of my affliction.

Have you ever had the feeling that you are floating in a sea of standing water, (that is the chinese way of saying things-temple of unending peace,sword of eternal sharpness,blog of infitely long bullshit) and random thoughts and images bombard you like a blitzkrieg gone silly?I live like that, every single waking moment of my life.And you know what sucks?

No one can ever know what it feels like, because Every time i sit down to write about it in my blog, it all comes out wrong.

N.B: It must be some disease from the future,travelling back in time, so it is hereditary - from my descendants to me. Thank you mom.

True Love

He was standing on the edge of the precipice with no intention of jumping down.He only wished that he could sprout wings and leap off, to soar into the magnificence of the waiting thunderstorm before him.He wished to dodge lightening as it spiked maliciously towards him; to churn the clouds heavy with torrential rains; to tame the winds that drove those beasts of watery burden across a thousand miles, dredging cargo from the seas to lavish the land with.

He wished to escape the reality of the fact that she had left him.

His hands raised in a welcoming gesture; his eyes closed; with spears of chilly wind tearing his hair, lashing his otherwise calm face; he betrayed none of the turmoil inside him; much like the behemoths before him, waiting patiently to unleash their tempest.He felt nothing, no feeling could be felt in the nothingness that had been left behind, within him.

Not all the water in the sponges before him, nor all in the ocean below could fill it and bring him respite; and so he felt nothing, not even the void; its immensity shrinking to insignificance within itself.

He remembered all of her and yet nothing, it seems.Images, sounds, feelings, emotions were all churning within him and yet not connected to him.It was as if a chord had been cut and he had been set free,beyond all the necessity to live.

He had loved her.Truly.

The clouds, like the great muster of Armies above, like a juggernaut, confident and tumultuous, indifferent to this puny man's indifference are rolling on, much like the suggestions everyone kept throwing towards him, to move on and to let her go.

He did not understand those words, he did not comprehend their intentions, She had gone and he was still here, incomplete without her and incapable even to feel it.

If he were all right, he would think, perhaps about the nature of his love for her, one that in her absence is worthy of the tag of being true.Love, like nothing else, is most valued in longing and separation and tested through loss.

He, would know, then that he loved her, truly and move a step closer to closure.

But he, like many before him and countless yet to come, had loved, truly and would never know closure, perhaps.

And all he wanted to do, here, standing before a threatening storm, was to feel- something, anything- in vain.

His life was over when she had gone.

All he wanted was to live again.

But he had loved her, truly.

Delirious on a Hot afternoon...

Image courtesy: 

Horseshoe Bend Near Antelope Canyon - Arizona - Dan Kosmayer @ www.photographyzone.com

Lethargy is the affliction of the vacationing masses.Every year as the sun becomes trying, we are excused from education and the pursuit of job-ensnaring skills to come back home. To rejoice and recuperate.And ready ourselves, after a fashion, for another stint, our next shot at closing in on our destinations;those that have been chosen for us.

I can see only when my eyes are closed.

I open my Eyes and See a meadow, rolling away in a sea of green, as far as the eye can see; warm sun adorning a welcoming sky, with swift clouds promising the gift of rain soon.i am still and at peace and moving twixt locales and surroundings like the undulations of a sand-artist.Smudges, dots and the flair of sure hands; how i wish it were so easy to mould destiny.

Treacherous and unfair; and scary,for now i am flying over the immeasurable expanse of a soaring canyon.The lay of this ancient land quietly presents the story of eons past, times when different creatures professed to be rulers of their domain, all to the dust and arcane history, have diminished.Quietly and without mourning.

The canyon, unassuming, bearing the mark of their presence; evidence of actions -momentous and trivial alike-like canvas on an easel,painted with unending patience and care and unimaginable rigour, by the seemingly frail and powerless stream, whose voice is unheard at the depths of such a chasm( or heights, for i am flying).Time and perseverance - the masters of all past and yet to come.

The healing touch and the sting of unforgiving ire;sweet chances and bitter memories apart; The gurgling of the stream of time in our lives, never pausing and lofty-Tireless in manner and chilling in abstraction and detachment-hurts us, consoles us and cradles the very heart of hope.And teaches us, those that pause, strive and listen.

Every moment of the future, as it passes, is relegated to the depths of the past, only to be unearthed and exposed, as stark truth, staring at us, beseeching us to learn and correct, to look back and dream ahead, to step correctly and with confidence, with the knowledge of that vast chasm(or heights?) building in us, only as time passes- that we call Experience.

In that, in looking back, the luxury of physical lethargy, is it really so wrong?The pursuit of something worthwhile, for a change?

The Blink of time

"Let us go eat man. I am hungry" he said with a convincing grimace on his face.And then he rubbed his tummy and sat there at the table playing CS.
We both know we are hungry. and high. The exams are done, one way or the other and there is nothing to do now.This should be an improvement, but ..

"You know, we only do work when our ass is on fire."

"umm..?" unintelligible responses are common when your roomie is a CS addict.

So i continued.."When we dont HAVE to do something, we dont do it.because we dont have to do it." repetitions are common when you are high.

...fire in the hole...

"DAMN!!"I dint open my eyes.Obviously he died.And now...

"hey let us go eat man, i am hungry".

"hmm..."i dint open my eyes.Sure enough,soon, the rat-tat-ta of an AK-47 restarted.The weather is not predictable, but some things are...

I look around (eyes opened, eventually). There are books, clothes and loose change lying around the room ;Dirt, litter and waste paper that found its way out of the overflowing dustbin is dancing around under the fan; like arbitrary thoughts, images and memories ricocheting about my head now.

It seems like just yesterday, when i reached this place and was tucked in by mom.A flicker later i remember staying up at nights with my new friends; those unforgettable nights on the basketball court; unfunny jokes and smokes and the starry night besides; We used to shout just so we could hear the echo from across the swimming pool.

I remember so many things in so many flashes of colour that it is impossible to separate them. We played football under streetlights; we got ragged; We went to the city to watch movies; watching tare zameen par was a bonding experience for us -some of us being only sons away from home; and then we got ragged some more; we had awesome parties, all of us and it was the first time for me and it was awesome fun.Then we went home, eyes still wide from the sights of the world and filled with stories that we couldnt share at home:-)

I remember the vision of second year; to up the grades and cut down on the partying. I remember the running around for books and the seriousness in making notes .Make no mistake - it didn't work out.But its all in the past eh?

"DAMN!!" It was a headshot.He wont be delivering his dialogue now. A headshot is an insult; no one gets up without giving it back.

So here i am.
looking around my room at the things that are a part of my life at college; some of which i can never take home.
The bracelet i got from goa is missing; i know where it is. The picture on my desk. The empty bottle of vodka rolling around under my bed. The magazines stacked carelessly in one corner- unread; something that never used to happen.Pretty shells from the beach- collected on a wintry night 2 years ago, when the moon was bright and round and the waves were extra high and strong. shiny round stones from a trek ; i remember the night when we were too late to catch a bus and we walked across two rivers and hitched a ride on an empty bus from maharastra, which took us in because the driver needed directions.

It seems almost impossible to me now, on the threshold of my final year in this place, to comprehend all that has happened to me because i came here.Looking around my unbelievably dirty room gives me a weird nostalgia, for the happy moments and the sad ones tend to inhabit the place where they happened and transport me back to their time, when i close my eyes and look.And when i am high...

Emotions and checkpoints of the past are incomplete without the people involved and their chemistry.The trip down that memory lane for another day.
because i can hear the sounds of a computer shutting down.

Sure enough..

"Hey, lets go eat man. i am damn hungry". You forget, he is high too.And repetitions are common when you are high. :-)
 

Trick of Time

Time has stopped ticking for now,

a long moment, held awhile

i linger on that pleasing smile;

taking in the bewitching gaze

and skipping a beat or two.

As she pauses.

With a rush of heady emotions;

time slows and halts for me

and rewinds and plays for me, and fast

like a gasp of scant breath in me

like a thunderbolt from the heavens

as she walks away.

Ticking as it is, the world moves on

And time and everything else, the same

i am breathing ,dead all the same

As everything is new and lit

words fail to describe my spirit ,and feeling

blessed,elated to see her now

As she turns again.

and reality, in a land far away

strikes like early doomsday

as time hastens and swoops on me

and the earth is pulled from under me

and all happiness is snuffed for me

as she smiles and waves goodbye

not to me, but to a passerby.

GOlden Tears

A swift wind blew through the gilded woods. Uplifting in their mood yet chilling in their manner. Swiftly as she rode toward the west, carrying the tidings of fate for her land, her golden hair streaking behind her, her white hands clutching the reins with measured determination, her black stallion charging towards vengeance, retribution and peace.
He could see her as she rode, down the valley opposite like a sweet flowing river. Her words had the charm of an angel and her wrath, the destitution of hell. Her lips, softer than rosebuds. He was pining for them, and there she was, riding toward him. High on the precipice of his castle, he stood, waiting.
She was blind, like she had been for the last twenty years. The purulence of her septic existence was an abominable blight on the quiet, honourable street. She lived there, but withdrawn into herself, destitute and surviving on scraps and leftovers. If she was in her right mind, she might have been inclined to seek justice, but she was mad. She was crippled and out of her mind, had been for the last twenty years.
He was a good man. Very shrewd and very kind. He had fed her and clothed her since that terrible night. People often asked him, in high-end parties, why he cared for the old witch. He just smiled. He had his own penance to pursue, he said.
And who could forget the night, of course. The night was dark as hell and the winds forlorn and whining. The soldiers were meagre and certain of their death; they were shivering and filled with dread and despair. The villagers too were fazed and had surrendered to their fate. Rape, pillage and destruction. Then the attack came like the swoosh of an unfailing tide. Merciless and determined, the swords of the attackers chopped, swerved and slashed through the defence with disdain. In minutes the resistance was crushed and the village was won over. It was not how the villagers feared however. They left most of the businesses intact. But she was too bewitching to ignore, too ravishing not to defile. Her husband was murdered, her children disembowelled and she was raped, over and over again, by a hungry pack of wolves, rabid and putrid. When they were done with her, it was dawn and it was red and she was going to die. But they all went away, satisfied in their heinousness simply because none of them remembered to kill her.
He had been the one to take her. Not like the other villains took her. But otherwise, to safety and a place of relative calm. He took her away across the valley, across the river to this village, where they had been living for years.
She and her daughter, her beautiful daughter, who had escaped death that night. Like her mother, due to a stroke of derisive luck. Her suitors were nonplussed by her coldness and her friends vexed by her perpetual distractions. Their neighbours smirked at her swordplay and her lack of propriety.
He was struck by her loveliness though. And his infatuation was as if, meant to be. Governor of the region, a man in good standing with the king himself, was considered a splendid catch, even if he was a bit old. And she was pushed into the wedlock and engagement by her people. He went back early to handle state affairs and she had some time to say her goodbyes.
Her mother was a destitute and she could barely think coherently. But she could remember vividly the night that was her last and she told her daughter, amid hiccoughs and struggling breaths, of her villains and their faces.
The Gilded woods stood between her and her husband. They stood between her mother and her vengeance. They stood between a place of life and a place of hate. They stood between her sword and his slain body. The wind blew swiftly and it seemed to be whispering. At last, vengeance was riding home as a bride. And it was going to be swift and sweet.

I railed

Trains should have an enchanting aura around them.As we see these chugging beasts huffing and puffing their way through picturesque forests and enviable travails, we want to be on them, but the trains should have impressive personalities of their own.Otherwise, i soon realised, It is just a wait for the picture perfect moment,for the saving grace in an otherwise forgettable, unremarkable journey.

Maybe because i travel alone, mostly.But thats the point.When you travel in company, the train is just means of conveyance.When you travel alone, you interact with your surroundings more.You develop a rapport with the train, with its people, with its sounds and moods and colours.I traveled from bangalore to bhubaneswar recently.The train took 32 hours for a journey of 26.pain.

There is this old lady from puttapurthy.Her grandneice was getting married, so she had come to bangalore.I now know that she has 3 cows and 2 goats and her husband suffers from arthritis and diabetis.Her children are all over the country with one of them in the gulf.Her smile is infectious and disarming and her unassuming happy declarations about life, children and god are warm and draw me in.But musing on those is another story...

It must be nice, aging gracefully with your partner and near your beliefs and your god.And there is this another guy sitting opposite.Pods in his ears he is oblivious to the worlds.He is reading gokulam.I used to, when i was a kid.I especially liked the general knowledge portions.Now i wouldnt be caught dead with these.Either the guy is much younger than he looks or he does not care what people think seeing him read a children's book.

My earphones are broke.So i cannot listen to music.After puttapurthy, after some other destination, all my companions are gone and there are new ones.The train chugs on.In the midst of a cacophony of vendors' calls and children crying and boisterous males in the next compartment, i sleep.This journey is not the one that goes into travelouges...It is one of the countless ones where you go into a trance of sleep and non-sleep and are happy when its over.It is one of the 'other ones' which are forgotten.

This particular journey is all about reaching the destination.This particular train has no character.So, i rail, to travel another day.Another place, another train, maybe...

Shot to Shame

Sometimes it rains.It then seems that god in his infinite benevolence is showering us with sustenance and faith.It seems his word is being heard as a few,if at all,raise their faces to heaven, as the tatoo of cleansing grace rises over the filth around us and washes away our sins,greatest of all is to be alive now,spectator to the rape.It seems as if the pain and anguish is come to an end and the sun at last, is going to rise.It seems that hope itself is around the corner and the nightmare of reality is finally to be brought to trial before the jury of divine retribution.It seems,just for a moment, that it is a dream.Hence it is cruel to wake up.

For as the dust settles in the aftermath of the downpour, the stench of insanity overwhelmes.It does not fail to arouse pity and tears.It does not fail to reveal humanity, as it was certainly not meant to be.

His family was murdered before his eyes;brutally,non-chalantly,his life spared by the cruelty of chance.A lifetime of turmoil and daily worthless deaths he had lived through before puberty.The scarring images of a inhuman warring nation were already his inheritance.Then,his destiny drove him to this camp where his world now revolves around the single meal he gets daily and the extra bowl of water that he can sometimes scavenge.He lacks an arm and sports an infected eye.I find it difficult to see how he can last this year here.His first.He looks up,however, as it starts raining,thinking no doubt, about his emancipation.Or the extra bowl of water.He smiles.Unaware as they pour in more misery and sorrow.

He is lucky yet;well, luckier than most in this city of a million.A million dead souls rotting in ghoulish bodies.The land has been scarred by death and destitution for so long and with such vengeance,that virtues,blessings,goodwill and prayers do not tread here anymore.

But cloth stashed over his shoulder,covering his skeletal frame,stump of a limb held limp with confusion,his prized bowl and his ghostly face,his gory past and his unfathomable future get captured in one unflattering flash of my camera.This will go into my journal.And i will be one of the many, shamelessly sterile to help,except through pointless prose and inadequate journalism.It is one shot.And that is enough to glimpse only the shamefully emasculating nature of reporting genocide.powerless to help.POWERless.utterly useless.

He is standing there still.Like all the worthless souls around him.In the godforsaken camp.Right Before me,but in the deepest dark of tartarus, on the darkest of continents.

At least it rained.

Steeping Emptyness

He was trudging along the path slowly,being jostled by the multitudes of uneven humanity brushing past him.Cursing his lethargy.He looked around to see scowling faces around him.scowling at him, pushing at him, clearly blaming their problems on him.As if he was the cause of their misery, whatever that was.He could not bear it, so he looked up to the sky.But what he saw was a smudged old piece of rag masquerading as the heavens.Even the gods were displeased.
It was raining.His new suit was sodden and clung to him.His shoes complained with every step.His shoulder felt infinitely burdened and he seemed to shrink under the stern gaze of fate.With the rain,it felt like it was his sorrows raining down on him all over again.It washed him clean of hope and left him craving for the comfort and warmth he had always found at home.At the end of a killing night, a roof, a hearth, a quiet corner to wipe your tears in, and mother.

He had a Home.He had just left it in order to attend to his mindless wanderings.Well, not entirely mindless.Because he also had one purpose.He lived now to fulfill that.to achieve that solitude he had craved so badly recently.To be alone.Once and for all.Alone with himself and at peace with the world.Or so he thought.
Purpose gives light to some people.It guides them not, but it gives them determination.It transcends hope and faith.Purpose is the ancient part of our existence that is more basic than humanity.Purpose outranks destiny.Indeed, purpose moulds and creates our individual destiny.The purpose of our existence and eventual death seems to hold some purpose in the greater scheme of things.It is pleasurable to think so.For him though, purpose was life.Distilled and unadulterated.And he walked on...purposeful, but as yet unaware of the fact.

It was raining.The smells of a sinful, revulsive city rose up to mock him.He met them with equanimity.He was no more than a shell now.It could be rain running down his cheeks,because his tears had run dry.He had nothing left in him to pluck out and wager for his life.He did not know what he was doing.He no longer cared.And so it was that when he climbed the rails and jumped, he did not know that the bridge had made the final decision for him.
As the slush rose up to met him, he was not thinking of his purpose, of the resulting destiny or of his ailing mother at home.His last expression was that of a mask straining against itself to achieve an etching of a smile.A crooked wretched look that oddly enough suited him.He was thinking how the colour of his suit matched the colour of his coffin.

It was raining.And he was falling with it.

A VIrtue and more...

The deepest of emotions are those which are not easily discernable...quite obvious from the term "deepest" actually.But the concept itself is not self-explanatory.You see, what you think is the deepest of your thoughts might just be a projection of your desires and therefore not true emotions...what you want yourself to want(the eternal question of "should") is very often not what you do want and then it becomes difficult to be honest to oneself and find that twitching conscience inside which points us to the right answer.Since it all takes place in the subconscious mind, it is layered and the difficulty in peeling through them to indeed reach out to and pull out your deep emotions is a gruelling pilgrimage most of us never take. So, dear reader, that sea of self-acclamation and and secure satisfaction may actually be the spillage of your delusional oil tanker of desires...and underneath lies a vastness of grime and sewage (nice image?). in juxtaposition,There are a few precious people who epitomise the so called "one-ness with one's conscience".Their deepest emotions and sentiments are as gratifying to perceive as any virtue.Music in an honest world of nobility and courtesy will sound like speech and noise is music in ours.Hence, compared to us masqueraders of life, such people are artists of perfection and endlessly chisel away at our conception of perfection to produce ever astounding works of sheer divinity.Their work is their life and love, much in harmony with their senses and this makes them worthy of the highest form of respect that us minions can devise. Theirs is not a virtue. Theirs is a benediction.Being as humble as they are and as righteous as any, they will hardly be aware of it, but just by association with their life and working methods, we feel blessed and honoured.My Dear reader...The people i am talking about in general (and someone in particular) are far and far between and moments spent with them are to be cherished forever...Au Revoir to you ladies and gentlemen.

DuSky Dreams

Exams are around the corner…and I can't seem to feel any of the tension and confusion that grips so many others…especially my mother. No…not yet. Tension ill feel after the exams…and confusion after the results are declared. Now I feel serene…as serene as any poor lamb in 24 parganas…destined for sacrifice. I don't pray…for goats bleat, they don't pray…but I like to meditate like one...for believe me…goats DO meditate.

I'm rambling…I always do when I am on the rooftop and there is no one to listen to my gibberish.NO ONE…oh how I like this here!!!

As I stand here facing west…there is the historic hill of dhauli o the left…and a cool breeze carries the scent of ready sugar canes…from the fields that lie in between…it wont rain…the sky is calm clear and deep…for it is this time of the day when the sky is most moody…from cheery blue to velvety black. As you stand here and just see the hues change smoothly from lighter to darker…from tranquil to beautiful, how can u doubt God exists??And that he is not a painter??Trust me…the plain white dome of peace juxtaposed against a charred blue sky (for now) is a sight so bewitching that my eyes just won't move. They want to drink it all. But…

From my left to the right (and I am still facing the west…) along my house runs this road…which is the only connection 8 villages along the bed of the river dayanadi have with mainstream Bhubaneswar. It should be pretty busy right? Well when there are no tractors carrying produce or villagers huffing away on cycles (or recently lunas and mopeds)…there are these announcement vehicles...which are actually automobile three wheelers...improvised to carry an improvised speaker on top with an announcer seated inside to shout out the niceties of the newest jatra or family planning policy.sometimes there is also a girl to sing out jingles too…

Anyway…nobody is there on the road…it is empty. Alone…like me. With just a gangly tamarind tree for company…a glance beyond stills me…vast fields. Each with its own unique character…some sown…some harvested…some lolling with sprightly produce….all swaying in the wind (too far away for me to notice it…but I can imagine) and these ancient guardians of peepuls and banyans in between…scattered…standing lazily…like they have always done. Always. In the sun and in the rain…and in the chilling cold of winter…or scorch of the sun.Don't mistake their stance for fatigue or nonchalance. Its just that they have seen too much…been through it all …hundreds of times…throughout countless lives…because revolutions and old trees don't die…they exist.Always just out of sight. But there.

Meanwhile the tamarind tree bristles with life as some late travelers to the marshes make it the camp for night…but I don't dissect these majestic white birds with pearls of wisdom…no, I don't even notice them then. Because I notice that the tree somewhat clouds the view of what is certainly the best view of the sky I have seen in 24 hours.

Ah! What a view that is..! Lazy strokes of celestial gold hide bales of flimsy crimson cotton…and someone there lies the architect of it all….the sun. Where does this green come from? Is it a jade that has fallen from his chariot…is it the eye of one of his seven stallions? And this purple? ...certainly this is the hue of his royal standard..? I can see two dragons in the sky…caressing a dolphin which is posing mid somersault…slightly to the right, I can see the last vestiges of a celestial fight…what with dead horses and broken chariots….and I can see arrows that never reached their target…some with golden shafts (possible celestial) and others plain rusty red…like the destruction they imply. But the fight is on a different dimension…with a little concentration I can hear the sounds of battle too and as the sounds fade…I can almost see the victorious champion with his grim half smile...turn to his left and gallop to the sun…for his is the glory now, that the sun will bestow on him…but in a different world.because in this world…the sun is setting…because his chariot never stops.His stallions never tire…and he moves on to leave a crimson sky and two cheeky rabbits in it.or wait…one of them is a crocodile.

The skyline of bhubaneswar lies to my right(and I am still facing the west)but I don't feel like looking that way.. I am standing.Still. Unmoving. Watching the sky turn from red to purple to indigo…to finally that king of hues.

As I finally see the cranes tuck in for the night, I can hear my mum screaming from downstairs for me to come down and start studying. The early stars have started twinkling. They have woken early tonight…as the sky is clear. I think…do they enjoy the sight of evening so much as I do? for it must be morning for them …and their days are black and nights filled with light…there are more stars than I can count now…and so I start the trudge back to the books. But more than awe, I have this sinking feeling,this sense of terrible loss...thinking how many such blessed wintry evenings I have missed...

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I wrote this for someone...at a different time...in a different age...when we both believed differently...We still do...but times have changed.And now we Know...

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ThisEngaging

Marriages are not made in heaven.You will probably agree to this...or not...who cares??
You will marry anyway...So, with your permission, i will not ask you "why"...and delve deeper into the utterly questionable "how".
Romantically, It all started with "The Rape of the Sabine women" by Romulus, (please do refer hyperlink to remove certain misconceptions)in order to secure wives for the newly created state of rome and its prominently male population...Romulus gave them fair rights to refuse marriage and return to their home tribe but offered them equal rights as free men in his new city...Many centuries and laws later, today the same thing is carried out.
Commonly,

• men(strike 1) engage in courtship rituals tryin to woo a girl.
• men(strike 2) ask the girl out and they "go out"
• men(strike 3) propose...women decide...and a ring is what declares to the world...keep off guys, this girl's mine(or someone's).Imagine how much a man has to do...but more on that later...let's cut to the chase and look at engagement in india.

In india, it is usual for elders to look for spouses for their betas and betis...and decide on a proper spouse.Then comes the mind-boggling ritual of engagements...
i mean, when social no-no and peer pressure implies that you cannot break an engagement(all those "naak katna","sar jhookna", "mooh dikhane layak na rahna", fancy but sadly true), then why bother performing the utterly unnecessary task.
some say...

1. They might not be ready...arey, it is arranged marriage, sooner or later, the axe has to fall...why delay?i say,given the amount of pestering by "well-wishers" to marry a poor beta/beti(who cares?) , it is "relatively" easier to deal with a faster-aquired wife.
2. They might be studying...study then, why thoughts of marriage you lecherous idiot.Delay, belay whatever...(if you dont like the match)...otherwise if the pressure is too much(the girl/guy too irressitible), then why study? marry first...but why drag engaements inside?
3. They might want to know each other...must be fun, promising to marry the other and after a year of "betrothal", dude, let's move on...just doesn't happen..if you dont like the rope, don't sign up for hanging(no, there's no better analogy available.

What i am trying to say is...just look at the statistics...marriages are a multibillion dollar industry(Total earning from e-businesses in india is lesser), not surprising as 7 million indians take the plunge in a year.So india could save at least 1 billion cutting on these trifling engagements(no pun).
I dont rest my case, purely because, i know i have convinced no one.You want your big fat wedding and you want you big show-off engagement and you have always dreamt of "chat mangni pat byah"...
You wont listen to revolutionary new ideas like..."why mangni, just byah"(absolutely original, don't you think??)well, hope your bride/groom(who cares which??) is worth it.

RelationBoats

It is only human to wonder how unfair it is that some people are just the life of the party...and you are mostly like the appendix(sorry)...there but nobody knows why.

Why’s can be so irritating.why sometimes you are mad at something or someone and then you have to apologise.why the deadline always have to come closer.why the BIG meeting always overlaps the BIG date.or why the girl you like doesn’t believe in relationships.why the toast always lands buttered side down?oh i don’t want to even get into that...

The life of the party says that relationships are not really rocket science,but he doesn’t know does he?that they are pretty much like the football to Neanderthals like you(yes you read that right).The football minus even the other connotations the word provides.What is there in a relationship?

Not two people with each other(boy, thats like what they teach you in relationship kindergarten)...It is like a medieval jousting competition (at least in the beginning).You bump into each other,Get to know each other, you start to like each other, (this is where i drop the second person), and then i keep wondering...why?Why do i have to ruin all this practically perfect setting by wondering(apart from the why at the beginning of this thought) if it could be something else.

On a less sissier front, why bitch?- this is not the title of the latest sadomasochistic thriller by Hung Lo- but a exasperating thought that comes out of days and ights and pondering minutes listening to people bitch about each other, you know the way, oh thats great man((oh boy, doesn’t his tie suck!!))Not a tie no...i can give you better than this.but that’d be bitching as well!!i mean...how can bitching help some person overcome his/her hatred or dislike of another’s activities??and if it doesn’t and it doesn’t help him/her know what things irritate(ohk ill give you, playing dirty politics during CR elections), then what’s the point?AND WHY TELL MOI!! Do i look like some kind of bitcher’s pitcher(sorry)

i know it feels good to bitch about someone- get it out of your system...but "how much do you do it da?" It feels good to be cheap...but i think it is still good to talk to the actual person(and a lot quieter) keeps the feeling from maturing into hatred(i dont believe im saying this)...

Dear second person, there is no point talking about relationships that are past.and future relationships can be such a pain.and ..no wait, there is no present, this is the opportune moment for another of those delightful WHY’s. Because i believe, Things can always be set right, but the glue has to be perfect.And the glue can only come out of a non-negotiable value system.

You cannot wake up one morning and find yourself with the best wife, the hottest girlfriend(OR implied in some cases), the best best buddy, the coolest office colleague. Hell, you can’t even have a beatific room-mate.When it comes to bonding, you kind of have to rely on instincts.What say?

You are Neanderthal , remember?

PenElope

PenElope is not a name. It is an idea.Or rather...a rare medical syndrome...rather very much like that GrammarSticklers' Syndrome( courtesy - Lynn Truss).
PenElopers deal with loads of seemingly antisocial symptoms...

1>Disdain fr people
Who do not pronounce things correctly.
Who show an uncivilised disregard for etiquette.
Who are "cheap" in general.
Who are incorrigible.

2>Who have the tendency to slip into fascinating daydreams...every now and then...like when an exam is going on...or when some lecturer is delivering some important lecture...or when you have an exam the next day and you are supposed to be studying...trivial things like these...

3>Who have a love affair with writing...and all forms of well-delivered literature...

hence the term...Pen Elopers...

Given a chance..they would love to elope with the pen ...to some carribean paradise...where words will dance and punctuations play the music and the golden sun will spice up endless evenings of romantic writing...are you one of them...???