Somewhere in an Indian metro, a decade or two back, there was this family. It was nearabout this time of the year; Diwali; time to buy things for the house. That particular year was about getting a VCR (remember?). Buying the big, flat, black box was one thing. And using it was quite another.
There were all these little buttons and knobs and dials and god-knows-whats. The family was lost. And then, voila! They found the manual. Saved! Well, partly at least. The bits in English helped. The bits in Japanese looked more useful though.
This is where we come to the what’s-the-point highway café common to most of my posts. You can see ‘Blaze of Glory’ and ‘The Cleansing’ catching a coffee in that corner.
The point. We all need manuals, for some or most things we do these days (life is getting complex, isn’t it? But then, that’s another post). Some manuals come in these booklets with the information in half a dozen languages. Some manuals are stored in the balding, graying heads of an older generation that seems to forget everything but manualese. Some manuals are created on the fly, as you figure out your way of doing it. And because you are so proud of your way, it becomes the Holy Grail. It too becomes a manual.
There are three i-words that I hold very dear. Apart from the plain ‘I’ that is. These words are: instinct, impulse and intuition.
Now there are some who will raise a polite, tentative finger and ask; excuse me, but weren’t we talking about manuals? Patience, my friend.
Like I was saying, instinct, impulse and intuition. These are words that are linked to the plain ‘I’. The me, rather. These are words that have told me what to do. These are words that have shaped my life, that have shaped me. These words never needed a manual. And furthermore, they did not insist on being manualised either. Because, like evanescent angels, they appeared when I needed them, and then they shimmered away, gone with the moment that was theirs. Their wisdom, their beauty was not meant to be captured and hammered into someone else. Those someone elses would just have to find their own i-sets.
Thank you for indulging my erratic meandering. Getting back to manuals… There are times I have used manuals. There are times I have figured it out without a cryptic booklet to tell me how. And there are times when I have gone plain against every Holy Grail manual and every one of the walking-talking grey haired variety too. There are times when the manuals have shook their collective heads sadly and said, ‘tch tch’. There are times, when the manuals (still getting over their surprise that I managed to pull off a Lebowski) have said, ‘Ah, I told you so.’ Oh yes, the manual is always right.
You do things. Simple things like brushing your teeth, you figure out the how, even if you forget the when at times. Complex things involve lots of other things you need to do. And this is where manuals come in to tell you how to get these things done. The books are alright. They suggest, and don’t take offense if you decide to strike out on your own. The other manuals… well, they take some handling. And there is no manual on how to do that.
The point is that you do the things that you do. A lot of them are based on conventional wisdom and you can listen to the manuals. Some of them though need some improvisation. You didn’t come out of a mould, and neither did your life. Manuals don’t work all the time. What these things need is the i-factor. Remember? Instinct, etcetera… Yes, those ones. That’s what you need.
But what about the manuals? Won’t they be offended?
Well, go on and look like you’re reading the manual. You could even pretend to be trying out some of the steps. But with the really important things in life, what you really should be doing, is figuring it out by yourself. The I way.
By the way, if it works well for you (which I hope it does), please do not manual it on someone else.
Cogito Ergo Vivum
Friday, October 31, 2008
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Blaze of Glory?
As Mastersmith Silvus used to say, “… always set the context. You never know what form words will take if you do not set the context. Words are like a dragon. Till you have forged the reigns and the whip, do not set the dragon loose. Or you just might burn for your sins!” At that, he would burst out into booming laughter. He was a strange one. Things he found funny could well send a sheaf of shivers down your spine. But then, he was right. Context is indeed important, and I shall provide it.
I actually quoted myself! Can’t tell you how kicked I am at that!
Well, the point is that this exercise is a little strange, and without context, it will seem like I have indeed gone over the fine line between insanity and eccentricity that I have been staggering along this past decade. So here goes the context.
Like most of us do, I went through the standard rebel phase. And during those abrasive, reckless and glorious years, Bon Jovi’s ‘Blaze of Glory’ was one of my anthems.
Yes.
I know.
Well, I just listened to the song after a long time (as in listened properly, letting the lyrics sink in), and had a rather strange dialogue running in my head. I thought I’d just write it out. I’ve written out the song by verse, as it plays, and followed up the verses with my meandering rumination.
---
I wake up in the morning
And I raise my weary head
I got an old coat for a pillow
And the earth was last night’s bed
I don’t know where I’m going
Only God knows where I’ve been
I’m a devil on the run
A six gun lover
A candle in the wind
I wake up in the morning and I raise my weary head. I’ve got two pillows for a pillow (and a resultant crick in the neck), and two stuffed mattresses for a bed (I’m not a bed-bed person). I know I’m going to work. And I vaguely remember having been to a party last night. I’m not the devil but am still on the run. I’m inherently restless and move cities every year. I can manage an air-pistol but have never handled a six gun. And I’m a li’l too robust to be a candle in the wind, no matter how much I’ve fluttered and threatened to go out.
When you’re brought into this world
They say you’re born in sin
Well at least they gave me something
I didn’t have to steal or have to win
Well they tell me that I’m wanted
Yeah I’m a wanted man
I’m colt in your stable
I’m what Cain was to Abel
Mister, catch me if you can
I was born a Hindu, and then lost my religion (along with my faith). So sin doesn’t work as a concept for me. Mom and Dad have been great, and I got the start I needed to make it in life. Head-hunters from recruitment agencies tell me I’m wanted, but then corporate desire never turned me on. I’ve never been a horse (or been on a horse either). I did write an entry about burying my (figurative alter-ego) brother but then he was more Cainish. I am not very good at running and you probably will catch me if you tried (though why you would want to, I have no clue!)
(chorus)
I’m going down in a blaze of glory
Take me now but know the truth
I’m going down in a blaze of glory
Lord I never drew first
But I drew first blood
I’m no one’s son
Call me young gun
I’m not going down, yet. I’m just 27 and hope to make it through another 27, at least. I’m not up for the grabs, but I’m ok with telling you the truth, if it’s any of your business. I reiterate, I’m not going down. I’ve never been involved in a shootout. And though I have been in a couple of fights, I never struck the first blow. My dad would be offended if I said I was no one’s son. And I’m not really very young or much of a gun.
You ask about my conscience
And I offer you my soul
You ask if I’ll grow to be a wise man
Well I ask if I’ll grow old
You ask me if I known love
And what it’s like to sing songs in the rain
Well, I’ve seen love come
And I’ve seen it shot down
I’ve seen it die in vain
I do have a conscience. And in the absence of religion or the divine being as a guiding light, my conscience is all that keeps me from becoming a monster. I’m not too convinced about the soul concept. I don’t know about wise, but there are days when I definitely feel pretty old. I’ve known love, yes. And I’ve lost love too. But then, love has a habit of coming back, just when you give up on it. And that faith (or hope) has kept me going with pockets of redemption every now and then to fuel it a bit further.
(chorus repeat)
Having refuted the statements, I maintain stoic silence through the second rendition of the chorus.
Each night I go to bed
I pray the lord my soul to keep
No I ain’t looking for forgiveness
But before I’m six foot deep
Lord, i got to ask a favor
And Ill hope you’ll understand
Cos I’ve lived life to the fullest
Let the boy die like a man
Staring down the bullet
Let me make my final stand
I go to bed most nights. Sometimes, it’s morning by the time I crash. I don’t talk much to God, or even overtly acknowledge His (or Her) presence. I have asked for forgiveness when I have wronged people. And I’d like to be buried at sea when I die (and hopefully, a few leagues down and not just six feet deep). I’ve never seen the point in asking Him favours. I have indeed lived life to the fullest (when I could), and done the best I could at other times. I have been a man for some time (I was a boy before, for those who’re considering the possibility of a sex-change), and don’t have grandiose notions of dying to prove my ‘manhood’. I think it’s a biological fact that should be accepted and let be. And I hope like I hell I don’t get shot. I’ve heard it can be really painful, especially if the bullet hits the bone.
(chorus repeat)
One last time. I am not going down. I am not violent. I am not (very) young. And I don’t like the thought of being called a gun. Period.
---
What is the point? Well… I wish I could go back 10 years to my rebelling self and tell him to take it easy. I wish I could ask him to choose another anthem, even if it was a Bon Jovi one (my current favourite is ‘Someday I’ll be Saturday Night’). I wish I could tell him that life will turn out to be a bit boring with no shootouts and posses chasing him; but it would be peaceful enough with double-mattresses and other nice things to prop it up. It’s not the blaze of glory at the end that’s so important, but the comforting flame that will keep him going all his life… all my life. He didn’t know it back then. I’m glad I do, now.
Cogito Ergo Vivum
I actually quoted myself! Can’t tell you how kicked I am at that!
Well, the point is that this exercise is a little strange, and without context, it will seem like I have indeed gone over the fine line between insanity and eccentricity that I have been staggering along this past decade. So here goes the context.
Like most of us do, I went through the standard rebel phase. And during those abrasive, reckless and glorious years, Bon Jovi’s ‘Blaze of Glory’ was one of my anthems.
Yes.
I know.
Well, I just listened to the song after a long time (as in listened properly, letting the lyrics sink in), and had a rather strange dialogue running in my head. I thought I’d just write it out. I’ve written out the song by verse, as it plays, and followed up the verses with my meandering rumination.
---
I wake up in the morning
And I raise my weary head
I got an old coat for a pillow
And the earth was last night’s bed
I don’t know where I’m going
Only God knows where I’ve been
I’m a devil on the run
A six gun lover
A candle in the wind
I wake up in the morning and I raise my weary head. I’ve got two pillows for a pillow (and a resultant crick in the neck), and two stuffed mattresses for a bed (I’m not a bed-bed person). I know I’m going to work. And I vaguely remember having been to a party last night. I’m not the devil but am still on the run. I’m inherently restless and move cities every year. I can manage an air-pistol but have never handled a six gun. And I’m a li’l too robust to be a candle in the wind, no matter how much I’ve fluttered and threatened to go out.
When you’re brought into this world
They say you’re born in sin
Well at least they gave me something
I didn’t have to steal or have to win
Well they tell me that I’m wanted
Yeah I’m a wanted man
I’m colt in your stable
I’m what Cain was to Abel
Mister, catch me if you can
I was born a Hindu, and then lost my religion (along with my faith). So sin doesn’t work as a concept for me. Mom and Dad have been great, and I got the start I needed to make it in life. Head-hunters from recruitment agencies tell me I’m wanted, but then corporate desire never turned me on. I’ve never been a horse (or been on a horse either). I did write an entry about burying my (figurative alter-ego) brother but then he was more Cainish. I am not very good at running and you probably will catch me if you tried (though why you would want to, I have no clue!)
(chorus)
I’m going down in a blaze of glory
Take me now but know the truth
I’m going down in a blaze of glory
Lord I never drew first
But I drew first blood
I’m no one’s son
Call me young gun
I’m not going down, yet. I’m just 27 and hope to make it through another 27, at least. I’m not up for the grabs, but I’m ok with telling you the truth, if it’s any of your business. I reiterate, I’m not going down. I’ve never been involved in a shootout. And though I have been in a couple of fights, I never struck the first blow. My dad would be offended if I said I was no one’s son. And I’m not really very young or much of a gun.
You ask about my conscience
And I offer you my soul
You ask if I’ll grow to be a wise man
Well I ask if I’ll grow old
You ask me if I known love
And what it’s like to sing songs in the rain
Well, I’ve seen love come
And I’ve seen it shot down
I’ve seen it die in vain
I do have a conscience. And in the absence of religion or the divine being as a guiding light, my conscience is all that keeps me from becoming a monster. I’m not too convinced about the soul concept. I don’t know about wise, but there are days when I definitely feel pretty old. I’ve known love, yes. And I’ve lost love too. But then, love has a habit of coming back, just when you give up on it. And that faith (or hope) has kept me going with pockets of redemption every now and then to fuel it a bit further.
(chorus repeat)
Having refuted the statements, I maintain stoic silence through the second rendition of the chorus.
Each night I go to bed
I pray the lord my soul to keep
No I ain’t looking for forgiveness
But before I’m six foot deep
Lord, i got to ask a favor
And Ill hope you’ll understand
Cos I’ve lived life to the fullest
Let the boy die like a man
Staring down the bullet
Let me make my final stand
I go to bed most nights. Sometimes, it’s morning by the time I crash. I don’t talk much to God, or even overtly acknowledge His (or Her) presence. I have asked for forgiveness when I have wronged people. And I’d like to be buried at sea when I die (and hopefully, a few leagues down and not just six feet deep). I’ve never seen the point in asking Him favours. I have indeed lived life to the fullest (when I could), and done the best I could at other times. I have been a man for some time (I was a boy before, for those who’re considering the possibility of a sex-change), and don’t have grandiose notions of dying to prove my ‘manhood’. I think it’s a biological fact that should be accepted and let be. And I hope like I hell I don’t get shot. I’ve heard it can be really painful, especially if the bullet hits the bone.
(chorus repeat)
One last time. I am not going down. I am not violent. I am not (very) young. And I don’t like the thought of being called a gun. Period.
---
What is the point? Well… I wish I could go back 10 years to my rebelling self and tell him to take it easy. I wish I could ask him to choose another anthem, even if it was a Bon Jovi one (my current favourite is ‘Someday I’ll be Saturday Night’). I wish I could tell him that life will turn out to be a bit boring with no shootouts and posses chasing him; but it would be peaceful enough with double-mattresses and other nice things to prop it up. It’s not the blaze of glory at the end that’s so important, but the comforting flame that will keep him going all his life… all my life. He didn’t know it back then. I’m glad I do, now.
Cogito Ergo Vivum
Move Along
Take five minutes to do this… But do this.
Close your eyes (after you have read this paragraph). Think of the best memories you have had. Over the last five years. Every intense, beautiful moment where you felt you wanted to stay right there in that time and place forever. Some of them might be linked other memories you want to forget. Some of them might have turned to bitter ashes over time. Some of them might be part of who you are today and what you still have (lucky you!). But try and isolate those memories for the sheer beauty and happiness they brought you back when they happened. Ready? Close your eyes now…
No, really. Close your eyes and do this. You can read on when you’re done.
…
Welcome back, stranger. I don’t know the mood you’re in or what those memories were. I don’t know what you’re feeling either. But there is something I want to say to you that needs you to be in the frame of mind you are in now.
That smile, that tear (funny how you have shed tears so often in the most beautiful moments in your life), that precious little ache in the heart, that all-pervading feeling of blissful happiness, that rush of adrenalin which for that one moment actually took you to the top of the world, that intense desire to clutch on to the moment for all you’re worth… Did it all come back? Even for an instant, did you at least feel the fleeting ghost of those glorious emotions?
If yes, then you are where I want you to be; in this happy, nostalgic place where you remember just how beautiful life can be. And before you slip into the melancholy that comes from the realization of what you’ve lost (or the satisfaction of gloating over what you have), let me tell you something.
There is more.
Much more.
It might not be bigger and better (or new and improved!), but it will still be intense and beautiful. Life is putting together a whole new bouquet of these moments for you. But if you are too lost in reminiscing over faded, brittle skeletons of dead flowers in the scrapbooks of your past, you might just miss out on picking up those heady blossoms that life throws at you to fill up your present. The beauty that you felt in those moments you remembered in the five minutes is over and done with. It will come back at times and pass you by like an angelic vision you can appreciate but can never possess. But you do realise, it is gone.
Life goes on. For every divorce, there will be ten weddings. For every funeral, there will be a hundred celebrations of birth. For every memory that you have, there are a thousand more experiences that might still be.
Life does go on. And it tries to take you with it. But if you’re clutching on to that thorny husk of a memory long dead, with your eyes screwed shut to everything else… you might just miss the train to something new that awaits you. So open your eyes, unclench your cramped limbs, stretch… and move along. Life is waiting for you.
Cogito Ergo Vivum
Close your eyes (after you have read this paragraph). Think of the best memories you have had. Over the last five years. Every intense, beautiful moment where you felt you wanted to stay right there in that time and place forever. Some of them might be linked other memories you want to forget. Some of them might have turned to bitter ashes over time. Some of them might be part of who you are today and what you still have (lucky you!). But try and isolate those memories for the sheer beauty and happiness they brought you back when they happened. Ready? Close your eyes now…
No, really. Close your eyes and do this. You can read on when you’re done.
…
Welcome back, stranger. I don’t know the mood you’re in or what those memories were. I don’t know what you’re feeling either. But there is something I want to say to you that needs you to be in the frame of mind you are in now.
That smile, that tear (funny how you have shed tears so often in the most beautiful moments in your life), that precious little ache in the heart, that all-pervading feeling of blissful happiness, that rush of adrenalin which for that one moment actually took you to the top of the world, that intense desire to clutch on to the moment for all you’re worth… Did it all come back? Even for an instant, did you at least feel the fleeting ghost of those glorious emotions?
If yes, then you are where I want you to be; in this happy, nostalgic place where you remember just how beautiful life can be. And before you slip into the melancholy that comes from the realization of what you’ve lost (or the satisfaction of gloating over what you have), let me tell you something.
There is more.
Much more.
It might not be bigger and better (or new and improved!), but it will still be intense and beautiful. Life is putting together a whole new bouquet of these moments for you. But if you are too lost in reminiscing over faded, brittle skeletons of dead flowers in the scrapbooks of your past, you might just miss out on picking up those heady blossoms that life throws at you to fill up your present. The beauty that you felt in those moments you remembered in the five minutes is over and done with. It will come back at times and pass you by like an angelic vision you can appreciate but can never possess. But you do realise, it is gone.
Life goes on. For every divorce, there will be ten weddings. For every funeral, there will be a hundred celebrations of birth. For every memory that you have, there are a thousand more experiences that might still be.
Life does go on. And it tries to take you with it. But if you’re clutching on to that thorny husk of a memory long dead, with your eyes screwed shut to everything else… you might just miss the train to something new that awaits you. So open your eyes, unclench your cramped limbs, stretch… and move along. Life is waiting for you.
Cogito Ergo Vivum
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Goodbye My Brother...
Saying goodbye is the hardest thing.
Every day brings a new farewell to you. Sometimes, you just kiss yesterday goodbye as you rub the sleep from your eyes. Sometimes you cling on to the beauty of the night as the day pries your eyes open with vulgar brightness. And sometimes, you kiss that someone special goodbye after a night that might never come again.
Every bit of newness in life replaces something old. There is only so much your life can take without bursting at the seams. Sometimes, a flood of novelty washes over you, flushing the dusty nostalgia from the crevices of your memory. At other times, one li’l intense newcomer in your heart bursts like a supernova, shattering mammoth pillars that have held the canopy of your sanity up all your life.
Slowly, with the grace of an ageing beauty, or quickly, with the haste of a trapped urchin, snatches of your life disappear forever, leaving behind traces of evanescent fragrance or an unpleasant stench that will always linger. People, places, habits… all parts of your life. But eventually, most of them go. And if they don’t, finally the day comes when you win the leaving game, and depart for good.
As you see the mists close on the retreating elements of your life, do take a moment to bid them farewell. Therein lies beauty, even if it’s poignant. You might be able to hold on to that bit of wisdom, even if the experience you put away gently is ugly. People might leave for good, but the memories will stay. And those memories will bring so much more joy, if you have just managed to get your goodbye right.
I guess this is my farewell. To a me who has been me for all these years. He has been tough, inimitable and intense. He has persevered where I might have failed. He has fought battles I would never have survived. He has lived my life when I couldn’t quite manage to.
My friend, the war is over. The times that lie ahead do not need your cynicism or rage. They do not need your cold practicality or your dispassionate analysis. They do not need you.
You have stood me in good stead. But it is time to say goodbye. To all that you have been and all that you have done to rebuild my life from the shambles it was. The poet has slept for long enough, and it is time he took over his life again. And you must retire. I promise to remember you. In my musings, in my outbursts, in my tales, in my dreams. With a grateful heart, I clasp your hand, and lay you to sleep. With a twinge in my heart, I bid you farewell.
Goodnight my friend.
Goodbye my brother.
Cogito Ergo Vivum
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Take Your Time
Take your time, she said. But I had taken my time; all 10 nanoseconds of it, as I realised just what I wanted and how much.
Don’t rush, she said. But I wasn’t. I was just succumbing to the rush I felt as I closed my eyes and heard my blood sloshing against my tympani and felt my heart knocking my tonsils out.
Control, she said. But I had added an alt+del to it to complete my reboot. I was reborn and rejuvenated, and control was the last thing I was worried about.
So much thought goes into decisions of the heart. But then, isn’t that an oxymoron? Thought and heart? But then mortals will err and follow their head in relationships and their heart in business. Thus they end up broke; heart-wise and bank balance-wise. Not very wise.
Business sense and bank balances do not belong in these pages and will be summarily cast out from this rumination without further ado. Adieu. Aa-doo. I do. Sorry, got stuck with the sound there.
Relationships and Heartbreak: now that’s a pair that could have had the pride of place on Wordscapes. Unfortunately, that position is already taken up by Existential Angst. But in line with the new laughter theme, we shall keep things light. Put your hands together for the more light-hearted but nevertheless thought-provoking couple; caution and impulse.
Statutory Declaration: By the way, this is not a battle of the sexes and does not cast aspersions of paranoid caution at women and dizzy recklessness at men. The example above merely happens to apportion behaviour thataways.
So, coming back to our stars, caution and impulse…
When it comes to the heart, when you’re feeling full of life and happy to the hilt, when you’re gulping air greedily to make up for all the breathlessness; what holds sway, caution or impulse? How many words will it take to say what you feel and how many thoughts will it take to rationalise the madness that fills you? What schedule seems sensible to say this and do that, and what calendar do you follow to allow yourself confessions of your all new state of being?
When will you just stop thinking and start feeling, and admit that nothing else is going to work?
It’s true. Nothing else works. Let the naysayers say nay while they can, because if they are lucky, they too will have the breath knocked out of them by the ton of bricks that is called ‘the moment of truth’. And that will be the end of all thought; because there really is no point rationalising with a ton of bricks. Falling. Fast. And ducking doesn’t help.
Give in… feel. On your last day on earth, you’d rather have had a big life full of love (and inevitable heartbreaks) rather than a long life full of caution (and inevitable numb nothingness). Let go, and you just might find that one love that doesn’t break your heart at the end of the road. But paranoid caution is sure to doom you to celibacy, or worse, loveless wedlock. (Wed Lock… Jeez! That’s a scary word! Why would they do that!)
But yes… do take your time before you leap… all 10 nanoseconds of it!
Cogito Ergo Risotto
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
The Laughter Pledge
I just went through my posts.
All of them.
This exercise was triggered by a read of a friend's blog; it was filled with entries that were candid, breezy and irreverent; much like her. I came back to my dark pages and darker thoughts. Something is seriously wrong with my life if I haven't come up with a single lighthearted entry in the last year and a half. Come to think of it, the Snapshots one in the beginning is the only piece that can get away with a (highly questionable) claim to lightness. Everything else was pretty unbearably heavy. Even an entry titled Totter and Plop was distinctly reminiscent of Punch and Judy playing Othello and Desdemona.
Where has the laughter gone? I distinctly recall being a funny person. I have been told so on numerous occasions; especially by pretty women. Well, the pretty women memories come easier; no offense to the others. One such conversation surfaces...
Pretty Woman: Well, if nothing else, I'll admit you have a sense of humour; very rare in a man.
Me: I must say I'm flattered. But then, you haven't met enough funny men. There are plenty. Russel Peters, George Bush, God (when He's in the right mood)...
PW: Lol! Sure! I'll look them up!
Me: Let me help. I'll give you the directory of funny men... It's a laugh.
PW: Lol!
And so on...
Not earthshaking stuff, but it sure got the PW loling. And it got me a date at the end of the conversation. And this happened four years back. And that's the last I can remember when I was on a funny roll. After that, I can't think of a single one... roll, that is. Dates, there have been. Even date rolls. But no roll rolls.
Jesus Broody Christ!
There was a time I used to review movies. Most of the movies I reviewed, I did not like. My reviews said as much. I used to cook up blurbs like 'this one is strictly for the make-out couples in the backseats; only they need to be handed out ear-muffs and not 3-D spectacles.' Nasty, but still lol material. At least the PW mentioned above would have loled. Come to think of it, I wonder how she is doing. No... She wouldn't like me one whit in my current avatar; mulling over social oppression and hope in the midst of ruins.
It's probably to do with the reigning themes in my life. There's angst (pressed and repressed with pleats down the front), odes to ideals in the face of scarred reality (much like a plastic surgeon's theme song), lyrical cynicism (or cynical lyricism if you swing the other way) and the big finale; the neverending quest for true love (it's like the randomiser in the questionnaire went terriby wrong, with all the answers turning up 'false').
I need a time out from these heavy-duty soul-search-engines. I need to take a dump out in the open with a jokebook in hand. I need to... shut up!
Enough already! Hereby, I take the laughter pledge! I shall devote the next few entries in this dark, suburban blog to bringing laughter to the occassional reader who passes by. Look deeper (in the blog) for insights, but skim the froth if you want a chuckle. Because enough has been said with a hammering pulse and a moist eye. It is now time to let the tongue lol. Come back soon, and expect an entry written to celebrate the Spirit of PJs and the Fun of Puns.
It's time to dig up my roots.
It's time to laugh.
Cogito Ergo Risotto
All of them.
This exercise was triggered by a read of a friend's blog; it was filled with entries that were candid, breezy and irreverent; much like her. I came back to my dark pages and darker thoughts. Something is seriously wrong with my life if I haven't come up with a single lighthearted entry in the last year and a half. Come to think of it, the Snapshots one in the beginning is the only piece that can get away with a (highly questionable) claim to lightness. Everything else was pretty unbearably heavy. Even an entry titled Totter and Plop was distinctly reminiscent of Punch and Judy playing Othello and Desdemona.
Where has the laughter gone? I distinctly recall being a funny person. I have been told so on numerous occasions; especially by pretty women. Well, the pretty women memories come easier; no offense to the others. One such conversation surfaces...
Pretty Woman: Well, if nothing else, I'll admit you have a sense of humour; very rare in a man.
Me: I must say I'm flattered. But then, you haven't met enough funny men. There are plenty. Russel Peters, George Bush, God (when He's in the right mood)...
PW: Lol! Sure! I'll look them up!
Me: Let me help. I'll give you the directory of funny men... It's a laugh.
PW: Lol!
And so on...
Not earthshaking stuff, but it sure got the PW loling. And it got me a date at the end of the conversation. And this happened four years back. And that's the last I can remember when I was on a funny roll. After that, I can't think of a single one... roll, that is. Dates, there have been. Even date rolls. But no roll rolls.
Jesus Broody Christ!
There was a time I used to review movies. Most of the movies I reviewed, I did not like. My reviews said as much. I used to cook up blurbs like 'this one is strictly for the make-out couples in the backseats; only they need to be handed out ear-muffs and not 3-D spectacles.' Nasty, but still lol material. At least the PW mentioned above would have loled. Come to think of it, I wonder how she is doing. No... She wouldn't like me one whit in my current avatar; mulling over social oppression and hope in the midst of ruins.
It's probably to do with the reigning themes in my life. There's angst (pressed and repressed with pleats down the front), odes to ideals in the face of scarred reality (much like a plastic surgeon's theme song), lyrical cynicism (or cynical lyricism if you swing the other way) and the big finale; the neverending quest for true love (it's like the randomiser in the questionnaire went terriby wrong, with all the answers turning up 'false').
I need a time out from these heavy-duty soul-search-engines. I need to take a dump out in the open with a jokebook in hand. I need to... shut up!
Enough already! Hereby, I take the laughter pledge! I shall devote the next few entries in this dark, suburban blog to bringing laughter to the occassional reader who passes by. Look deeper (in the blog) for insights, but skim the froth if you want a chuckle. Because enough has been said with a hammering pulse and a moist eye. It is now time to let the tongue lol. Come back soon, and expect an entry written to celebrate the Spirit of PJs and the Fun of Puns.
It's time to dig up my roots.
It's time to laugh.
Cogito Ergo Risotto
Sunday, September 14, 2008
She
Disclaimer: There are men who have never bothered to ponder, and there are others who claim to be masters of the female race, cognisant of their every whim and vagary. The writer does not try to even acknowledge these poor men in his musings below.
Every once in a while, every man sits down to ruminate on that one fantastic concept that he just can’t get his mind around. She. She is a part of his life from his life to his death. The roles vary, as do the relationships. He sees different sides to Her, and wonders time and again; how, why, what. The questions plague him and the answers rarely appear unless She chooses to enlighten him. And even then, it need not make sense. And more often than not, even then, it does not make sense.
This whimsical creature called She has touched me in so many ways, right from my infancy to my recently concluded Premature Midlife Crisis. There has been unconditional love, silent acceptance, infinite patience, enduring amity and breathtaking passion. There also has been heartless cruelty, illogical eccentricity, infuriating obstinacy, mind-numbing inanity and inexplicable bewilderment. I have felt these emotions otherwise too, but it is She who has shown me what it is to really feel any and all of these feelings.
At times by chance, at times by choice; there are so many ways She has been part of my life. She has been my mother, my sister, my friend and my lover. She has made me, broken me and rebuilt me a hundred times. She has abandoned me to my end and yet been there for me through times when no man could have helped.
I haven’t been passive through all that She has done. I have played my part in this dance. I have loved Her, been fascinated by Her, lost my head in insane wrath, lusted for Her and been there for Her. And at times, I have even given up on Her. I have claimed to have figured Her out. I have even fooled myself into believing I’m stronger than Her and need to take care of Her. She has walked out on my childish assumptions and She has smiled and tolerated me through my foolishness. She has indulged my need to be the man in the equation, as long as it suited Her. She has also shot me down for daring to think of Her as an equal, when She was so much more than I could ever imagine.
The years passed and I grew. I did not understand any better. But I did understand that I would never understand. I did understand that understanding is not what I needed. There are things that cannot be taught and cannot be learnt. There are things that are. Like She told me once, the only answer she has to my why is because. And slowly, many miles later, I see what She meant. There is no why. There is only because.
There have been scars. There has been ugliness. But what has endured is the beauty She left in my life. She moulded me into the man I am. She taught me what it is to love. I learnt from Her what complete surrender was. And I realise now that there is no other way to be. No matter how many times She has let me go and I have fallen, I can curl up in my shell for only so long. With a mixture of amused bewilderment and poignant fatalism, I concede that the next time She reaches out to me, I will take Her hand again. And I can only hope She doesn’t let go this time. Because I have walked with Her. And nothing else will do.
Cogito Ergo Finito
Every once in a while, every man sits down to ruminate on that one fantastic concept that he just can’t get his mind around. She. She is a part of his life from his life to his death. The roles vary, as do the relationships. He sees different sides to Her, and wonders time and again; how, why, what. The questions plague him and the answers rarely appear unless She chooses to enlighten him. And even then, it need not make sense. And more often than not, even then, it does not make sense.
This whimsical creature called She has touched me in so many ways, right from my infancy to my recently concluded Premature Midlife Crisis. There has been unconditional love, silent acceptance, infinite patience, enduring amity and breathtaking passion. There also has been heartless cruelty, illogical eccentricity, infuriating obstinacy, mind-numbing inanity and inexplicable bewilderment. I have felt these emotions otherwise too, but it is She who has shown me what it is to really feel any and all of these feelings.
At times by chance, at times by choice; there are so many ways She has been part of my life. She has been my mother, my sister, my friend and my lover. She has made me, broken me and rebuilt me a hundred times. She has abandoned me to my end and yet been there for me through times when no man could have helped.
I haven’t been passive through all that She has done. I have played my part in this dance. I have loved Her, been fascinated by Her, lost my head in insane wrath, lusted for Her and been there for Her. And at times, I have even given up on Her. I have claimed to have figured Her out. I have even fooled myself into believing I’m stronger than Her and need to take care of Her. She has walked out on my childish assumptions and She has smiled and tolerated me through my foolishness. She has indulged my need to be the man in the equation, as long as it suited Her. She has also shot me down for daring to think of Her as an equal, when She was so much more than I could ever imagine.
The years passed and I grew. I did not understand any better. But I did understand that I would never understand. I did understand that understanding is not what I needed. There are things that cannot be taught and cannot be learnt. There are things that are. Like She told me once, the only answer she has to my why is because. And slowly, many miles later, I see what She meant. There is no why. There is only because.
There have been scars. There has been ugliness. But what has endured is the beauty She left in my life. She moulded me into the man I am. She taught me what it is to love. I learnt from Her what complete surrender was. And I realise now that there is no other way to be. No matter how many times She has let me go and I have fallen, I can curl up in my shell for only so long. With a mixture of amused bewilderment and poignant fatalism, I concede that the next time She reaches out to me, I will take Her hand again. And I can only hope She doesn’t let go this time. Because I have walked with Her. And nothing else will do.
Cogito Ergo Finito
Friday, May 23, 2008
Moderate Opinions
In Geometry lessons in school, the best way to draw a straight line was to define two points and then join them up with a smart line scratched out along with the side of a scale. For once, this is not meandering rumination but a very specific (and bulletproof) idea. And what better way to draw a line of thought than to pin down the two points at either end of it. So here go the points, two quotations spanning two millennia and, in all probability, two very different men.
Moderation in all things, including moderation
1st Century AD
1st Century AD
20th Century AD
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
The Song of Life
Sing me a song of life. Let there be a lilting note of childish joy. Build it up to the boisterous interlude of youth. Play it softly, weaving in the melody of wistful reminiscing, mellowed with age. Give in now to the strains of unrequited love. Over and over again, nurture the tune into an overture of existence, and breathe out the words that sing about life and all there is to it.
Sing me a song of life. Play long enough, and you will see a dance start. Little dust motes pick up the rhythm and sway around, borne by bright beams. Look closer and you can see forms of the faerie, twirling in gay abandon to the music. Oblivious to the emotions that have built up every note of that harmony, they are only possessed with the beat and the cadence that lifts them up. Their very being seems to thrum with the orchestral symphony of your life. And yet, they are strangers to the joy that runs in your veins or the pain that throbs with every heartbeat.
Sing me a song of life. Feed the music with your lifeblood, and watch others cavort around, carried away by the sheer beauty of it all. There might come a time when you stare with the morbid fascination brought on by the precious last moments as your essence drains away. And there are others who will streak themselves with the brilliant crimson, two steps away from the next masquerade.
Sing me a song of life. But watch carefully and you will see the cuts and the lies. The crimson congeals too soon and the crescendo seems to be composed of anguished cries. Note that the languor of those who frolic is of those who have been fed well. A bit closer and you see lips pucker in anticipation and the tongue running across white, sharp teeth. The prey might writhe in agony but the predators will be too busy applauding the killing stroke. Life ends as abruptly as it begins... and there is always a celebration to mark the event.
Sing me a song of life. Let it be real and let it be alive. Let it defy the end and stretch out to the heavens. Throw back your head and scream out your passion in a poignant requiem to all you are and will be. Let there be no watchers. And let the dancers be consumed in the fire that strokes the melody of your life.
Sing me a song of life. But let it be life at its purest and truest. Let it be a rhapsody that embraces all that hearken to its seductive notes, forever. Let it go on and on. Cos there is no other tune I'd rather lend my ear to.
Sing me a song of life...
Cogito Ergo Finito
Sing me a song of life. Play long enough, and you will see a dance start. Little dust motes pick up the rhythm and sway around, borne by bright beams. Look closer and you can see forms of the faerie, twirling in gay abandon to the music. Oblivious to the emotions that have built up every note of that harmony, they are only possessed with the beat and the cadence that lifts them up. Their very being seems to thrum with the orchestral symphony of your life. And yet, they are strangers to the joy that runs in your veins or the pain that throbs with every heartbeat.
Sing me a song of life. Feed the music with your lifeblood, and watch others cavort around, carried away by the sheer beauty of it all. There might come a time when you stare with the morbid fascination brought on by the precious last moments as your essence drains away. And there are others who will streak themselves with the brilliant crimson, two steps away from the next masquerade.
Sing me a song of life. But watch carefully and you will see the cuts and the lies. The crimson congeals too soon and the crescendo seems to be composed of anguished cries. Note that the languor of those who frolic is of those who have been fed well. A bit closer and you see lips pucker in anticipation and the tongue running across white, sharp teeth. The prey might writhe in agony but the predators will be too busy applauding the killing stroke. Life ends as abruptly as it begins... and there is always a celebration to mark the event.
Sing me a song of life. Let it be real and let it be alive. Let it defy the end and stretch out to the heavens. Throw back your head and scream out your passion in a poignant requiem to all you are and will be. Let there be no watchers. And let the dancers be consumed in the fire that strokes the melody of your life.
Sing me a song of life. But let it be life at its purest and truest. Let it be a rhapsody that embraces all that hearken to its seductive notes, forever. Let it go on and on. Cos there is no other tune I'd rather lend my ear to.
Sing me a song of life...
Cogito Ergo Finito
Monday, May 19, 2008
The Story of Totter and Plop
I don’t claim to remember the memory, but I can safely assume that a little over two and a half decades back, I took my first steps. I must have let go of that convenient and secure piece of furniture that allowed me to stagger to my unsteady feet, and then I must have tottered through my first dangerously unstable steps. In all probability, I then proceeded to plop down on my behind. I guess in baby-talk terms, I must have even spent a few moments wondering what possessed me to try something so ridiculously dangerous! But then I guess the totter was exhilarating and the plop wasn’t too painful.
This is pure speculation based on nothing more concrete than my current walking ability.
Going on with this conjecture, a few hours or perhaps a day or two later, I must have tried the totter-step again. Totter, plop, totter, plop. With time, I am brave enough to assume, I tottered more and plopped less. Somewhere down the line, I learnt to walk. Grace came into the picture, and though I still plop once in a while, I don’t totter much.
This has been a recurrent pattern in life. Totters and plops. And I am not talking just about walking here! Time and again, I have been persistent enough to take enough plops and continue tottering through the awkward and difficult phases of life till I discovered the beauty and grace beyond. However, at times one plops too hard. And it hurts. Pain inevitably leads to fear. And with fear comes the hesitancy to totter. And with the hesitancy comes the increased risk of plopping. Replay loop ad infinitum, ad nauseam.
I mentioned the term ‘recurrent pattern’. That’s a treacherous thingamajig if you ask me. It’s subjective, and your fear makes you see patterns where none might lay. And giddy optimism might cause you to turn blind to these recurring patterns screaming warnings at you. And what do these patterns say?
Here there be plops!
When is the last time you fell? And I am not talking about the banana peel incident that you have been trying so hard to put behind you.
When is the last time something really mattered to you and you couldn’t get there, in spite of putting in all you had? When is the last time you plopped so bad that you thought you would never dare totter again? When is the last time you wanted to live like never before, and then could barely stay alive through the crashing realization that what you wanted was not to be yours… and would never be.
I read this statistic recently that claimed that 90% of accidents happen in the 10% of the path that lies at the beginning or the end of the journey. Makes sense, doesn’t it? We do tend to fall a lot right at the beginning or the end of a quest. Let’s talk about the end. Right when we’re nearing what we think is the end, when whatever it is that we have been pursuing peeks beguilingly out from behind that last barrier… WHAM! Sucker punch!
Recurrent patterns. When it comes to my life and the recurrent patterns therein, one particular aspect seems to be blessed with consistent doom. This doom is highlighted all the more by the sheer contrast of the splendor with which all other aspects seem to breeze through. But then, hope rears its scarred and bandaged head. Give me one more chance, it croaks. Damned pest! Hadn’t it succumbed to the sheer annihilation of the last big plop! Apparently, it hasn’t.
There is beauty, and there is hope. There is life, and there is the desire to live. There is that last mile of tottering, and there is the threat of the last, big plop; the plop to end all totters.
Well, all that matters is the vision beyond the barrier, the promise of a better life to come, of dreams to be realized. And like a cheerfully drunk kamikaze, I shall plunge... like the sake drunk samurai, I shall totter through the ritual steps of Harakiri, closer and closer to that tantalizing mirage of perfection...
I just hope like hell that I don’t plop!
Sunday, April 20, 2008
The Cleansing
I stand in front of the shower, gingerly testing the water. It is cold; way too cold. I turn the tap to hot and wait for the temperature change. As I wait, I space out in my head, going through everything life has become in the past few months. Decisions lie before me, as clear and inevitable as always, only much more crucial now.
Every once in a while, when you have just about had enough of life as you know it, you are faced with a choice. It is not just another one of those insignificant ho-hums of life. It is the real deal. One way or another, your life is going to change forever, for better or for worse.
I hear the voice, mocking and imperious - Choose mortal. Choose the one path that you deign to tread for the rest of your life, knowing full well that you cannot retrace your steps. Choose well.
There are so many things that define us, our lives. All these things splash up a wild melange that makes it impossible to retain clarity when we come to these crucial decisions. The 'greater good', collective social wisdom and several other urban legends become a part of the desperate debate to decide where life goes.
The voice comes again - Focus! Do you not realise? This is the one chance you have of getting it right! Prioritise. Happiness, being good to yourself and sheer impulse... Leave it to the person you are deep within. It is that person who has to live with that decision. It is that person who has to live the life that lays down that path. It is only fair that it is that person who decides what the life ahead is like.
But no! We flog ourselves in an attempt to pay back our debt to the social machine that created us. Sweat and blood, blood and tears, tears and sweat... they all mingle in a harsh, metallic and salty river that runs down our throats in a searing gout, defining the hell we have created for ourself. Forsaken martyrdom for the sake of conformity, a burning skewer in the eyes for citizenship in the valley of the blind.
Too much, you think? Think of the plight of the son who struggles with an education, and later, a career that he is not made for. Imagine the pain of the daughter forcibly married to a deviant stranger, forced to share her life and her bed with someone she can't even talk to. Count the innumerable decisions you made under the what-will-they-think clause and figure out just how much good they did you.
Too much?
I come to my senses, surrounded by steam that chokes me. I realise that the water has become really hot in the meanwhile. A choice lies before me. Another one.
I close my eyes and step forward, giving myself up to the scalding barrage of steaming needles that beat a tattoo on my reddening skin. I feel the thoughts, the frustration boiling up and then burning up in that intense heat. I am in purgatory, and I am distilling the very essence of who I am in the manner of an alchemist. Unconsciously, hands reach out and knobs are turned.
The water quickly becomes a lot more tolerable, and then races to become ice cold. My breath comes in short gasps as my skin sprouts goose bumps. I push my hair back from my face and face the water, my arms outstretched. I feel the freezing torrent wash the slag away from me, beating away whole chunks of irrelevant and limiting baggage. My body temperature drops and soon I am comfortable in that rush of cold water, my breath deep and steady.
I open my eyes and breathe in the mix of the peculiar fragrance of ice-cold water and the remnants of scalding steam. I turn the knobs off. I am ready. I have exorcised myself of all that weighed me down, all that was unimportant. My life lies before me. And I choose. For myself.
I am cleansed. I can think again, clearly. I take an oath.
I shall fulfill my responsibilities through my decision, without letting them shape it to their whims. I shall acknowledge my dreams and fulfill them, without laughing them away as a child's pipe dream. I shall live my life in the image of the person I am, without letting others hammer it into battered and anonymous conformity.
I shall live.
Cogito Ergo Finito
Every once in a while, when you have just about had enough of life as you know it, you are faced with a choice. It is not just another one of those insignificant ho-hums of life. It is the real deal. One way or another, your life is going to change forever, for better or for worse.
I hear the voice, mocking and imperious - Choose mortal. Choose the one path that you deign to tread for the rest of your life, knowing full well that you cannot retrace your steps. Choose well.
There are so many things that define us, our lives. All these things splash up a wild melange that makes it impossible to retain clarity when we come to these crucial decisions. The 'greater good', collective social wisdom and several other urban legends become a part of the desperate debate to decide where life goes.
The voice comes again - Focus! Do you not realise? This is the one chance you have of getting it right! Prioritise. Happiness, being good to yourself and sheer impulse... Leave it to the person you are deep within. It is that person who has to live with that decision. It is that person who has to live the life that lays down that path. It is only fair that it is that person who decides what the life ahead is like.
But no! We flog ourselves in an attempt to pay back our debt to the social machine that created us. Sweat and blood, blood and tears, tears and sweat... they all mingle in a harsh, metallic and salty river that runs down our throats in a searing gout, defining the hell we have created for ourself. Forsaken martyrdom for the sake of conformity, a burning skewer in the eyes for citizenship in the valley of the blind.
Too much, you think? Think of the plight of the son who struggles with an education, and later, a career that he is not made for. Imagine the pain of the daughter forcibly married to a deviant stranger, forced to share her life and her bed with someone she can't even talk to. Count the innumerable decisions you made under the what-will-they-think clause and figure out just how much good they did you.
Too much?
I come to my senses, surrounded by steam that chokes me. I realise that the water has become really hot in the meanwhile. A choice lies before me. Another one.
I close my eyes and step forward, giving myself up to the scalding barrage of steaming needles that beat a tattoo on my reddening skin. I feel the thoughts, the frustration boiling up and then burning up in that intense heat. I am in purgatory, and I am distilling the very essence of who I am in the manner of an alchemist. Unconsciously, hands reach out and knobs are turned.
The water quickly becomes a lot more tolerable, and then races to become ice cold. My breath comes in short gasps as my skin sprouts goose bumps. I push my hair back from my face and face the water, my arms outstretched. I feel the freezing torrent wash the slag away from me, beating away whole chunks of irrelevant and limiting baggage. My body temperature drops and soon I am comfortable in that rush of cold water, my breath deep and steady.
I open my eyes and breathe in the mix of the peculiar fragrance of ice-cold water and the remnants of scalding steam. I turn the knobs off. I am ready. I have exorcised myself of all that weighed me down, all that was unimportant. My life lies before me. And I choose. For myself.
I am cleansed. I can think again, clearly. I take an oath.
I shall fulfill my responsibilities through my decision, without letting them shape it to their whims. I shall acknowledge my dreams and fulfill them, without laughing them away as a child's pipe dream. I shall live my life in the image of the person I am, without letting others hammer it into battered and anonymous conformity.
I shall live.
Cogito Ergo Finito
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