Wordscapes

Writing in Character

2010-10-26T12:32:00.000-07:00

I think the toughest thing a writer needs to do is to write as another person. It is a well-known fact that most writers trying out a first-person narrative for the first time always stumble into an autobiographical character. Always. It is the easiest thing to do, and not having to worry about the character’s tone, conviction, or consistency leaves the field wide open to concentrate on other stuff like plots and tale twists.

But then, if you’re a self-respecting writer with pretensions, or a successful one who has to write a second book with a different voice, or both, you’re stuck! Because you come upon that dreadfully unempathetic exercise of writing a narrative that belongs to a completely fictitious character. Most writers descend to more desperate tricks now. Their better halves, alter egos, close friends and family, all become foils that this narrating character wears. In these familiar shadows, the writer plunges his character’s tale, hoping that his view of his significant others is deep enough to make for a consistent character.

So far, so good. But there are only so many significant others. And so many more tales. And some tales need some really twisted characters to narrate, the type who wouldn’t feature in a self-respecting author’s friends-and-family calling group. Not unless said character had come to life, clawing his way up through a metaphorical grave to become rotting-flesh-and-trailing-blood, come to this world to wreak his revenge on an uncaring author. No wait. That idea has already been done. And we’re not talking about that kind of stuff here anyway. So, where was I? Twisted characters, yes!

So you need this borderline psychotic character, with an anticipatory insanity plea if you ever saw one, working his way (or her way, if that’s your kink) through an ever-deteriorating perspective, downward spiraling all the way to unnamable acts of despicable horror. Which friend or family member are you going to base this one on? Right!

This is where the writer enters the true unknown. Complete creation. Become someone and speak as him (or her, yes, I haven’t forgotten you). Live a life as you figure out how your character would feel in so-and-so circumstances and how your character would react. Making that difficult choice between a gas-powered chainsaw or a double-edged axe. What does your character really feel like hefting while giving way to all that incredibly raw angst?

Tough call. That’s what separates the big boys from the little ones, the contenders from the pretenders, the writers from the wannabes. Live your characters through in your head and you will tell a tale worthy of them. Or you might as well give your unfortunate psychotic a letter opener. A plastic one. With a lace-decorated handle. She wouldn’t be able to handle anything else. (Or he wouldn’t, sure! Everyone has an opinion!)

Cogito Ergo Finito

On Whimsy

2010-10-26T12:07:00.000-07:00

It has been a while since I’ve succumbed to the seductive call of my oldest and most faithful mistress. She calls every once in a while, as persistent as a wooing adolescent with cratered cheeks and the eternal-hope springing breast. She has much more grace though, and her technique is more akin to that of an erudite and accomplished Madame. Her whispered words used to send a hot flush up my cheeks. She paints images no decent man should ever see. She used to croon to me, teasing me, taunting me. She still does, the words always the same.

Do you have it in you, love, to take the plunge all over again into the intoxicating waters of whimsy?

Memories come back. Memories of deliciously irresponsible escapes from the ennui of everyday eventuality. Memories of breathlessly reckless acts that derailed the careful plans of years and their predictable tomorrows. Memories of her, always whispering, always leading me on a merry chase away from everything else, away from everyone else.

Whimsy. She always comes back. It doesn’t matter where I am, what I do, or how settled in my groove (rut!) I am. She always has a spiel, and it is always intoxicatingly intriguing and attractive. She does not try to reason, though. Never! She advocates against it! She does not promise happy tomorrows for everafter or even a moment’s gratification that is somehow worth a lifetime. There is nothing guaranteed but the act of indulging in her, in Whimsy. Everything that follows is delightful chaos.

The clock ticks and as grey flecks my hair and crows sinks their claws around my eyes, her trips become more poignant. It is more difficult now to just give in. it is more difficult now to turn her away. As my age nears her immortal appearance, our relationship matures. Her words are the same, but they make me smile now and not blush. Her tricks are still clever and completely unanticipated. But they make me applaud at the illusion; I’m a spectator, not a victim. I’m an outsider, not one of her lovers anymore. And still, when she leans forward, her wanton perfume filling me up with the lust to live outside the boundaries of what is acceptable and right, when she brushes those lips against my reluctant ears and whispers…

Do you have it in you, love, to take the plunge all over again into the intoxicating waters of whimsy?

I wonder. I can’t help but wonder.

Cogito Ergo Finito

Poetic License Revoked

2010-10-26T11:39:00.000-07:00

Many a time I’ve found myself at a complete loss

With a piece of prose labeled delectable and divine

Critics ooh and aah even as the writer weaves up a mystery

In a piece that is neither a whodunit nor a what’s-the-corpse-wearing

Nay, the convolutedness of the prose goes deeper than that

Its devious machinations are a plot unto themselves

The goal of its damning complexity seems merely to perplex

And belittle the reader perspiring his way to sophistication

Every twisted metaphor contrives meanings profound and obscure

Or it might not be a metaphor even, just delusions of authorship all along

A roaring lion in pink pyjamas set the fondue on fire on a nocturnal jaunt

See what I just did?

With a bit more finesse and bare-faced pretension

I could have passed that piece of twaddle as literature

Just like I toss aside meter and rhythm

And call this assortment of rambling raving rants

Poetry

Cogito Ergo Finito

The Wordscapist

2010-03-27T08:07:00.000-07:00

I do not exist
I was who I was told I was
I was who I was expected to be
I was… Was I?
No!
I am who I want to be
I am a myth, a story, a ghost
I am flux that can be shaped anyhow
I am me, I am you, I am anyone
Words capture the form
Fleeting though it is
In these ephemeral scapes
I exist
I am
The Wordscapist
Everything you say is true… somewhere. How artful your truth is (no, there are no lies) and what you make of it determines how real your wordscapes are.

You shape your reality; consciously, through actions, and unconsciously, through means you do not realise, far less understand. There are some though, who know more, do more, say more. They use words. They weave reality with words. Wordsmiths.

It is part gift and part rigour. It is half discovered and half tutored. It must be absorbed and harnessed. Somewhere between the lore of magic and the abstractions of sub-atomic resonance, lies the art of weaving wordscapes. It is a powerful art, one that binds and one that destroys. And yet, it is not infinite. Its boundaries define it as much as they limit it.

There is one who can weave beyond these boundaries… the Wordscapist.

Reaching the pinnacle is a journey, a tale of becoming, realising. Power comes in reasonably, and at times frustratingly, small increments. He didn’t have that luxury. Power came as a tornado, brought on by insanity and sheer chance, sweeping him up and throwing him into a melee of warmongers. A con artiste suddenly found himself the genuine article and then had to live up to the reputation. The world would have to wait while the one man with the power to destroy it waged a personal war to save himself.

It is a world made of words. The written, the spoken, and even the thought… all words, little bits that define reality. It is a world that you and I live in, today, now. It is all going to change soon. Buckle up. Hang on. And yes, careful what you say. Everything you say is true… becomes true… somewhere.
Cogito Ergo Finito

The Death of a Story

2010-03-17T10:34:00.001-07:00

Someone has to die for it to be a good story. But what if I do not want to kill anyone. What if the characters I create are not meant to be sacrificed at the altar of the story’s supposed greatness. What’s the way out?

Why not kill the story itself? Let me build this story’s end within itself. Let’s brew a murder that will achieve sweet fulfilment in the very inevitability of every story’s destiny; the end.

For every murder, there has to be a plot. So does every story need one. In this strange pun, let’s weave in the swirls and twirls of the happenings that will lead to this story’s end. Let’s cook up a character who walks the pages, and slips between folds, who hides behind serifs, and seduces ellipses effortlessly. Let’s write up a character who is beyond the power of the author, of words, of the story itself. Let him be a shadow that needs no wall, no light, no being… just pure essence. Let him be the beginning of the end.

Feel the story quaver already? What next? For the plot to be executed, there has to be a motive. Why would the character want to do the story in? Perhaps the story plans to knock him off. Perhaps there’s glory and power in bringing down the world that limits him and threatens to knock him off with a heavy exclamation. Perhaps the character is a sequel killer, lurking in the twists of many a story, responsible in secret for many an untimely finale. No. Our character goes beyond such petty clichés. His motive is art in itself. The sheer poetic justice of doing unto the doer what is due to him. Doesn’t make sense? Wait, dear reader. The end will reveal more than the inevitable chalk outline.

The story does not give in so easily. It resorts to its most dastardly trick, the twisted tale. It ushers in a series of events that cripples the character, challenges his very essence. It changes the rules, gives birth to deadly new predators, and even shatters the fourth wall. As the debris comes crashing down, I shudder at the implication. Has my perfect murderer been mowed down by the sheer scale of events, by the complete disintegration of the world around him?

I realize I’m not alone in my horrified fascination. The story watches too, gasping at the damage it has wreaked on itself in its hunger to root out its doom. I quell my distaste at sharing a moment with my adversary as I wait for the dust to settle. It eventually does. I see a chasm has opened up. And on the edge is a pair of hands that hang on doggedly. A powerful heave of metaphorical shoulders reveals my character hoisting himself up. Wiping streaks of tattered sub-plots from his grim visage, he pulls out a board, and plugs it in right over the chasm. PLOT HOLE, the board announces. The story and I gasp, horror and wonder melded together in one sound. The story overreached and laid itself open in its quest to vanquish its hunter. Alas! Its end was written within itself. And right then and there, everything vanishes into the void. Not even a measly Fin remains.

I burst into applause, that quickly peters out. I see him standing in front of the void. He is not done cleaning up the mess. The story is done with. The author remains. No, I cannot...Cogito Ergo Finito

The Fight

2010-03-17T10:01:00.000-07:00

There is hope, they say. Things will change. For the better. Hang in there. Wait. Have faith.

Listen carefully, and you can hear the clang of empty words, the whisper of inanity, the snicker of well-meaning nothingness.

There is hope…

For every you that is battered, there’s a you that fight backs. For every you that falls, there is a you who struggles back up. For every you that breaks down and cries, there is a you who lets out a defiant scream and carries on.

What’s keeping you going? Hope? Faith? Momentum?

It doesn’t matter. Find peace in the exhaustion brought on by the end of the day, and greet the beginning of the next day for the bloody struggle it might well be. All that matters is that you’re still fighting. If you fall tomorrow, you will be remembered for the fight. For your defiance. For your spirit. . Because, it was a good fight.

Redemption? There is none. There might be a bonus for you, as much controlled by chance as anything else. If there is Someone watching and He or She has a plan, it’s too damn ineffable for you to figure out what to do to get it right. Don’t weaken yourself with hope. You will only crane your neck to catch sight of wisps, setting yourself up for the next sucker punch.

There is hope… Sure, hiding in a box filled with the nastiest company this side of Harlem. Things will change… You bet they will. For the better… Definitely. Someone will benefit, even if it is only the undertaker.
What is definite is that there is a fight on. You’re not lucky enough to be a spectator. You’re one of the bloodied pieces of meat swinging it out in the ring. So glove up, brace yourself, and let loose. Irrespective of the outcome, know that I’ll be cheering for you. Somewhere in between my bouts.Cogito Ergo Finito

Grolshynch Bluesowen

2010-03-06T01:34:00.000-08:00

Grolshynch Bluesowen was a name spoken in a pristine moment of insanity. Names have power. So does insanity. It was inevitable that Grolshynch became a real person, warping into reality with no attempt at coherence. And with a name like that, he was a frightful person. A sad, frightful person. Why sad, you ask? Read on.

With a snarl for a whisper and sheer terror in the most benign looks, there was nothing salvageable in his character or redeemable in his nature. Grolshynch was one of nature’s bad guys. He had never hurt a soul or carried off a woman. But he did not need to. His destiny was to be the villain, the monster, the beast. He came into being like an action figure, with a clichéd profile sketch sealing his existence.

What did he look like, this Grolshynch? Did he have bloodshot eyes with the fires of hell glowing in them? Did his diabolic smile reveal sharp canines that seemed to grow even as you watched? Nothing of the sort. Grolshynch didn’t have an appearance. The man that spawned him had not bothered with visuals, merely a name and an intent. Grolshynch lurked so well that you would never catch sight of him. And if you did, what you would see was anyone’s guess. But it would be sure to stop your heart. Imagine, a sight that went with a name and personality such as that, springing at you out of the shadows.

What did Grolshynch do? When he was not lurking, that is. Say, on a Sunday morning. Did he read the newspaper on the pot? How did like his eggs?

Do you really want to know? Do you care? Wouldn’t that spoil it for you? Giving a Caliban like him a life, human traits. How could you justify the delicious terror that you would otherwise feel when you whispered his name? Let’s say he used an ultra-soft toothbrush because he had sensitive gums. Wouldn’t that just destroy the entire concept of Grolshynch forever and ever? Would you rather not have his shoving a rusty wicked-looking pick into his void-like mouth to dislodge that shard of rotting bone left over from his last meal, a meal you would rather not imagine?

What’s this rambling piece about? Who is Grolshynch Bluesowen? Grolshynch is a monster, more precisely, a social monster. With a personality that is a perfect match for society’s picture of a nightmare and origins lost in the mists of a twisted man’s insanity, he never did stand a choice.

By the way, he likes to read the Times on the pot. Especially when he has white bread the previous night. It constipates him. Meat, you ask? No way! Grolshynch is vegan. He can barely stand the whiff of milk, leave alone meat. So he doesn’t like eggs, any which way. And despite his sensitive gums, he has quite a neat set of teeth with regular canines. And once you get past his inevitable exterior, he’s quite a nice guy, actually.

What was that, you want to add him on Facebook?Cogito Ergo Finito

Flirting with Insanity

2010-02-28T22:49:00.000-08:00

An experimental piece, written just to see if I can simulate paranoia. It's still too coherent. I'll give it another shot some time later.

The beginning was the end. The end is beginning. I’m playing with words. I’m delaying the inevitable. I cannot dally. I must make haste. I must escape. I cannot. But still, I must try. Like a terrified hare, I will terrify myself to death as I streak through the jungle with the predator right behind me. But I will not be caught alive!

I am a seasoned sprinter. I dash for obscurity, I race towards anonymity. I make a mark and scrub violently to erase it. I cannot be caught in the act or the aftermath. I must not be located. I cannot be locked up. That would be the end of me. Run, I scream to myself!

I look around desperately, for cues, for messages, for signs. Never for help though. Every hand that reaches out seeks to grasp, clutch. They are all in it. They whisper, conspire, coordinate so that they can creep up on me. I won’t let them. I’ll be gone. Ha!

I have the jitters. I twitch incessantly as I drum my fingers and chew my nails to ragged bits. I clasp and clutch my fingers, trying to calm myself down. My breath is reduced to whoops and gasps. I haven’t even started the race yet, and still, adrenaline fills up my veins, stoking my body, preparing it.

I toss baggage out. Everything that cannot be carried must go. Everyone who will slow me down must be left behind. Chunks of objects, memories, and relationships go hurtling through my window as the room becomes bare. All that remains is what will accompany me on the run.

They are here. Time’s up! I dive out, landing hard. Blood trickles through abused skin, skin that stings as sweat starts pouring freely. Trivialities. I race through narrow alleys, my shoulders ramming into strangers, bits and pieces of outlying identity knocked off in the chaos.

My stomach knots itself up as my lungs scream for air. My legs are on fire as they pound the path, my hands reaching out for anything that will support, that will help me hold on and lunge forward. I can feel them. The chase is on. There isn’t much time now.

The beginning was the end. The end is beginning. I’m out of time. They are here. They will have me soon. I’ve been running forever. I can run only for so long. I only hope they do not disappoint me. I have been preparing for this all my life. I stop. I turn around, half tottering. I can hear them. A moment away. Their stench fills up my nostrils. I clench my fists. The running is done. It is time for the last stand.

I brace myself, take a deep breath, and launch myself at them with a scream! Moments later, it is over. The end. Peace.

Cogito Ergo Finito

I remember, You forgot

2010-02-28T14:32:00.000-08:00

A random piece of verse, built on the title, which I believe is the name of a Persian poem and an Iranian game as well... That's what a dear Persian friend of mine tells me, at least. The words rang a bell, and the words flowed. The rest is a blog post...

It was a game at first
Hide and seek one day
Tag on another
We ran and we gasped
We laughed and we screamed
Life had stopped awhile
To watch us play
Our innocence freezing it
For a sliver of eternity
I remember, you forgot
Life moved on
And so did innocence
Games became more serious
As laughter trickled away
We went our separate ways
We passed each other
I turned back
You turned back
We missed each other
I remember, you forgot
We became characters
From demented sitcoms
You in a corporate comedy
Me in an angst-ridden drama
We played them for a bit
And then exchanged roles
We moved cities
We moved lives
We met, we said good bye
I remember, you forgot
Somewhere between midnight and dawn
I sit and write these words
I know tomorrow won’t be different
I know nothing will change
You will live your life
And I will live mine
We might meet, we will part
Nothing will change
Except for a promise that fades away
I remember, you forgot
Cogito Ergo Finito

Filing Time

2010-02-20T14:02:00.000-08:00

Lay down your thoughts
On a slab of unrest
Worry not of what is to come
It is tagged, it is done
Slide home the baggage
And slam it closed
In the cold, dark recess
It will rest until called
Let it join the others
The ones that scurry and scratch
Asking to be let out
Begging, pleading, threatening
This one will wake up too
But it is safe for now
Inside, deep within
Where it belongs
Far, far away
From the light
From the life
And everything
That is to come

Cogito Ergo Finito

Superlife

2009-07-14T14:14:00.000-07:00

Quick quiz. Have you heard these before?

It's human to err.

Only human after all.

Human weakness, vulnerability.

The first one, we've been hearing since we were kids. The divinity of forgiveness might have been forgotten, but our errant humanity was branded into our impressionable minds.

The second one, the agent stands above a fallen Neo (bullet motion showed us a flailing Neo desperately avoid a stream of accomodatingly slow bullets before he ends up flat on his back with two creases and a sore bottom.) Trinity comes to the rescue, but the dialogue remains. Only human after all.

The third stands for all the excuses we make. Human error. The phrase condemns mankind to the land of the inferior. The weak. The errant.

Cast out from paradise to grovel on an earthly limbo two sins from hell, such is man's plight. Thus we've been told. We're flawed (the bible says so), clad in a filthy body (no less than a mobile toilet, Swami Vivekananda said), living our life in penance for sins commited long before we were born (the Hindu cyclical path towards salvation). We're only human. We're damned before we're born. Point made. Scylla is done. Let's move on to Charybdis.

Noticed a surge in superhero movies off late? They're getting bigger, better and more real. The fan base is growing (the Dark Knight ruled the IMDB charts at # 1 before the purists came out in hordes to pull it down to a more digestable 7 or 8.) The heroes are more vulnerable and yet more powerful (Spidey pouts, mopes and cries and yet manages to kick Venom's and the Sandman's collective derriere.) The effects are cooler and more breathtaking (didn't you cheer when Ironman tried on his red and gold suit for the first time?) The villains are more real too and yet so much more lethal (Heath Ledger's Joker... need I say more?) We're living in the golden age of superhero movies.

Is it just movies? Let's take books. Tolkien wrote the Lord of the Rings in the 1940s. But did any of us hear about it till the 1990s? Actually, most of us woke up to it in the new millennium, when the first movie came out. But now, everyone has read it. Look at the other books... the stupendous success of the Harry Potter series, the proliferation of hundreds of high fantasy series written by the Terrys, the Davids and the others, and of course, the elevation of the comic to the status of a collectible, with superheroes having their adventures chronicled in glossy high-detail art.

So is it just the books and the movies? Take video games. Take new age urban pursuits like free-running. Take the sheer variety and insanity of extreme sports these days. Take the conspiracy theories that do the virtual rounds and how all of them have the concept of a corrupt system and a chosen one. The collective imagination of the thinking tenth of the human species seems to be thirsting for a release from reality, from mundane inanity, from the plight of being only human.

What is it that we're looking for? Few know the answer. But apparently a lot many of us are looking. While we're at it, we indulge the itch with flights of fancy. We discard our human limitations as our imaginations soar with caped crusaders. We escape this crippling reality for a Neverland that entices us with a better reality, with a kind of superlife. But we do not recognize the symptoms. What our very core seems to be crying for is a release... from all that we do (and the superheroes don't). Think about it. what's the superlife you're itching for? How possible is it? How far are you from it? What are you doing to get there?

You could think about it. Or you could just go catch the latest escape from reality (X-Men? Terminator? Transformers?) Indulge the itch. Let your favourite superhero live the superlife. You can watch in the wings and applaud.

So... What are YOU going to do?

Cogito Ergo Finito

Turn Back Time

2009-07-07T13:30:00.000-07:00

Poetry is close to my heart, but prose is a hog for space. Once in a while, I try verse. I never rhyme. This one wanted to rhyme though. And when verse develops personality, you just shut up and write. I had my way though, in bursts. The result is a spooky song with a melody of its own. Stranger, I present my first (almost) rhyming effort in a decade, and the first piece of verse ever to sneak into Wordscapes.

One decision you could undo

One memory you could return to

One moment you could live differently

One blow you could strike more gently

You could try and try

Fight the relentless hands

If they give an inch, they'll give a mile

You could sweat and bleed

Wrench the temporal flow

If only you could, you could turn back time

Would you risk it all again

Would you realise it's all in vain

Would you still want to wash your sins

Would you turn the clock widdershins

You could try and try

To grab redemption

If you can have hope, you can have life

You could kill your present

To remake the past

If only you could, you could turn back time

Will you wake up in time

Will you listen to the mime

Will you resign from this insane quest

Will you just give in to fate's jest

You could try and try

To make them true

But dreams are dreams, they cheat and lie

You could beg and plead

To realise your wishes

If only you could, you could turn back time

Half the book has been read

Half of you is already dead

Half is all that remains

Half is all that pains

You could try and try

But you know it's futile

It's time to let go, it's time to move on

You could reminisce and smile

But you know it's untrue

You cannot, you just cannot turn back time

Cogito Ergo Finito

Changeling

2009-06-29T12:43:00.000-07:00

You came into this world, a whisper between life and death. They celebrated your birth as you wailed at what lay before you.

The faerie watched... chuckling at your misery, at the irony of the delight surrounding your tears.

But that knowledge faded till it became just a queasy knot in your gut. You got caught in the feasts and the orgies. You lost yourself in the glamours and the lies. You forgot.
Try and remember. Realise. Know.

Changeling, you are but a visitor. Little more than a knave. This life holds no challenges you cannot surmount and death hides no surprises you will uncover. You will fool yourself with rainbows and optimism, but know that both lie... Colours sprinkled by rays and rain do not point to pots of gold. Dreams spun with hopes and mad wishes do not make a life.

When the fey one holding your cards smiles, you soar. But the faerie are capricious. With every frown, they bring about storms. They laugh in wicked abandon as they see the havoc they wreak. They titter and nudge each other in anticipation as you stagger into the the next rabbit hole. Not long before you plunge yet again... deeper. Soon, you will fall again... harder. You are bailed out, wrung out, and hung out to dry. And then... it starts again. The game goes on.

Your life has been pledged as tithe to Them. The miracle that was your birth will be paid for with your life. Your fate will become a game, a spinning coin, a rolling die. And you yourself, a mere pawn, a toy that amuses and enthralls Them. When They tire, They will cast you away. Just as you came in, a wistful whisper, you will pass on to the next world. There will be tears at your passing, but this time they will not be yours. The mourning will mask your smile of relief as you escape this fey game, this tortuous illusion.

You are but a changeling. This life is just a debt. Live it off. In time, in this world or the next, you will have paid for your keep and the fey will let you go. They'll break the die and melt the coin. They'll free the pawn that circles the board endlessly. And then, you will walk free. You will discover what life can be. Away from the faerie. Away from illusions. Pure life. Pure being.

Changeling... Believe. You will live. Some day. For a moment. For eternity.

Cogito Ergo Finito

Threes

2009-06-16T22:09:00.000-07:00

Things come in threes. So they say. Well, writer alter ego of mine says so.

Trouble comes in threes they say
The first one, a toothless hag called Misfortune
The second one, a child named Confusion
And the last one was the deadliest of all
A seductress by name Panic
She brewed it all up
And served up a hot plate full of trouble

They come in threes. It’s the perfect predatory strategy. If you’re reasonably strong, the first one will just shock you. You are still on your feet. The second one will land a sucker punch that will shake you through and through. And then you’re set up. Staggering on your feet, your eyes barely focusing, you don’t even see the last one coming. The third one is always… always… a knockout.
With the first, you lose innocence.
With the second, you lose faith.
With the third, you lose hope.
And then, it’s over.
They’ve won, hands down. But then, it was three against one. You did a good job of hanging in there. You might even have put up a fight. But when they come in threes, what chance do you have?

Cogito Ergo Finito

Me, Myself and Them

2009-05-10T08:49:00.000-07:00

A certain amount of thought is necessary. Any less and you’re a simpleton. Any more and you go insane. It’s a fine line, but all of us walk it. We think. And we act. Sometimes, the two are related even.

So fellow blog-brothers and blog-sisters, let’s think.

Question: What makes you tick?

I’m sure you all have your pat-answers ready. Put them aside. Remember, this is a thinking exercise. Pat-answers have no business here. Really. Think. What makes you tick?

Really now? You think so? Okay… try doing this.

Take the last five Big decisions of your life, and figure out why you took them. The Big ones, with a capital B. The last five Big decisions of your life. What were they? Yes, that one counts. No, that one doesn’t. I said Big! Take your time and think. There is a point to this, which I shall eventually get around to. Hopefully.

Done? Good. Line them up. The five Big decisions of your life. There they stand jostling each other. Now tell me, why did you take these decisions? Why did you do what you did? Think about that for a while. Be honest with yourself. Take into account all that your friends, your family, your extended family, your neighbours and the stranger you stopped to chat with had to say. Try and see just how much all of that went into the decision you took.

Now, if you can answer the question ‘why’ to each of those decisions with an honest ‘I wanted to’ and nothing else, you can walk out of this entry right now to the sound of thundering applause. You’ve lived a worthy life. I’m sure you are extremely happy and have already got a prime spot booked under the Bodhi tree.

What about you? You didn’t leave? Damn! You actually took a Big decision that you did not want to? More than one, you say? Oh, that many? You might have taken at least one purely because you wanted to, right? Perhaps? Well, fellow blog-brother/sister… Welcome to the desert of the real.

Advice, counsel, suggestion, opinion, demand, command… One way or another, someone or the other, working alone or in groups, seems to have insinuated themselves into the most important decisions of your life. The I-want-to factor seems to have faded into insignificance, relegated to an insignificant extra in the movie of your life. What happened? How did that happen?

In the past, when I wrote about life, and other related matters, I somehow managed to turn it around into a paean of hope, or at least of defiance, by the end of it. This, I’m afraid, is not one of those entries. This once, I merely try to strip the wool off the lupine external influences that seem to be masquerading as one of your sheepish decisions. That’s done. Now what?

Breathe. That’s the secret, someone once told me. Breathe right and you’ll get most of your life right. And yes, some of those future Big ones… try and do them for yourself. You might get a few wrong. But at least you will be living your life, instead of having it run for you.

Cogito Ergo Sum

The Write Way

2009-05-10T08:04:00.000-07:00

All of us are good at one thing. There are some who are blessed in different ways. But there is one thing that we really enjoy doing. We might not be the best, or even amongst the best. But then the superlative is a relative concept. What matters is that there is that one thing that gives you joy. And that one thing is what you live for, what you breathe for, what defines your very purpose in life.

Some of you might have no clue what I’m talking about. Never mind. You won’t understand this one. Move on.

I write. Words are my lifeblood and the rattle of keys or the scratch of pen on paper is my breath. I write when I’m happy. I write when I’m sad. When I’m ecstatic, I struggle to find the right words. And when I’m heartbroken, I discover that I can’t write at all.

I write. I used to at least. And now, I try. This year seems to have been a bad one for words. They have dried up. There seems to be a veritable drought in the wordscapes. But then, I’m not much good at anything else. And so I continue to try. And try. Till I reach a point where I can write. Or…

After much effort and frustration, I decide to write about the block. Attack the demon head on. Maybe that would thwart its evil eye. Maybe that would bring back the words. And so here goes another attempt at breaking the famine. Let the words come.

…

Silence. Paralysing silence. Not a word comes forth. My hands shake in anticipation and I hold my breath as I wait. But my fingers don’t fly across the keyboard. They barely move. My mind doesn’t buzz with thoughts that can scarcely wait to leap on to the screen. There is nothing. And all I can do is report in numb desolation on this morbid phenomenon.

I try again. I take a deep breath. I can do this. I have done this all my life. I can write. I can write about anything. I can write as anyone. I can express the pits and the peaks of human emotion. Of course I can write! Day after day, year after year, I have honed the person I was to become a writer; one who writes. I discarded all else as frivolous and superfluous. All I wanted was to write. All that mattered were the words. If there is one thing I can do, that is writing!

I look back at what I’ve written now. I struggled through some of these words. At other times, indignation and fury lent wings to my fingers. I seem to have achieved a few words, meagre yet substantial. Incoherent, disjointed, disturbing. But still words. I have written.

I write. That’s what I do. That’s what I am. And I will continue trying, spewing words out, till I find the old rhythm. Because, in that rhythm lies the heartbeat of my very existence. And till then, all wordscapes will see are these anguished outpourings, these desperate attempts at what used to be. Perhaps I will find a new way of being. But it will be a new way of writing. Because that is what being is for me. Nothing else will do.
Cogito Ergo Sum

Feel

2008-11-30T09:33:00.000-08:00

There was a time not long back, when everything was different.

He would get up to a day that seemed just like any other. He would pass through the day effortlessly, stopping to stare for a while at the curious world. Every now and then, something would catch his eye; a splash of colour that stirred something inside his sterile heart. The blooms were always plastic though, and the promise of fragrance just brought a passing odour of long-dead dust.

He would see random tableaux of human emotions; frozen moments bursting with laughter and tears, spilling excited gasps and angry words at the seams. The corner of his lips would curl in a wistful smirk and his fingers would twitch in a helpless gesture of intense desire… to feel; joy, pain, anything.

Once in a while, with a dizzy swirl of dust and petals, things would change. His eyes would widen at the prospect of life and love. His lips would part in wonder as he dared to hope and dream. And then, it would collapse all around him. Shards of agony would rip him apart and he would wake up, screaming, drenched and shaking. Another nightmare. Reality.

In the morning, he would welcome the numbness like a long-lost brother. He hated not feeling, but then, he could live with it. The agony, he wasn't sure he could survive.

Today, everything is different.

He sleeps peacefully, with a childlike pout on his face. He wakes up reluctantly, but he is rested and happy. He stretches languidly and lazily opens his eyes to another day. Watching over a pot of brewing coffee, in his head he skips through the day that lies ahead. There are challenges, there are problems. There is stress and there is doubt and fear. He smiles.

He pours out the coffee into two mugs. He walks softly into the bedroom. He sets the cups down and kneels beside her. He kisses her gently and wakes her up. He watches her, tousle-haired and languid. His mind still skips around the various problems in his head. A flood of emotion washes it all away. He passes her the mug and watches as she smiles at him and takes a sip. Her smile widens at the taste of coffee. She leans over to kiss him and whispers in his ear, 'love you, baby'. Peace.

Today, everything is different. Indeed.

Cogito Ergo Vivum

What the Manual Said

2008-10-31T09:10:00.000-07:00

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

Blaze of Glory?

2008-10-12T10:39:00.000-07:00

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

Move Along

2008-10-12T08:29:00.000-07:00

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

Goodbye My Brother...

2008-10-09T13:03:00.000-07:00

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

Take Your Time

2008-09-27T08:11:00.000-07:00

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

The Laughter Pledge

2008-09-16T15:50:00.001-07:00

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

She

2008-09-14T21:37:00.000-07:00

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

Moderate Opinions

2008-05-23T02:20:00.000-07:00

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 moderationAttributed to Titus Petronius
1^st Century AD

Opinions are like… noses?! Everyone has one! Paraphrased, Anonymous
20^th Century AD

We live in extremely indulgent times. And with the contempt bred off familiarity, we don’t really appreciate how indulgent they are. In the 17^th century, some 400 years ago, Galileo Galilei was prosecuted and placed under house arrest for life for supporting the Copernican Heliocentric ‘myth’ (sun-centric universe as opposed to the biblical earth-centric one). And today, we have freedom of speech that allows us to diss the state-heads or the pope (but NOT a certain South Indian actor). Some dissers do diss-appear rather mysteriously, but then that’s always a risk.

These indulgent times seem to have fostered an obsession with opinions. Everyone does indeed have one. And as the original quotation about opinions (that didn’t make it here because of the censor filters) indicates, they do tend to stink pretty often. But then a permissive society implies the explicit freedom to opine subjectively. Not surprisingly, everyone’s at it!

In many ways, it’s a good thing. Tyrants have been overthrown (and lynched), outdated systems have been torn down (and replaced with even more ridiculous ones) and good causes have been adopted (and groomed into boisterous free-for-alls). I’m sorry, but it’s getting obvious. I have an opinion… against opinions!

It might be a very oxymoronic way of being, but at the same time, it is a very persistent one. If there is one thing I truly believe in, it is moderation. The human body has been built for moderation. The survival of our species is the result of millennia of moderation. And our stupendous growth and development, especially in the last two centuries, is a result of moderation too… moderation in moderation.

Now what does moderation have to do with opinions? It’s pretty simple, really. Opinions are rather benign things, except when taken to the extreme. Sweeping generalizations, rabid convictions (backed with nothing more than hate and spittle) and zombie-like mob mentality are all the franken-offspring of opinions. It all comes down to us versus them and in that silent moment before the storm, there is always an opinion setting flame to fuel. The result; hate, hurt and sundry horrors.

I am often questioned about my lack of a standpoint. It is often equated with a likening to an invertebrate. I am asked if I am not infuriated by the plight of the under-privileged and the atrocities of the powerful. My answer is always the same; I do not know enough to foster such strong sentiments. And given all that I am occupied with, it is unlikely I will have the time to enquire and research enough to gather accurate and sufficient information about all these causes.

I am an average guy (next planet probably) with a personal set of dreams, some them even indirectly resulting in public good. I have but one life and a whole lot of things to do within its infinitesimally short span. I often do not have the time for a peaceful morning tea. Making time for opinions about urban legends raked up by manic strangers halfway across the world is quite out of the question. In short, given the option between moderation and opining, I’d choose the em-word every single time. And that is my opinion!

Damn! Did I just contradict everything I said?

Cogito Ergo Finito

The Song of Life

2008-05-20T12:21:00.000-07:00

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

The Story of Totter and Plop

2008-05-19T07:30:00.000-07:00

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!

Cogito Ergo Finito

The Cleansing

2008-04-20T11:03:00.000-07:00

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

The Secret of Wordscapes...

2007-12-27T23:45:00.000-08:00

There are no lies. Everything exists somewhere. Know that every breath you take changes the world around you. Every word skews it. You are the maker of the world around you. You are the wordsmith that shapes it.

Imagine. A chance encounter with a stranger. Eyes meet and the scape starts. You speak and with every word, you start weaving a new pattern. Truth or lie has little to do with this game where the beauty of what you weave defines how real it is. Bold strokes and subtle tugs bring out an incredible texture to the interaction. The dance goes on as both of you create a whole new scape of possibilities, your own private universe.

Stop. What rot! How can you just make a mere conversation seem like something magical? It's just another day and just another person. What difference does any of it make? Who even remembers chance encounters like these? Who even bothers talking to strangers unless you want something out of them?

Shush! Watch what bitter little creatures fly forth from your lips, birthed in your vitriolic cynicism. Deformed, grinning imps that scurry forth to do mischief; bringing more misery and chaos to a world that has already had enough. You have the choice of picking your angel to carry every word you speak. Let it be a gentle creature full of hope and joy and not a dark brooding form rising from the depths of hell.

Now that li'l internal dialogue has been wrapped up, let's move on with the scape. Weaving scapes; the art of creating or modifying reality using words; is a talent that does not come easily to most of us. Most of us are limited by reality, as we perceive it. Obsessed with the implications of our perception and how absolute we deem it, we are crippled by the belief that this is all there is. Nothing more is possible.

Close your eyes and make a wish. Put everything you have into that wish. Don't mince any words. Describe your wish to the fullest. Put every ounce of eloquence you have in you into that wish. Let go and pour forth all the passion you can dredge up into that one thought. And then, let it fly. Watch the li'l wordscape come to life. Become the wordscapist!Cogito Ergo Finito

Flutterby...

2007-12-27T22:33:00.000-08:00

Somewhere in a far-off exotic land, a butterfly flutters by. Borne on the drafts of a light breeze, it flits at random till it comes across a a slightly persistent current of air. It realises that it is drifting down a path it did not intend taking. Its fluttering becomes persistent and it manages to struggle out of the presumptuous nudging it was being subjected to. But something happens. In its indignant flutterings, it has managed to push the current slightly off-course. A flutter has been created that was about to go a very long way.

Now wind currents tend to be very rowdy. They jostle each other with even more impunity than they would nudge an unsuspecting butterfly. The slightly off-course current of air, fresh from a rather unsettling encounter with a spirited butterfly staggered into one of his pals. A climatic game of dominoes was set in motion with the nudge being passed on as pushes and shoves with dizzy winds careening all over the place. The nudge was going places indeed with staggering off-course currents travelling for hundreds of miles before rocking another fellow current off-course.

Somewhere above bleached white beaches and incredibly blue seas and below a white hot sun, something was brewing in the air. Like the ominous grumble in the ponderous belly of a gourmand post repast, there was a tight restlessness in the air. It was a Mexican standoff between an unnaturally hot day and the hangover from a freezing night. Something was going to give.

Into this tension-loaded atmosphere blunders a drunk li'l current, reeling from a shove that started thousands of miles away. In an instant, instant mayhem was cut loose. Belligerent winds from the land and the sea and the very skies plunged into the fray. It was a free for all and every Johnny Breezer in the neighbourhood worth his whiff came blowing away. Round and round they went, chasing each other's tails. And right then and there, a monster was born!

Little currents and big winds were all drawn together in the tight, crushing embrace of this newborn fury. Bending over itself in the agony of its violent birth, the twister soars to the skies. Alas, it is tied to the earth where it was born. It twists and turns with a passion that becomes dark and destructive. It yanks and pulls at anything holding it down, scooping up water and boats and fish, regardless of volume or size. Dragging its crippled tail across the seas, it staggers on to land. Things, against all expectations, turn a lot worse.

Sheer chaos and destruction breaks loose. The tornado jumps and skips, trying to reach that elusive momentum that will let it escape. But its very form prevents it from doing anything but rip and rent the very fabric of the land it rakes. In an instant, trees are uprooted, buildings razed, ruminating cows displaced over miles and vehicles tossed around in a calvinistic rage. And suddenly, it's over.

Sunlight breaks through the the monster's shadow and dazed mortals stagger over ruins. Life has changed forever for many. And it all started in a day's time, originating with an innocent flutter. A flutterby happened...
Cogito Ergo Finito

It's not easy to be me...

2007-12-10T01:29:00.001-08:00

Perspective is everything. Ionesco wrote this play, Rhinoceros. It shows a village of people mutating into rhinos. The first person to mutate is cast out as a freak. Eventually, everyone mutates but one person who remains human. He is then cast out as a freak. Perspective is indeed everything.

I started out as a child who had no opinions. What others told me was the truth for me. That person’s reality was mine. Perspective too was adopted. It is shocking how much rot can be fed to one so impressionable. Anyone and everyone had a piece of advice, with ‘experience’ backing it. And it’s tragic how much of an impression all that makes.

Luckily, identity asserted itself. My experiences and learning saved me from becoming a collection of assorted ‘that’s what they say’ and ‘what will they think’. Some people I met contributed to the crucible of self-purging, the act of becoming.

I went through life trying to adhere to these scathing directives and an internal conscience that was more intellectual than moral. It hasn’t been easy. My significant others unfortunately adhere to a different set of principles. ‘They’ play a big part in the lives of all those I love and care about.

There are times I wake up gasping, feeling like a newborn Neo, helpless and atrophied, cast out from an unnatural, somnolent womb, surrounded by millions of watching eyes. But the Nebuchadnezzar is not waiting to rescue me. And I cannot escape the 100 regenerating Smiths by flying away to Neverland. Redemption is not that simple. It will need the painstaking effort Andy put in at Shawshank, scratching away dirt by the pocketful, behind a blowup of Rita Hayworth, digging his way out at the end of 20 long years.

There have been crucial times in life when I have had to brace myself to take that all-important step that was true to me and no one else. I have faltered, I have tripped, I have chickened out. But I have also persevered. And I have suffered for my insolence. I have been punished for acting on my beliefs. And now, once again, such a decision lies before me; perhaps my biggest yet. This entry is my declaration of intent before that step.
I might be a rhinoceros or a human, but I am no freak; even if that’s what they say. And when I act, what they think is the last thing on my mind. I will be true to the person I am and what I believe in. And there are no conditions therein. As the band Five for Fighting said in their song Superman… ‘It’s not easy to be me.’ But at the end of the day, there’s no one else I’d rather be!
Cogito Ergo Finito

On the joy of writing...

2007-09-23T02:23:00.000-07:00

Let's start with a story. The story of a child lost in books; in a dream world of fairies and dashing heroes and dark, dastardly villains who somehow were always considerate enough to let world be saved and had the good grace to come to spectacular and satisfying ends. The child grew up to move on to bildungsromans of simple people being transformed into larger than life legends. Next in line were tales of ethical dilemmas and conundrums that had deep existential implications. These stories defined the child's life. There came a time when the child's hunger for stories could no longer be fuelled by what had already been written... ever. The child wanted stories that had not yet been written. The child began to write.

This could be the story of any author. There comes a time in the life of every author when he or she starts searching for a story that has not yet been written. The story takes birth and grows in their mind. And there comes a time when the author has to sit down and put the story down on paper. The story has to be told. And that is when the child becomes an author. And that is how stories get told. Stories that will be read by children tomorrow, thus fuelling more authors and more stories. There are people who turn their nose up at the non-storytellers; those who are unable to come up with stories of their own.

I say there is no such thing. Everyone has at least one story to tell. Sometimes that story is saved for the tiny ears of a grandchild decades after the story comes to life. Sometimes the story comes to life in magnificent dreamscapes, only to be shattered every morning by a rude alarm bell and reality. Sometimes the story takes on an ugly reality in the form of lies and make-believe. But there is always a story. Everyone has their story. What is this post about anyways? This post is about that story; your story! Write it down. You owe it to yourself and more importantly, to the story. So what if you never publish it and make money off it? So what if no one ever gets to read it. So what if even you wince as you read it. The point is that the story got told. The point is that you set it free. And who knows where the story might go from there? It just might light a spark in a child's mind; a spark that will lead to another story. And therein, your story will find it's purpose. In the end, it's all about stories.

Cogito Ergo Finito

Virtual Vulnerability and the Big Bad Wolf!

2007-09-06T06:58:00.000-07:00

Let’s go back to childhood, when mama told us time and again, ‘Do not talk to strangers!’ And we followed this advice in every way we could; ranging from responding with scowls to perfectly innocent smiles, to installing peepholes on the main door. This anti-social behavior might well have protected us from a range of unimaginable horrors, including abduction by the neighborhood psycho and being cheated by the ever-hovering conman. Amen!

A decade or so back, something changed. A new form of interaction entered our lives; the internet. And suddenly, everything in our lives had a virtual implication. Our mails went virtual, our classrooms went virtual and even social interaction went virtual. However, mama’s advice did not go virtual. Because the internet was all about talking to strangers! And talk to strangers we did; first through simple chat applications, then through VoIP applications and now via thousands of mushrooming social networking sites.
Popularity is no more about having a date of a Saturday night or the number of people hiding in your apartment to surprise you on your birthday. Popularity now lies in the number of connections/friends you have on your social networking website and how many of them blink online on your chat list.

Now, stop for a moment and think: How many of these ‘friends’ do you really know? How many of them have you met? How many of them do you know are real people?You will realize that you have indeed slipped and have been talking to strangers. People you do not know, people you would not recognize if you walked into them in office tomorrow, people who just might be completely different from who they say they are (and that cute photo with the puppy might well belong to another complete stranger!) And these people, in some measure, are privy to a lot of information about you.

Think for a moment about your virtual presence. Various mailboxes, chat IDs, social network profiles. Casual stuff, no worries! One step further. Postings on professional job sites or matrimonial sites, memberships in online forums and communities, a mention in employee listings of organizations you’ve worked for with all contact information listed. This might be a little more serious. But then you are not worried, right? Let’s try once more. Bank accounts (most banks offer online transactions), credit card accounts, phone accounts (again, online billing and transactions), Demat accounts, insurance accounts… Your entire life is at risk.

Having established your vulnerability, we now introduce, the Big Bad Wolf (yes, we didn’t forget him). Let’s call him BBW! Disguised in Grandma’s clothes, he is lurking online, just waiting for you to slip up. While all the anti-virus software of the world and your firewalls will keep him out of your computer, they cannot keep him out of your head. BBW holds a PhD in what is called Social Engineering. Social Engineering is defined as the art and science of getting people to comply with your wishes. And BBW does that very well. Here’s how!

BBW starts off by identifying a target group or a person. In this case, let us assume he is targeting you. He draws up a list of attributes and characteristics that will appeal to you. Using this list, he creates a virtual identity. This virtual identity has everything from a job to a social network. This new character, let’s call him Nice Joe, will be exactly the kind of guy you like. Soon enough, you will bump into Nice Joe in an online chat room or a discussion board. You might receive an add request, or a mail citing common friends. And if BBW has really done his homework, you will want Nice Joe for your friend and send him an add request!

Very soon Nice Joe, now NJ to you, will be your best buddy! NJ and you start spending hours together online. Online games, chats, putting up discussion boards, feeding each other’s BLOG traffic… the best virtual pals ever. Sending files to each other is a common occurrence. One of these files NJ sends you will have what is called a sleeper application. This particular application is the type that takes root in your system, and quietly records all your keystrokes and sends it to him. NJ, or rather BBW, now knows exactly what you wrote in that mail to your girlfriend/boyfriend, how many shares of that new public issue you bought and of course, the password to every account you have.

The story gets uglier by the minute. Through the benign NJ, BBW has broken into your life, and can do just about anything he wants. All your life is at the mercy of a Big Bad Wolf! This story might sound far-fetched, but is as easy to execute as a fried egg, sunny side up. Easier, actually. The BBWs of the virtual world have all the tools at their hands to execute such fraud, and if something like this never happened to you, it probably is because you have been lucky enough to go unnoticed by them so far.

Virtual identities are getting easier to fake day by day and social engineering is becoming an extremely dangerous menace. Stories of fraud are commonplace enough, and the odd tale of a psychopathic homicide that started off with an online flirtation seems to stress just how vulnerable we all are. Call it a raving paranoid conspiracy theory or call it a commentary on the dangers our daily lives expose us to; but the next time you accept an add request on your chat list or social networking site, do spend a minute to think to yourself – Do I really know this person?

Cogito Ergo Finito

Purpose

2007-02-15T03:59:00.000-08:00

Stop for a moment and look at what you are doing. Is this what you want to do for the rest of your life? Are you positive that your current line of work is what you are likely to pursue till it's time to call it a day. I'm sure that 9 out of 10 of you are not completely happy with where you are. To take it further, I'll go so far as saying at least 5 out of 10 of you don't even know what you would be really happy doing.

Outrageous statistics? Not really. Success, money, family etc. are fixtures in life that you achieve sooner or later. But this is what society thinks is happiness. What about the work that you do daily to get all these worldly signs of success? Are you happy? Do you find fulfillment in your work? Is this your calling, what you are meant to be doing? OK! I'll stop! I have flogged the horse enough and made my point long back.

So what! Everyone knows this. We do what we can. Not every one of us has the fortune of finding our calling. Not everyone can be a blockbuster writer at 19 or scribble on a canvas and sell for a fortune.

So what's my point? Why do we think of only artistes when we think calling? Why is that the examples given are of writers, painters, musicians and the like when such a topic comes up for debate? What about the rest of such intensely exciting and fulfilling jobs? Mathematic modeling, adventure sports training, nature photography, innovative concept designing and even professional blogging, to name a few. Some of us are passionate enough about our work and find complete satisfaction there; journalism, advertising, architecture and instructional design, for example.

There is work and there is work. Some people want simple lives with simple jobs that do not occupy more than 9 hours of time and even lesser mind space. Some people want to live their jobs. If you are one of the latter, the former strategy will never bring you happiness. And the sooner you realize that, the better. All of us have a purpose. One thing that will drive us like nothing else will.

I believe this. Because I have seen myself do regular work and I have seen myself do what I think I am meant to do. The difference I see pushes me to achieve my purpose, whatever the cost. I see other people out there, some of my friends included, who are lost in a 9 to 5 brain-numbing job that denies them the opportunity to strike out and find their niche. Why? Because it's too late? It never is. In the words of Rocky Balboa, it ain't over till it's over. You owe it to yourself to try to find that special place where you are king... or queen! Enough sermonizing!

Cogito Ergo Finito

Snapshots

2007-02-14T14:03:00.000-08:00

The most beautiful scene ever, custom-painted by nature. Cloud candy spread around in great white puffs amidst luscious green hills and valleys, the smell of crisp fresh air sprinkled with a delicious bouquet of mist and dew, and the bite of a chilly breeze bringing dusk with it as the wintry sun retreats. Idyllic! And then a voice pipes up... 'Uncle, uncle!' (I have long since resigned myself to default uncle-ship to anyone below the age of 18) 'Could you please click a photo for us?'

I could easily have strangled that kid; and gone on to eliminate the entire cheese-saying family and made it a mass murder to inaugurate my homicidal career. But all I did was click a picture, and another, and another. Three more photographs for them to frame in one of their umpteen photo albums; moments captured for posterity.

But the horror doesn't end there. Such camera-philes go on to inflict reels of inane smiles and witty 'horns' behind half-wits on relatives, family friends and other unsuspecting victims. Posterity doesn't begin to define the experience. A tortuous eternity would be more apt.

And what inspires such sadomasochistic behavior? The same breathtaking valley I was futilely trying to describe in the first para. And any one of the thousands of similar beautiful places anywhere in the world. Camera-toting tourists are the bane and the life-blood of these lovely destinations. But then, one wonders, why do they do they shoot these experiences to death? Are frozen memories more important than absorbing the moment itself? Is a clichéd photograph preferable to the experience of soaking in the view, the feel and the taste of that pristine tableau? Is narrating the experience to the rest of the world and backing it with photographic proof more important than hitting a personal high amidst such beauty?

I don't know. Some people find joy in capturing experiences on reel. I find mine in my personal snapshots, locked away in my head. Moments in life where I have stopped and absorbed life while it stood still for a split second. A 3-D snapshot, replete with smell, taste and touch. My personal piece of paradise, that I shall carry with me forever.

Cogito Ergo Finito

Do you understand the words coming out of my mouth?

2007-02-14T12:36:00.000-08:00

The mother of all... messes (!) is not the government, contrary to all expectations. It is communication, or rather the lack of it. And considering this post isn't up on Wikipedia, I shall not give a citation to prove that.

Back in school, some of us have played a game. It used to be called Chinese Whispers or some such thing (depending on your teacher's favorite communist-block country). The game would start with the teacher whispering a word, phrase or sentence in the first student's ear and the same being passed on in a whisper-chain through the class. Predictably, what the last student heard would turn out to be remarkably different from the original missive.

Point proved. Do not whisper. Your message is likely to be misinterpreted anyways. Today, we see the same problem everywhere. Paper boy leaves slinky tabloid instead of your serious newspaper, auto/cabbie takes you to the wrong destination, subordinate misunderstands instructions and boss doesn't communicate properly.

The question arises; how much of a role do we have to play in miscommunication? Let's start with taking a look at all the times you were misunderstood, and how much it irritated/frustrated/angered you. Relationships going bad, colleagues not understanding your vision, parents unwilling to accept your decisions. All of this has happened to you in enough and more measure. Poor you!

Now, let's brace ourselves for some ugly introspection. Relationships going bad; could you have saved it by speaking your mind and trying to understand your partner? Colleagues not understanding your vision; could you have tried to discuss and customize your vision to incorporate their perspective and ideas? Parents not accepting your decisions; did you try to understand where they are coming from and how much experience lies behind their words?

Do you see it? Miscommunication, like communication, often needs two parties to complete the loop. Before blaming the other person in the transaction, ask yourself the question 'Am I OK?' That will cut out some of the static and make for better communication. Once that is done, we can safely go back to blaming the government.

Cogito Ergo Finito

Taking Wordscapes online...

2007-02-14T11:32:00.000-08:00

Cogito Ergo Finito...

An ad-hoc phrase I usually sign off with. I like to call it Dog Latin but it's actually quite a lot more messed up than that, I'm afraid. It is a paraphrase of Descartes' famous 'I think, therefore I am' and is supposed to mean 'I think, therefore I am finished'.

This morbid POV has kept me so far from blogging and posting my ruminations for all and sundry to see. But then, there is only so long the rabbit can run before the sun catches up. Or was it the other way around? Never mind!

So here goes one of the most non-linear, erratic, irrelevant and completely irreverent bouts of verbal diarrhea ever ported online. I could probably stick up some warning stickers and all around this. But then, we are all responsible adults. And you know by now what you are getting into if you are reading this.

Comments are welcome, but please be moderate with language and content. While we all have some amount of the primitive ancestor in us, it is not done to advertise the fact. Bon Reading!

Cogito Ergo Finito