This Is The Time

This is the time, to say something, that has stuck in me like a shard of glass. Rasping deeper and deeper every time I move, to let myself unbridled of its pain. The attempt to forget brings back more pain than remembering itself.

This is the time to thank, bow down, let the vanity wash away, strip in front of your angels, unwind from that wringing tension of carrying on, ignoring, unseeing, pretending, most of all, that you are alright.

This is the time to be true, to look back, and start believing in that almighty design, that guides or designs your steps, your choices and your eventual life. Not that belief in destiny is irrevocable, but there is something, which according to many, and among them, me, makes all this worth dwelling in, no matter how many times you screw up, now matter how many malicious intentions your have tended, no matter how much you have pandered to avarice, no matter how much you have erred... Perhaps its people, perhaps its irony, perhaps its life!

Whatever, all credit to this something, you can say, let bygones be bygones...

This is the time, that things might change, they might be doomed in circumstances, they might flourish, or sink in that inescapable inconsistency known to the world as mankind. Apparently, the first half of the word and the rest and colloquial opposites of each other.

This is the time, to sit back, and surmise, what has increased and decreased, what has been added or taken away, the meanings of profit and loss. Distances. Many have been beautifully revived, in spite of the miles, and some have been co-operatively snapped off, in spite of the time.

This is the time, to begin and end. Recuperation does not always mean recovering, sometimes its preparation, sometimes its desperation, sometimes its drifting away.

This is the time, to have that glass of your favorite drink and exchange what you could not have done yet.

Things that were, and those that were not, and also those that were not the way you meant them to be. Ones own airy commitments to oneself cause pain. Expectations and hope, are more wrenching than betrayal, because its something that you nourished all this while and it turned its back on you.

Distance does strange things to us. Even months of staying away doesn't mollify that which isolation could have. Its an existential dilemma, to approach or not, and in which way should one do it. Leaving it is too irresponsible, you tend to lash back in almost vehemence. Putting it on the table is being uncomfortable, you try to evade it and are constantly dazed by the effort of perhaps bringing it in a less acerbic light.

What does one do then?

This is not the time for all of this. What happens, is there, was meant to be, and lead wherever, to its end or towards a more vigorous phase.

Let it be. May it be better. May we get the direction to make it better.

Amen.

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The Iota

The monastery is closed today.

But some are eternally attentive.

You never need to drop in or drop out.

Like Love.

The one who falls out of love, wasn't in love at all.

Abstraction is deep, profound and ambivalent.

It hides everything, but means something.

Something that could be fundamentally different.

Different from how it blossomed in thought.

Yet, somehow the readers interpretation is;

Often more plausible than the writer's analogy.

Like Life.

Its not where, how and when you were born;

Is not all that matters. Its what you make of it.

Every parent is proud of his or her child.

Their frames of reference is smeared of heedless concern.

Like Home.

Even a derelict roof could mean a home.

The process, the architecture, the compound;

That would solidify in a trance of culture.

Its winds snaking on its surface to etch

Grooves of character, the sieve that would be

A sieve through which a similar wind would gush.

When its time will come.

Like a Civilization.

I've been far, from what I call my own.

But in the end, no amount of wanderlust;

No scene of rejuvenation, no abode of respite;

Could stop the doodling steed of a traveler;

Like Me.

Love. Life. Home. Civilization. Me.

I am back.

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The Rule Of The 'K'

Khis kost kis kedicated ko khe kenius kof Kekta Kapoor. v1.0*

PROBLEM STATEMENT:
(The cause of unrest, the precursor of intellectual malaise...)

"Originally, the serial was supposed to be called "Amma" (Mother), but was revised to
the current title on the suggestion of the costume designer."

-Wikipedia on "Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi"

"Some words such as "Kyunki", "Kahani", "Parvati", "Tulsi", "Thakurji" are to be
apologetically incorporated into The Oxford's repertoire of dictionaries. The officials
are shamefaced about the whole affair which gushes oafishness and sectarianism"

“The women in my serials are strong, with minds of their own”

"I create familial cliches to break them"

-Ekta Kapoor

"Such is the rarefied genius of Ekta Kapoor. A simple indicator of that is, on application of her dogmatic principle. The Boltzmann Constant, 'k' or rather the Koltzmann Konstant... only one word out of the first line makes sense, however only to an Indian, only if Kekta kould, I'm sorry, could be a name."

"It’s cloak-and-dagger stuff. A real-life war of supremacy that can put any television soap to shame. And the script is simple — money, money, money."

* * *

In my house, like many of those tormented and addicted ones peppered across this landscape, evenings are anniversaries of the lifelong romance of women, and some disoriented men too, for this 'phenomenon' to have swept this industry. I shall refrain from taking those names, because, it would be matter of life and death for me to immolate this blog's honor or whatever remains of it with those unspeakable names of her creations, stomping across airtime on Star Plus. Each day, from as soon as seven in the evening to as late as twelve in the night, its all a show of delusional emotions and heightened melodrama.



The one which imperils your senses at 2200hrs, shows the female protagonist on a come back stint, ingratiating for the umpteenth time with the perishing good in her family, the brutalized old and the illusioned young, under the able guidance of the vamp of the family, again played for the umpteenth time by someone who has a name for all this. Now Ms. Kapoor's talent surfaces just now. Even to the unknown eye, in this case me, you dont take more than a minute to understand what happened in the previous hundred episodes. You observe the expressions, the copious out of the body experiences, the ego, counter-ego and the person herself talking in a protracted affair, lasting two minutes, and even if the person happens to be in the middle of a busy street, stacked with people, nobody even dares to brush her physical form.



Here it is simple, like it has been for the previous some thousand episodes, there are the good guys and there are the bad guys. Bad guys win and good guys finish last, often bad guys take control of their homes, drive them out, take away their property, innumerable factories and crores of rupees. Often when the bad guys commit crimes and the vigilante-cum-protagonist gather evidences after fifty episodes of breathless hard work, somehow for some odd reason, the bad guys always find a way, buy out witnesses, whatever happened to the crores of rupees with the good guys, what is that for? To be lost in some court case to the bad guy over some counterfeit but unproven will? Also, inevitably across all the sons and daughters of Tatas and Birlas, their offsprings always betroth with the offspring of the long lost foe, which again does a reappearance after hundred episodes. Misled children against the darling of the audience, A quandary laid out to defame the darling with such a crafty maverick of the current villain(for fifty episodes again), the sly and opportunistic villain pitted against such species of lambs, the odd combinations of old couples portrayed with such benevolence that it makes you wonder, what families do they come from?



It is in our conscience, that middle aged women contrite with their disability to help the on-screen legends, have a soft corner for people who have any of these family names: Virani, Agarwal, Bajaj, Garewal, Wadhwa, Basu etc. Just look at the lambs they have made out of the women in all their escapades. A female character is a happy-go-lucky, rooted to her adarsh figure of trust and philanthropy until she transforms into a vengeful machine in the clutches of the director and of the well known script writer-cum- obscure Hindi novelist. It speaks out that, come what may, women with names of Pallavi and Mohini are never trustworthy! After a merry go round of five marriages and divorces, where the darling loses her memory thrice in between after being cradled to hospitals with a different gonna-be hubby running beside the stretcher every time and after two miscarriages and two illegitimate sons plus one from the first and now-deceased/forgotten husband makes her a mother of whopping eight children each having grand children of their own, and still, she is as fresh and as nubile as a morning bird! Whoa! Thats one life, many of us haven't evolved to live!


More than ten minutes of exposure results in a bombination in your head, a resounding sharp screech, every time the camera zooms or pans, every time the seeds of conspiracy are sown, every time the cry of defiance is raised. Welcome Ekta Kapoor, the celebrator of human emotions. Has Time forgotten her? She is perhaps the only individual alive after that monk who re-sketched the map of India to have the most number of lives influenced per square kilometer on this earth, not forgetting that we are the second most populous country on this earth, and that China does not have such an aggressive school of television direction! Jingles, custom made according to the face cut, height and weight of the actor playing a particular character, are repeated from one soap to the other. This Kapoor penetration has so far only been limited to Star Plus, yet to vanquish the aspirations and successes of other film makers in other channels. But are their aliters any better?



Glamor is an irresistible paradigm for all of these creators. Perhaps it is one of the means to keep their effeminate crew occupied, pronouncing that pout of fitfulness and that tone of eyeshadow, welcome Ekta Kapoor, the trend setter. Jwellers and Boutiques industries are experiencing a never before high, a seemingly bumper figure of sales, after all the porcine aunties of the block go to the boutique-wallah of the block to get that embroidery and to the jweller for that necklace she saw yesterday. Nevertheless, for such impromptu beseeching from their wives, its endless concern for the menfolk, in what should be read as the side effects of the rule of the K. Women in this wonderland, are goldmines! They eat, sleep and feel at least ten kilos overweight with that that two kilo sari and eight kilos of fresh American diamonds and polished German Brass, and after the regular party at eight for some self-congratulatory award, they come back to have either a convivial session where the darling goes to each room, kissing goodnight or an epic battle of words about some inconsistency twenty years ago. We swear we never have enough.



In today's social hinterland, people swear by this media tycoon. Some swear by her antics, some swear by the immense success and monopoly of her work, some even swear by the immaculate and holier than thou characters, which have sky rocketed all their portrayers into those Lists-of-most-influential-people-in-the-world, and then there are the Pharmaceutical firms, glycerin manufacturers, its to her credit that fake ornament makers, finding its bearings as a cottage industry, all beaconing and hallowing her. The rise and rise of Ekta Kapoor. Or. The Demise and Demise of the Audience; and then comes the ignored, diseased lot, deprived of mention and concern, these hapless beings roam around hopeless, about watching something at prime time, courtesy this madame. A damned comrade to this clan - me. I am trapped between a visual and aural onslaught of two of the most profound forces in AV media. News Channels(its another story...) and Mademoiselle Kapoor. The two televisions have been possessed by them, having hardly any rights over the remote, all the young and the hopeless of the house either go out or sit and lament, and some take it to writing, like me. In a CRT awash with screens of putrid human existence and an even more filthy human malice, we have no option but to lose faith in the current runners and wait, wait till there is an uptide, a mutiny, an ordained change of regime, and I wait until I get my own TV set....and remote!

Somebody, get that costume designer... He/She/(s)He is a understated, indubitable, undiluted, eccentric Genius! A blotched stroke of genius!



*This is a presentist's post. A general reflection of the current engagements of the Indian television, the shows that enjoy focus and their translations, directly and indirectly in our daily lives. Please, otherwise, I adore her....well, guile!

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The Perceptionist's Pebble

Recently, while on an intra-explanatory, inter-critical and introspective streak which generally involves many in my convoluted and erratic socio-cyber circle, there were all sorts of nonsensical arguments doing the rounds in the numbness of this head we all so proudly share! And, as such silent and galvanic environments allow, we were all on each other, rather than about each other. "You're a despo, frustoo, aint-got-my-due gonna-be homicidal maniac". This was a universal tippani that surfaced out of that hour long exchange that revolved around each of our lives, naturally females and the ghosts that kept this world alive <nudge-nudge-wink-wink>. So, the toll that had been taken sometime a year ago inevitably has a psychological impact strong enough to reflect even on my social psyche... Not that these tippanis did not find their ways towards me before, it is almost an opinion now, as far the my topic is considered. "What a miser!", "Arse!", "Get something to live please..." and other suggestions, but is it just sarcastic, a jovial arse-kicking contest, where of course, winning is against the rules? I found out, or hope to substantiate, myself at least, about this glaring impasse, that my graduation stint has come to be!



Constant bickering, like a bug in a cobweb, like a guy who hasn't been fed sense for an eternity! It was a distinctive and often contentious side of human perspective. Perception. It gets you all sorts of trouble and accidental rewards. You never know you are right. Its a realm of absolution, where you often say m-words to criticism. Ethical definition may differ, and there is every chance that someone comes after me for so conveniently contorting facts and giving my wretched theory, but m** ch*****! Anyhow, and the subject of damnation is Introspection. My attempts, about which I am profoundly apologetic, to write about what exactly stirs me up, or has been stirring me up has been met with sympathy and not empathy. Its a grievous error, a conflict of rationale, a miscommunication of all things, but there's that. Introspection makes you look weak. One of them, with whom the conversation was separate (you know who you are, sir!) even suggested in a prophet-like trance, "Make it a life worth living!". I was almost demented. WTF!?! No on the spot clarification on my part because, just look at the crap I have written. Abstruse and Irrelevant. Isn't there enough muck to clear up in lives of people, and hardly anybody wants more muck raking, when surfing is supposed to soothe you, invigorate you? Though, its beyond thanking, it feels like a blessing to have such enlightening souls around me, who are ready to spank me when I am not myself.



I also blame it, in which I am developing a proficiency of late, on the type of fiction I am consuming. Vikram Seth. Gawd! He kicks ass. Of course, he is a bisexual. The Key-Word here is bisexual. Not a homosexual, as he is famed, after signing on petitions, and being vocal about the euphoria he portrays in each of his works. This guy is hallucinating. His descriptions are vivid, ethereal and deeply emotional. As Khushwant Singh says, "Material Nobel Laureates are made of..." Now, as I help focusing myself back on the din that Delhi is and the din that my dwellings are, I find that utopic, but what a utopia! No social engagements, my social presence in my insti (NIT Rourkela, or whatever!) is hardly countable, and neck deep into musing, Seth, writing for a mag of my own, and cheating on purposes I swore by ten minutes before I sat down to fill my roll number on that AIEEE question booklet, I had little to hold on to. Occasional phone calls from my folks and rarely from my cash-stripped friends all over this country was all the distraction I had from the mundane life there. Even events like, the warden, dubbed as the Shepherd of the First Years beaten by a drunk-passout of our insti, hardly aroused anything more pronounced that a sleepy "Wow" from me. I really, really missed that aimless wandering at any place around and in Delhi. Nostalgia, romanticism etcetera.



Of recent, when I have been back, I have quarreled more times with guards than with any of my folks. The occassional visit to any public hangout rises more doubts than belief on the average conscience of the common man. What does Delhi have for breakfast???

Doomed Twice!

I am nobody there. Nobody to think. But since I pay, I do. To watch movies is Indian. Nor does this exemplify Indianness, neither have ever been tangentially past Mumbai. But the ballets they dole out every week makes you wonder, how much does it take to mint a bill? And how much of their guts does it take for them to spill them out in 75mm of space every week, pushing the bar for illegitimate freedom of speech higher and higher every time? They will make even Late Mr. Ambedkar wonder, what was I thinking while I was framing the right to freedom of speech? Now this gamut has not been delimited to our national borders. Pakistanis suffering highs and lows every Friday due to these barefaced terrorists of human will, and we still talk of revenge? Bollywood, a kitschy name for The Great Indian Film Industry, is fraught with discontent... What does it take to make the perfect script, and to choose just the right amount of glamor to do justice to those barrels of glycerin and those Camlin Water Color(TM) bottles, primarily red and yellow, just to add that hint of master artistry, just to make the perfect Hindi movie? The term Hindi is what substantiates the entire quest, discerning it from any other filmi quest, from any boring novel published by some NY school of acting and getting-the-act-together returned junkie.


I have been a distant appreciator, some can say a benefactor of the Indian Cinema. This song-and-dance, the pomp-and-vigor, the drama-and-emotion, this whole camaraderie. These guys have even got Clooney on their sides, who thinks it would be a whole fun thing if ever these guys manage to get more than fifteen theaters in his land. But these maniacs have let me again strain my braincells, or what has remained of it through this incessant pounding of dialogues over the years. If relevant statistics are consulted, Bollywood causes more natural deaths than mineral water and paani-puri vendors throughout this land put together. But of course there is always the chance that you'll trip over the stairs of "the cinema near you" every time you are startled by that shrieking YashRaj films jingle. YashRaj Films and Ventriloquists limited, another booming enterprise, basking under the aegis of brand equity.


I stood witness to one of the latest stallions from their stylized stables, the one synonymous with the advent of biking in India and with numerous guys performing nose-wheeling with their 100cc trinkets each time they stop at a crossing or to pay their toll. It sounds like a gunshot, and leaves you fumbling for answers till the end. What a masterpiece, what a masterpiece (chorus) Bravo YashUncle, the avuncular voice of Bollywood, whatever he and his sons talk over sweets after dinner, we all love to watch and some conscientious critics love to appreciate. He has touched rare chords that resound philosophy to me. It seems he has taken to sensible reading, rather than senile works of senile people read and appreciated by even more senile people. This one has action. This one has drama. This one has three star sons! The fruits of years of shooting and earning underworld contacts. If not the others, Hrithik Roshan stands a fair chance than anybody out there, of warding off any underworld threats. If a sleuth's senses were to be aroused, each one of us is familiar by that overplayed news of his father getting threats, and pat comes the consequence, his marriage. Coming back to his latest fanzine stuff, this flick also has the eternally intellectual sides of human nature, to pardon. And like its prequel, this one also has a cliff, the warring parties reach these cliffs on bikes, there is a fall, there is a slow motion, frame by frame portrayal of the demise of the infallible thief, but he comes back, to be a changed man. And Captain Courageous pardons Sergent Sodomy of all his previous crimes against his budding romance and of course society.


I even performed Coke's mantra of viewing this one with their crisp dispensed drink. But, it did not work. Bravo Coke, Bravo! The way you fooled me. And I knew it all along. All I'll recollect is the designer and plasticized Police dressed and the geometrical patterns that they make in the shooting range on the dummies. And of course the more real chicks all around.

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The Yellow Brick Road

I paced along the dusty street. It had not changed in the past ten years, except for a little hospitality, a derelict group of shops which were probably bought by some contractor and converted into cemented structures, there was little which could distinguish this parched piece of earth from what impressions I lived with. Patches of asphalt was all that would convince a surveyor of the presence of any heedful authority. It is early December, in the misty mornings of winter, that due to some odd chance I have to take this apprehended route. There are few people on the street, some villagers, some stray dogs barking at anything fast that goes past them. For the past ten years, that life has drawn me away to further destinations, nothing about this connection has seemed to change. Even the villagers look the same to me. They stare at me as I wade uncomfortably beside them. The chill has stiffened my legs. I don't dare to look back, what is it that holds me still? Their incriminating eyes or the cold?



This street is the one that connects my home to my school. The one I will proudly reflect upon for the rest of my life as my alma mater, my shepherd. Somerville School opened in this then-sleepy town of Noida in the beginning of the Eighties. Nevertheless, its roots appeared to me a century older. It was its matronly and benevolent attitude, a tepid yet intense connection that has always borne in me. The shy, shifty and careless school kid comes back, and will continue to do so. Its one shrine where I am without myself, where what I have done, or undone is immaterial. Even with curses on my back, culminating into agonies and surfacing frailties , pains or no pains, bliss or no bliss, finding this oasis finds me. Each detail; the kid I bashed up in ninth grade, resulting into my suspension, my horrendous and humiliating quandary, the first social mishap, with a girl also some time around ninth grade, those climbing of the stairs to collect certificates and awards... I heard they have reworked the stage up, now it has one entrance instead of two. As this district attracted more inhabitants, hordes of shoppers catalyzed its industrialization, or typically, the mall-ification and arcade-isation. Somerville advantageously built upon it, and stands a reasonable chance to be declamated for as a fairly prestigious and illustrious enterprise for education. I might never be able to judge impartially though, as I muse upon my almost fastidious compulsion. The structure has changed a bit, the main gallery looks more plush, adding a rather staid disposition to the establishment. They brought up an auditorium, boasted about by many students, including my siblings. The main garden, a verdant quadrangle of grass, bordered by chrysanthemums and magnolias, is the first feature that restores the old image, the way its always been. Even the gardener hasn't changed. His fruits of sweaty labor have developed a bond for each sapling grown in this earth, since it began to be tilled; even to the cursory observer. Where am I now? Fugacious about my bearings. Searching for a platform to stand on, so that for once, my limbs are not flailing for support.



Its getting brighter now, and the birds chirp incredulously to the rising sun, as if in resentment. A maudlin aura surrounds my immediate space, part because of this inclement climate, part as a reminiscence of those foolhardy and unruly blokes who trudged along this way, ten years ago... Bags on their backs, straps broken for some, but unfettered by this handicap, their light banter used to infuse an euphoria which took twelve years to cease. Heads thrown back, in handsome abandon, disagreements and tiffs were taken into strides, an ass was made out of anyone, without compunction or malice. It was the purest time of their lives. The dirt they kicked, on each other, or by the inconsistent frustration, the hooliganism, the embarrassment because of some fitful event in the class; the dust has settled now and has been carried to another place, another time. Now, only a handful of us eye each other in the same nostalgic hues. In fact, only a handful of us eye each other at all, probably a couple of times in the entire year. I am even hesitant to go back and dust off the old records, redeem lost contacts and invigorate collapsing relationships. So easy it is; remarkably, to turn our backs to what was the mainstay of our lives, in its most crucial phase.



I reached the main gate, and instead of turning my back again, like I have been doing since in the past, I stand and try to assimilate as much as I can in my peripheral vision. The guard comes over and asks me my purpose, I tell him, "Nothing." Something here and there, an oddity, a similarity, a nook here, a corner there, that in a frame makes it an altogether different building, housing another generation, grooming another future. But in another din, a portion of it seems still, bearing prints, our footprints; awaited by the relevant sights to be deciphered. I can see some of the old swings. I can see the surprisingly neglected shortcut from behind the waterhouse, I can see myself crossing that shortcut. I can see everything, in the front, behind the building, underneath in the basement; everywhere. I always had a feeling that some pedagogic entity, some higher authority was watching over my back, whenever I crossed from here.



Perhaps that explains the apprehension. The pillory returns. The tangibility of unconsciousness is inexorable and it outweighs whatever reasons I conjure up. It makes them diffuse to putative and kitschy excuses. I realize that, I am getting late. Like I always have been for the past ten years. I don't know whether work allows my residence here anymore. I may never get to trudge along this strip of asphalt for a long time, or even if I do return, my excursions may be decimated by the haste, which will ensconce me for years to come. I walk till I come to edge of the boundary fencing of Somerville, then after a last glance, strangely barring the rest, limited only till the fence, I think about the attention that they finally have paid to this shrub. It used to be a wilderness in "our times". Now, as a consolation, that pragmatism has surmised for me, are my commitments to myself, and promises and expectations from others.



An undercurrent of relief passes and I think about my destination. It is an old friend's house. A friend from Somerville. I cant return to it, but I can keep it alive in my own implicitly trivial and spoony ways, like a phantom of eternal delight, in thought and belief, in actions and memory, in the present and the past, within and beyond myself... As I walk an empty street, in the boulevard of broken dreams.






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All That Remains...

All this time, when I was there, in an obscure territory, contrary to the zeitgeist, the nostalgia, the homesickness and the forlornness never found a reliable mention in my mind. Perhaps, because I was having both the opposite worlds in such inadequate quantities that I was stranded in terms of my experiences. I couldn't actually draw a parallel between the two. My brevity of stay at any single location took away what should have been a well documented paradox by now. A regular itinerant life, flocking home for holidays, returning in a fortnight, awashed me of any hue, sallow, crimson, ashen; it was a drudgery without a meaning, or even without a realization of its existence. This time however, when I went through the gauntlet, by the end I was swooning within by the same schmaltz like all the other homesick.

Technically escapable, creatively exemplifying, self-glorifying, socially ulcerated, an overall macabre din, that took away more than it could have given to me. But at least I came out with something, something perhaps that might change the way things shine for me, or my presumption, that will make them shine for me.

A malaise crept in, towards the end, which spilled, arbitrarily in the last seconds. I still stand as a loser, as I always have been, but the loss was accounted to my wrongdoings. At least I did something, however wrong, is another concern. Previously, this loser was anointed with the status for passive remarks at the active life that he meekly let past him. My ladle has always been dirty, I knew it. A perfunctory ignorance was a cheap but relevant escape. The escape restored my sanity. It salvaged what I could not, had I given into contemplation. A reckless mental activity, digging over graves and graves, piling over skeletons, heaps of bones, a febrile excavation, and I go until I am tired but still there is no end of the abyss. I had to divide on more plausible and inexorable commitments which had come my way due to my efforts or simply because fate couldn't find a befitting individual at the moment.


I had begun to recuperate. I began to experience a utopia. It seemed, I did not need anybody. I was possessed. Taken away by fascination of the fascination itself probably. There was this secluded yet affluent stigma of knowledge and the will of its pursuit that my nibblings went in never before treaded ways. My speech was broken, my ideas ahead of my thoughts, my speech only voiced Me, Myself and My mind. The 'm' word came across so often, I did not realize. I was adrift from mundanity. Mundanity, an irrevocable qualification that makes one eligible for playing this trite game of the life that awaits my obfuscation.

Solace. Exposure. Solace in exposure and Exposure of Solace. These two paradigms let me forget the harrowing sense of vapidness, a swaying balance that was intermittently telling a sorry tale of dying and letting other die with me. This din began with the first day itself, and I recovered. The aliter was no less insidious, but at least it allowed my activity, my metal movements in directions.
Its over, I don't know whether to be glad or feel demented. I brought back something that started as a fever, and continues as a flu. All I hope is to replace the metaphors.

A Mid Winter Night's Dream

The light bulb flickers, inscrutably so, since it was implanted in its socket. Its impaling glow, rendered an apparitional stupor to all immovable objects in the room, except one. It didn't seem lifeless, but the incessant breathing, rather heaving in whoops of air didn't make it look any ruddy either. As the world knew her, was the perfect teenager around. Bright, performing respectably in academics, a lucrative sportsperson, a livewire in the spendthrift and ebullient community in which she was popularly designated by a nickname. All boys desired her, but were hesitant, even the most gallant ones. She was what many men and women fantasized their kids to be. All her teachers and friends believed, it was almost an obligation for her to make it into the the top tier institutions. Day or night, from the dawn to dusk, she was always occupied. Whether it was her friends, to whom, she could only helplessly justify herself, if she wasn't into a position to answer their calls, or was it for her infinite engaging assignments, mere betrothing to which was a matter of adulation, a dementia was almost unimaginable for her.



It was like two different worlds, and she was on the top of this ever moving, transient and a highly prospective one. Risible, lively, prudent, sagacious. Silence, schmaltz, diffidence and Roxenne were like antonyms. Then what could have brought about such a catastrophic turn to a potential life, a promising prospect, which outshone its peers, shows those inimitable sparks of brilliance, but now only to be decimated by self doubt and myopia.

She basked under the aegis of her conscience, her incisive imaginations which brought about an evolution in her creative persona acclaiming her in spheres of creative scrutiny.

A hiatus. A period of ennui, where she groped seamlessly, one cliff after another towards what she could scrape today. It was a gap, where she was no more a dweller, but felt like an intrusion, an upsetter of conventions. Was she being a blowhard, a crummudgeon? Who did not want to submit to circumstances, and being a slave of destiny? How could the world do this to her? Taking away from her, in which she so firmly believed in, in the gravels of which were her very seeds of existence were sown? People said, she was getting too impersonal with her personality, that was what she was reviled with, that it was all a glitzy translation of her weird and often wicked thought. But of course, there was her, who was still unfettered by this laceration on her very core of intellect, that these people around denoted by arrogance! Shallow? Probably, but who started caring about the people? Was it one of the olden days, when there was a sunshine that greeted her each day, and shone on her distinguished way?

Today in this pall of darkness, she recalculates, but challenged by her own self. To futile, too squeamish and spoony did these reflections seem. Taking this course was tantamount to mocking her life, where she was desperate, where she was the stranger in her own story. "How could they?" She begins to perorate, to herself, but her words hang in the air, looking for a culmination, and the paucity of words hamper her even more. "Is this it?" she babbles in another gasp. Her throat choking, garroted by guilt.

But in all this mental upheaval lies a sense of loss, a remorse. Of losing out to time, to world and to those cardinal wheels of truth, axles clicking each moment towards a definition. "No!" This cant be the definition. This is not me. This is an illusion, "How can I poison myself? But are they wrong? For how long am I losing out on people. Its been a while, sure. And all this while, I was lost in translations, connotations, debauchery... could it?" Her hair flow down in black streams onto her shoulders, a generous flock of them entangled in her palm. Her head is in her hands. Through her constricted peripheral vision, between strands of hair falling onto her face, she sees the light bulb. Her folks wont be back by tomorrow, and behind them this house which inhabited a convivial gathering, also was home to a secret. The fall of Roxenne...

The light bulb. Was it in its hands to provide a sustained glow? What was faulty, itself or its socket? How long could it carry on like that before fusing into an unquiet stillness. Such a state, made her go crazy. On her face was a tight snicker, lips pursed back in fatigue, of memory...

This defiance, was characteristic of her, or at least she thought that it was. She credited this to many of her achievements, albeit in the context of a din, where she was much below par of her previous self. A resplendant future, now perilously lies in the hands of a few opinions and rejections, the same ones which made it look prolific and fecund. How could such self-righteous bastards have their ways in people's lives, and in it, my life? Such revelations, she felt, made her a fugitive in her own life cycle. A scavenger, looking for inspiration. To look in her own self, she cant, for she is deterred, that she could only spiral down into doom since inside its a cohesion of senselessness and bigotry.

Now what? What could she do? A deafening silence now moored her lips, that felt the heaviest when she wanted to speak something. Now that chance feeling subsumed benevolence. Philanthropy? Did she deserve the title? The gnawing sense of refusal preempted that flair of speech that once illuminated her persona, or the lack of it right now.

Ignorance is what led her thus far. Now it'll be the same, but the subjects would change, and ignorance will be the one that will lead her forward. Her future in her own eyes, ensnared in ambiguity, she minces her words, under her breath, "I ignored, therefore I was. I'll ignore, and I hope will be..."

Measure Of A Man

Men, who follow their hearts, compromising their metier, on which the assurance of a brighter, more reliable future may be built, are not cowards. They carry the expectations, counter-tendencies, and curses of many. Both of people who are propitious to their cause and also invidious ones, for whom its a matter of destroying in wake of subsuming satisfaction in place of their achievements. But could these men, be unflogged, kept unscathed, from all contumelies and conspiracies? With their own beginnings in a dire state of seeking attention, they are torn apart between their mind and their hearts. What should they follow? Which way to go? Many answers that they seek, only quitened and delayed from perseverance, such caveats surface time and again to threaten their cause. Each day they brave two battles, losing and winning on both ends. One excorsises the ghost of the other. A dash of skill, of sheer dedication and consummation, and a gash that lacerates deep into the mental tissue, tissue of conscience, bleeding all veins of promises, and such is the shredding pain of being tautened beyond redemption. They cant ignore either ends, never can they be willing to let go of the better of the two evils. One is ignoring their inherent responsibilities and the other is depraving from that chord of your mien that breathes as your mind does. Can ever remorse be existent, can ever a wrong but a circumstantial right set things straight?

Try to find answers. Try to contemplate. On the fates of such a man, who started out as an integral entity but changed into someone else, somewhere along the way. He could not return, neither could he stop himself from looking back. All he could do was to question the recalcitrant nature of human will. All he could feel was being mesmerised by the sheer conviction, which destiny infuses. All he could lament was the the tug on his legs, pulled by a child, a child in time, lost in his way to his destination. All he could reflect, was his ownself in the unquiet haze, acerbic with self doubt, that promenade in the eyes of that child, and yet he had to ignore his simulacrum, and move on. All he could do was to speak in whispers, to the ones who could hear his mind, and the monologue meant like a scream to the same watchful eyes, perhaps mocking him for his dilemma.

But to continue is the only assurance he has, the only path visible, whose designs he can ever think to even gauge. But still, he has a choice. To return? Like a drug, it hallucinates everytime the child tugs his clothes, the wind slaps his face, everytime he receives the ire of the fake demigods that are annihilated with his determination. Their end would be a side effect, like their existence was all along. But to carry on, is the only way he could ever think of defeating, and countering that maniac of a design, that looms like a maze, but still there is one way, and every step makes him cheer and wince. Perhaps, he could pick up the child and caress his back, hug him to his chest, protecting him from the malice and chicanery of these falsified and wounded erstwhile demigods, coeval to the beginning of his epochal journey. A journey that knows only the end, no one in tow and no two ways about it. Bombarded and weathered, though never scared or deterred, these men move, constantly, their steps with the robustness of karmic chants, are regular. Never does any light, any darkness, any noise, any quiet, any voice, any cry, any laugh, any sight, deceiving or otherwise, could have their bodies turned, except their heads, ever alert and informed about their surroundings. Such are legends, among themselves. Who create benchmarks for themselves, perhaps known only to themselves.
Amen to such a man, who could say what he means, whose blessings and curse can change the course of things to happen, because, he can.

Its been a while...

Its been a while since I could, hold me heart up high,
up to the world,
up to you, my gentle hypothetical reader, and also the ones, such divine manifestations in flesh and blood, to which my tremendous gratitude makes me irk and squirm at the thought when they might confront me for my indolence of not writing anymore.
Like there are thunderstorms, blizzards and hurricans (all names invariably after women, an interesting fact to check out though, nothing much!), one such calamity has seized my entire existance for what seems to be an eternity now. On the outset of this unforthcoming semester, in the preceding holidays of which I went from hoo-haa to huh-huh, I stymied my way up to the vertiginous climb to my dingy quarter in my room, all of it, which was piquing me day in and day out, was such a place that needed introductions to oneself, metronomically reminding oneself that this also is an alive, although forgotten part of the hostel.
In an attempt to create a verisimilitude of a transient hostel life, the boarders of that corridoors including the distant me, had no alternative but to hang around in neighbouring rooms. Even the thought of going all the way down, even to the mess on one of those days when the only natural reprehension of staying hungry was to die.
Finally, the change in me tries to form a hazy visage, in a moment's suspension in the blur that caused by the awashed life each and every moment, I see things which non commitally had to surface and acquire a centrality. Perhaps the haze is not so blinding, perhaps what I could not see, was never meant to be seen by me, so could its impact be on me to squander other possibilities of succinct approach and ensanring me into invidious realms of gaping concerns, nothing better judged from a distance as frivolity.

I think about you...

I think about you
Subconsciously, trying to feel
the way you'd react, your view,
that might be astringent or genteel
towards external stumili,
take for example, I
who is so tacit otherwise,
trying to vicariously surmise,
About your opinions.
Say, about leaders and their minions.

I want to talk,
nothing very cliched dreamy,
like those scenic beaches, the long walks,
finding if I make you inetersted or queasy.
Its unbearable for me to consider if
its a pain for you to get in touch,
that if it wasn't work, you wouldn't be bored stiff,
this thought terrifies me inasmuch.
The winds carry a flavor for me,
and I taste thinking if you'd like it sour or sweet.

As I survey your facial terrain,
I dont effuse my thoughts,
nor does your aura sustain,
my gaze, which chooses to be dissolved,
in a judgemental fluid of callousness.
Your utterances, both voluble and few,
are steel sharpnel to my metal harness,
that yokes the philanthropic fabric I sew.
But yet I want to be around you
to take in yourself, like the ephemeral pleasure I drew.

I am not requesting,
to have a heart for this lovelorn
being, all I have is a longing,
for knowing someone here, yet gone.
Those moments of silence over the phone,
You are perhaps bored, but I breathlessly groan.
Wishing that the call would be longer,
but more or less my mind wanders.
Whether what yet, I mean to you,
As I think about you...

All characters towards any indication of the above verses might direct, is purely co-incidental.
Yet, if you are there, you know who you are, nothing indirect or sentimental.

The Pigment Of Elusion

It seems through your inept sights, that everyone has a perfect life. Something which you do not. Everything which you would like to have. I was in a dire judgment of such a perspective. No chronicles of my equally vapid life, sometime before, a time which just left its clutches, which just allowed me to be in equanimity, atleast for the time being. A relapse.

Feels like retribution. Feels like denial. Feels like deafening silence.

When I lay supine to troubles, things that I strive to avoid, which detest me and the fates keeps testing patience, the fates acts like a flippant child, affecting me beyond mindless charades. The road, the path, the way. It feels home when I am traveling, ironically when I am away from home, from any settlement. That's when I feel relaxed, find my misplaced choler. Strange paradoxes. A fine semblance of a highly esoteric setting.
I don't feel anything I feel sometimes. What my clay-like, malleable emotions show, when their legitimacy can be questioned. It doesn't rasp hard on me to explore my infirmity to the most primal traits, which are no traits at all.
I bend my self so much sometimes, that when the impediment passes away, I look back at myself like some stranger in a public place. People are so busy with their lives, they have so much to do. Cherubic, ebullient personalities. Magnificent dwellers of this cradle of life.
What do I suffice for then? What role do distraughts like me play, if you excuse me to call myself a distraught. I am lost, in the most definitive way. I need sermons, advises, better spread than used.
Like assholes, everyone has one advice...to give. But I feel assholes are better, in every sense of perception. Kinky.
But I am ravaged to find people, particularly parents sermonizing over my head. They are so many of them, and they ensnare in so many ways. Opportunists. All they do at the end of the day is hark or their egos. Inflate them, larger than their worths.
I'd like to return. To someplace. To the roads, connections, and stay itinerant.
There are such wonderful people that think about me. Remember me. Its my serenade for carrying on. Its also my motivation that invigorates me. Its for people like them, for times like those, which we spent and I learnt to spend again. If nothing material, thats what I have earnt hitherto. Society? Do I so often contradict myself?

Thats why I love the lanes. They do not intersect, do not concur. No contradictions. Such unequivocality of character. Indomitable in a way. The perfection of attribute the wisdom of ages has preached.
Anyhow...
Take a break sometime. Ostracize yourself from your mortal indulgences and absorb silence. Stay away from the race for sometime. Atleast in which sense does 'the race' translate to you.
And when you regain, you find just what link you are, just about which brick are you in the wall.
Not self-centricity. Its esoteric in situation I would rather say.

I cry sometimes. I don't make noises, I don't get tears in my eyes. I know that I am crying. I am bereaving. The nerve-wreak. Not really. The invocation is very discreet. A piece of guitars in a song, a marigold-flower garlands at those innumerable hawkers at signals. The perceptions are unique, to its predecessors.

That's me looking back at the stranger who writes all this perhaps.
Whatever I theorize however, if I ever muster the concentration, is defenestrated then and there, piqued by another invocation. And that's the way the cookie keeps crumbling.
I'll return to someplace however, my academic enterprise. To commence, this time more weary than before, more single minded.

Atleast I'll try.

Bon Voyage to you too...

Like Humans Do

Tell me what is the shortest distance between a woman and a man?
Yes, right, a woman and a man, the single most rudimentary classification of all pertinent life on earth, or in more plebian terms the world. A Woman and A Man. We all count the world by them, relationships between them, all kinds of them, and which is transcending the humanity since its very inception is the coupling of marriage. The ultimate consummatory commitent. One man to a woman, and in all its entirety also the vice versa. Its one of those elementary concepts on which entire cultures have been built. The institution of marriage, a marriage between a woman and a man. Much should not be looked into however, whether I mention a man before woman or vice versa. Well there is nothing profoundly questionable about this atomic school of social existence. Its translates perfectly into the methods in which we are are built and ingrained with instincts. So innate are they, that they have defined humanity as a race and the way it copulates. Reproduction, the most wonderful of all phenomenon, not to support or facilitate, but to generate life itself, is by far the most venerated and sacrosanct phenomenon that we all in all its sanctity pay deference to.

It drove me to interesting questions though. What came first, the institution of marriage or the need to reproduce? Are marriage's foundations built on the very fact that a communion of a woman and a man can create life, a very selfish and frugal thought for our existence as a species? Is reproduction unto marriage or marriage unto reproduction? What is the implicit purpose of a marriage, if thought on a much more wider scale, rather than individualistic? Would it so happen that if in the future by any chance if the human race is on the verge of extinction not unto any natural or earthly force, unthreatened I propose, would the subsequent government accede to polygamy and most values that are tantamount to crime today viz. having more than one sexual partners, which we sheepishly refer to as a fling today? All this to merely copulate and muster our numbers. Where do the boundaries dissolve then? Are we all living a big and basic lie built upon the needed to exist and survive as a race and eventually went to hell with it! No I don't challenge all the cushy emotions of heterosexual existence, but what just started out as an extraordinary, perhaps instinctive reveries, or even possibly an inquisitive bodily explorations of our cavemen forefathers, has compounded and wonderously translated into a way of life? All of talk about getting old, having a 'family' and finding 'the one' and grow old with that person, does it impinge, granted you consider for a moment that we as males and females are not confounded by the ultimate sin, that we are more inundated by what happens around us than what we really want, or do not want at all? Is being a homosexual one big insult, like someone who commands all slander upon his or her very existence? What's the big deal about having sex anyways, just that it is five minutes or maybe more depending on your own capacities and satisfaction parameters, of pure and unadulterated euphoria. Yes I agree that you are totally bereft of all things that go inside your psyche, even for a millisecond, in an orgasm. It is by far the most natural and harmless drugs straight for his, or her if some conscious activist might be offended, factory. By the way, the only other method to be iotically freed of all worries in the most nimble and expeditious way is nothing more profound that a simple sneeze. You cant even keep your eyes open. An orgasm is just another protracted aliter to this heavenly state or nirvana. Historically, this habitat of amalgamation has altered the course of our world, and has changed the way we are today. Countless decisions may have been abated, altered or even exonerated, if we would not be leading the life we are made to live. The beautiful deception of nature is however, the natural predilection we all have, the extra lean towards the opposite sex, on all matters and propositions. And we all celebrate and cavort in this serenditpity or one of the prophecies that might have read on the signposts to the garden of Eden. The rules and the logical overrides. Is it our fate, our destined ascent as the most prevalent species on the face of this planet? Yes we have the most cogent of all brains that roam and inhabit this land, but mere intelligence and acuity does not guarantee survival. One major incontrovertible norm is that of population. Entire species of more adroit beings can be wiped off by some lesser breeds based upon the arithmetic of sheer numbers. And this is where this phenomenon to procreate has gained favor of being referred to as the animal instinct. Its the only quarter where bulls and beavers are more felicitous than us, refer to the various synonyms that are used to epitomize ferocious and passionate lovemaking, a bull, a tiger etc etc.

But is companionship all that we want? Is sex that you would look for in a relationship after five years, talking on mundane terms? Is not what matters in the end is friendship or rather companionship? Does only the father have the right to raise a child, if there is another equally concerned individual to take care, or do we need to refer to as men and women at all? Do the lines shimmer away somewhere down the line when all we talk of is companionship? What's the world's infatuation with the three letter word anyways? Can two people of opposite sexes and of course proximate ages stay together without the need to get physical with each other? Isn't sex ultimately pleasure? A pleasure that can be savored eyes closed, without the thought of who is giving it to you, or rather a person of which sex is giving it to you?

If all these questions are in the affirmative to contemplate, then all this brouhaha of virility and chivalry subsides to almost being non sensical. Males trying to outsmart and compete for females, as is a phenomenon across all life forms, but accounting on the difference of our mental prowess, we can make an attempt to understand and counter relate to all these norms about having sex. A very liberal and abstrusely inviting thought, but only hampered by this necessary evil of being a part of the society. Does it help to be bi-curious? It gives a better understanding and a psychological advantage of understanding the two sides of the proverbial coin.
Even as I stretch my thoughts and posit questions and theories one after other, I don't know if I bely my own proclivities, since half of my life has been spent hopelessly wooing the opposite sex... Anyways, Is the human mind, considering the chemical evolution of all our glands and brain, ready for this? Does it all at the end of the day boil down to finding the right person and get on with it? I am being flagrant and at times fraudulent some of my hypothetical readers may believe. After all, marriage is not to fortify your spouse's body, with a seal of consummation on your partner, its not about really finding each other on the bed only. The plug and socket theory goes a long way, but its not the only one that goes. The most beautifully advertised relationship of friendship does. So I do provide aliter questions too. This also does mean, there is nothing called as 'straight', 'gay' and 'lesbian'. Bi-curious is a more pertinent word. So the next time we see an attractive opposite sex, particularly males, and as they inadvertently fawn all the way down to the cleavage, it might ring a bell, that is that the ultimate thing? The epochal factor? Would you be happier with a member of the same sex that understands you and fully compliments you or with some opposite sex who is sparsely involved and your union serves fewer things more than promulgating your family tree? Alternatively, does some man who is not your husband who does not hit with his opinions over your head mean more to you than some cavalier imperious male you got married to?

Who is everything you want, who is everything you need,
who is everything inside of you that you wish you could be?
Who said all the right things at exactly the right time,
And you wish he means much more to you, whether you know why or not is another matter.
The stale old concepts of 'winning your girl' though eventually debauching into 'whining at your girl', alternatively stereotyping a sex's role, all talking into the judgemental periphery the issues of rights and socialist norms, eventually does translate into this single most ecclestial fact.
I am in no way being contemptuous to this splendid practice of getting married. Its just a progeny of a more liberal onset of life that is possible in today's world. And in no way, is this wicked or scarilegous. If it still found out to be, then I guess it is the intial friction of a non conformist and largely embryonic idea, as all others likewise are destined to receive.

Like Humans Do.
Like Humans Do.

Zikes!!!

Zhis zis zan zincstinctive zeice zof zhit zor zomeone zery zear zo ze...
zo ze zrites za zpasmodic zestimonial zor ze zellow!

zhere zis zit:

~~~~~~~

ze karthik
ze innocent sinner
ze monsieur for perturbed souls
ze black minded creep hunter
ze emancipator of hell...from hell
ze son of regularity
ze malcontent of gentetic breeds
ze grevious error of doctrinaires
ze rebel
ze irregular
ze self believer
ZSH!
ze is not jokin
ze is not his birthday today
but anyways ze is praising ze
ze are good
ze is lucky to have you
ze is not gay
ze is just praising
ze hasnt done anything good for a long time
ze does it now

~~~~~~~~~~

[spits chewing gum out]
[also removes and peels off the mashed and lacy remains from fingers]

[back to normal speech]


PS: ZSH? Thats hindi for LOL! meaning..."zor se hansi"...LOL! or rather ZSH!

Apparently the only eminent name that remians unstired by this neurotic onslaught is Zinadine Zidane, and please, please dont try this at home ZSH!

We just keep it coming...
ZSH!

?

Suddenly, fear looms large. The clockworks are ticking, inescapably, with terrible finality. My transition is all to banal. Few thoughts that merge into a conscience overpowering their fitful predecessors and being testimony to my composition have been bacchanal in discrimination. I look outside, in the environs, finding anomalies, anything, however lecherous or however poignant the venture may be. I don't leave anything. And to stumble upon a conscionably disgusting proposition, there is a repeated, incessant and vicious loop. My devilish quirks pique my memories. They pique until I bang my head in malaise, some puke that cant be let out, somefever that cant be sweat out. One half laughing at myself, upon the puerile convictions, other contemplating, why does it pique me? Suddenly then, a toothsome female comes and stands beside me. I look the other way. I look too busy, like I have the President to meet in 10 minutes and my chopper is not here, so I am grabbing a bite at this food court. (Figure out the obvious yourself) This female, is too bewitched with my lechery to be left bereft of my equally penetrating gaze. Then suddenly, she spills food just there, right there. exactly to wash my eyes, or rather the view all red and green.
I look the other way.

So does obscenity. What is obscenity? How do you define obscenity? I am not questioning anyone. These thoughts ring clear in my head. If I am wrong to look at her "wherever" what am I doing wrong? Does sit mean that I am not a man of morals? Does it mean that people like me shag in their bathrooms to satisfy their own promiscuous desires? Or is it wrong to have these desires?

What all do these people around me think? Does anyone around them matter to them? At all?
Or is their own cavalier pretensions supreme to everything else? Mine are though.
What substantiates all this? All this rigmarole of mental haze? Where the obvious is obfuscated by something the viewer is not able to discern. Perhaps the subject does not want to discern. Its so shameful. It is so poignantly disappointing. Something for which they would throw up there hands and say, I don't deserve to live. Something they are too scared to do. These 'they' include me too. Is this is a precipice for insanity? Some realms best left unsaid, are beneficial the lesser thought about, leave alone talk about.

Is blood the color of introspection?

Does everyone hide a prospective murderer? Or are firearms for inhumans? Or are wars fought for these same reasons, reasons of momentous people, who can alter histories, started satisfying their own contemptuous desires, in a dastardly method to set everything right, they kill everyone? They know no fraternity, to benignance. Nothing.

Or am I a fugitive, still caged to this mire so disruptive, that I may not emerge alive from it? I am alone here. No family with me. Neither their thoughts, not responsibilities. But that is another indictment of myself and this rebarbative and ulcerated creature inside.

I helped clean that toothsome beauty up.

Publicity For Peanuts

Such appalling has been a scribe's culture as recently as some 'hatchet' being thrown so wantonly into plebian attention. Some very conscientious person said, Publicity good or bad, is publicity. And its been a rhetorical event in our quotidian lives, like this kissing mishap that's been so earnestly covered by channels across the satellite's spectrum, that inadvertently the generic prime time viewing at homes has been debauched to hog over issues like these. Sometimes, beneath all that attention you are complementing them with, you question the wannabes of showbiz, are they anointed with controversies, are they just so felicitously present along with the media, that every hair they shed becomes manna for atleast irresponsible magazines. Incidents, they are sprawled across recent history, every recent I mean. These so called 'starlets' have apparently struck the gold of reaching out to the people, however vexed the method be.

They are a team, an endearing couple, the unscrupulous celebs and the shrewd and disgraceful media. But they are such bimbos, eggheads! Any incident like this is covered with a vigoristic commitment, and also provide a twofer to recount all such events that happened like these, but only with the sedulous participation of these celebs. Every day, worse and heinous incidents are betiding the invisible complaint registers, they are so fritteringly forgotten. talk about journalistic ethics. Facts, fabricated and promptly defenestrated are a glaring example of hypocrisy. These coverages turn out to be an efficacious showcase to laud all the devoted public figures. In all their swarthy indulgences, not only some Page3 party.

But is it so, apart from the harebraind majority of television junkies, do such pathetic stunts help. This floozy having the initials "R.S." (I wouldn't jeopardize the sanctity of this page by taking the name) is nothing more than decorative garish brummagem ware, who speaks like she is straight from the fields catching snakes and collecting berries, her rhetoric for 'justice' is so preposterous, if I was the cameraman, I would bang her head with the hot filament of the halogen, but then it wouldn't be fatal, since its probably empty. the bitch cavorts with the host for straight two hours doing the same thing that became so objectionable to her, being so profligate in her dwellings, being a 'modern' shitpot of fashion mismatch, that its fad to be get kissed in parties, and now the 'woman' is awakened. Astounding!

"Party Workers" are seemingly 8 year old kids, who don't know the capital of India, are ransacking IT offices to admonish some righteous officer's notice one of their party's bigots.

Court de Cowardice

I am rarely so fretful and spooked out. No scenario is so edgy and flustering with jitters, than a Roland Garros Final of Federer and Nadal. God, am I so scared stiff to see Federer lose. I can't stand it. My folks are doing much better, whenever the channel is switched to the match, I perform a depleted walk-out. Every serve, every volley, Nadal is etching his way past, almost being a progenor of history. I don't know what will the match lead to, but I just cant stand to see Federer fall. Nadal's winning streak on clay, already in a league of its own, is piquing Federer and this ardent fan, like millions across the world. Its posing a daunting question, when will the tables turn? When will the reality be in accordance to the facts? The immaculate shot-making which is on a flamboyant display across all surfaces, seems to be tattered and rickety. C'mon Federer! I have a dinner bet on you. Anyways I wont have to nerves to swallow something after the unbearable happens. Come on grass if you wanna feel a child of a lesser god. You are a Hewitt or a Roddick, you are sure to be perfunctorily dispatched in three sets straight. There an ATP rank loses meaning. In a pragmatist's book, Federer ranks No. 1, and there is none from 2 to 100. Yes, a 6-4 is considered exceptional, yours being the latter figure. But this impasse on clay... I am heaving, out of breath. Federer has suvived such scares of overnight successes raising their flaccid heads once in a while. Nadal is much better I know, but all this seems to carry on just a bit too uncomfortably long. There is no one I'd look up more to in this world, Roger Federer is a luminary to reckon with, my God. Not just in his field, but as a prodigy, inspiring as a mind boggling consistent success at 24. I want to be reborn atleast as a fraction of him.

I watched his archived matches. Right from 1999, when a confident 19 year old under-17 Wimbledon champion flabbergasts the world ending the 6 title array of the indomitable Sampras, commiting his ouster. And the world has never recovered since from the realtively staid, infallible god of the serve and volley, who maintains an unemotional stupor through a tournament, and falls to his knees, tears of contentment develop as he aces Roddick for the Wimbledon 2005, the scene is still alive in my mind. He talks through the latex strings, enveloping the world to its beat and rasps harder than a yelling and irant Hewitt. Federer just missed a drop shot, not even making an effort to reach out. Federer is two sets down, and its 5-5 fourth set. Things aint looking good.
And I pray Federer wins. Nadal, I'd love your energetic movement across the turf opposite any other dude, but that is tantamount to an insult to Federer. I as an astute supporter should, and ought to believe in Federer.

I may not be a court trotting hopeful, but I admire the sport through the mesh of the racquet, and on numerous occasions finding my self engrossed in the sport's intricacy. Be it Borg or Connors, every shot across the net, and my neck is oscillating up and down.
Tennis.
Game Set Match.

Mission : Accomplished

The summer is great, sunny and succulent, more to the vexation of its inhabitor's critters, and probably it takes some amount of slick direction to create a more thermodynamically radical installment to variegate the exquisite canvas into the shady world of Agent Ethan Hunt. The movie, goes without saying was M:I:III, and after a whole day of chagrin over lack of tickets, I got reciprocation of my earnestness. My cerebral creature was squirming in disgust, firstly accounting the astringent cold, yes you do get that, all you need is a bad day and lots of dust, and of course its most paradoxical confere, the torched climate. Armed with a grouchy demeanor, I was literally lambasting anyone that did not suite my peripheral gaze, atleast what I managed to focus through the throbbing headache.

My twisted and fatigued musculature was efficaciously replaced with a plasticised one of Tom Cruise, and I was one again. One again with the mien of a spy, an agent, an emissary, conjured up through my limited but deeply gratifying devouring of Robert Ludlum. I needed this, after all the spoony candy-ass romances, porcine 'Bollywood', I beg your pardon, villains and non sensical story lines, more aptly described as perfunctory copy-paste jobs. Tom Cruise delights, to the bone. Never has he been Ethan Hunt handled with such panache and aplomb, and this time, whatever the big shots of critique would say, Ethan Hunt is reborn with a more operative persona, a relief to the wits end original version where he seems like a hapless quarry. Yes, the original did give you the thrills, tangentially defining the essence of the Mission series, but you feel a bit for Ethan there. The first sequel was more of a sleep walk through deliverance. John Woo falls just short of making an advertisement. No deft agent work, no espionage. Our agent seems infallible, threatening the very conscience of a spy thriller. Debauching the relatively better standards created by Brian De Palma, Woo was flagrant. He took the celluloid to be a drawing book, making a lurid picture bulldozing the entire crayon box, making a garish visual mistreat. But this time, though all the emotional capers of Hunt, he seems plausible. But I miss the singularity of Hunt in the original, where he is not coerced into missions for relationships or worse, love. That, according to me would give his character plenty of leverage, both as a man on job and as an unencumbered logistic. But this time however, J.J. Abrams, a television 'phenomenon', riding high on Alias and Lost, treats Hunt with his canny craft, and doesn't make the 'I'll be there, honey' rhetoric distant to the plot. You'd count Julia as one of the 'mission objectives' rather than Hunt's personal indulgence.

A good pyrotechnic job, last minute alterations, witty dialogues and cinematic glisten is all on an intelligent display here. Hunt saves the day with a mandatory luck. Lady luck, eh? Well, Michelle Mohanagan is a good girl, a warm woman, who doesn't know anything about the double life of Ethan Hunt, who she believes works for the traffic department, and all her friends believe is too boring, and thinks that traffic is a creature with a memory. Their scenes together are however cold and weak, and doesn't setup a reasonable enough premise for our hero to go halfway across the world to save her. It needed more footage.




The movie opens up with a taut interrogation scene with Cruise and Hoffman (I have a paragraph dedicated to this guy!) leaving the viewer revved up, neck deep into the story. The object of everyone's contention is something known as a Rabbit's Foot, not some ultra expensive animal appendage, but some chimerial compound, a bio weapon But like these comma separated list of inferences, its a classic McGuffin! The plots unfolds through the habitual briefing of Agent Ethan Hunt, although through different modes, all intricate in their own right, this time its a camera, with the usual caveat of immediate self destruction. Hunt is in semi-retirement, until he is lured back into active service when one of his protege, Keri Russell, Abrams' apparent favorite, goes missing in Berlin. Yeah yeah, the same old dingy recesses of abandoned factory compounds shielding entire fleets of Apache's and enough weapons to support a small army, and the intrusion is one snazzy piece of agile screenplay. Check that sequence out, its amazing, but only a filler to more bizarre sequences that Abrams is so successful in creating. Reminds me of Sam Fisher meets Solid Snake.


So we have tiny explosives implanted into heads through noses, and not to miss the playful masquerade into the Vatican to kidnap Philip Seymour Hoffman. Now this man is discerning. Everything about him, most attention seeking is his dead pan sadistic voice. He plays a black market 'provider', who is willing to furnish anything to menacing militias in the Gulf given the right price. And he does it with a disturbing composure. No he isn't a maniac, he is not an excessively sanitized power hungry freak, and certainly not a cheap gangster. He is an ingenuous mix of all these. He throws swank parties but talks like a sullen misanthrope. He threatens Hunt, "I am gonna find her and I am gonna hurt her' He says it with such a terrible mocking seriousness, that I believed him. He is an unexpected package, right from the first scene, embarks as a mean, one on one vengeance seeking behemoth, like there is no escape than to kill him, his ominous intones conveying a profound message, "Somebody stop me! And there is noting you can do..."


Mission is a clever tale, which innocuously hides the superfluidity with quick turns and twists that the viewer is too transfixed to question. The movie's most laudable and extravagant sequence of the bridge where Hunt is double crossed, he scurries across a six meter wide gap with a machine gun bringing a plane down with that, highlights the achievement of Abrams. Mission is banal, but too garnished to feel the difference. A simple agent-recovery mission leads to a gripping trail into the highest corridor's of the IMF. Billy Crudup, Hunts immediate senior, provides the enigmatic suspense in the movie. The trick lies there. Even the most shocking moment is hackneyed, but you are too awed to be compromised. Abrams creates, and boy does he do well. All the car chases in Shanghai with a building arched drop, and Hunt shoots two guards on his head first slide down a giant glass pyramid on the top of a building, the deadal gadgetry in the Vatican, Cruise sneaking in as a bishop, the protracted explosions in Berlin, all showcase Cruise's commitment, a contractual allegiance. Cruise gives it his all. And boy does he love to run. His sprint is a fixture in every Mission installment, the dude just loves to do it. This time through the crammed slums in China, and he never seems to collide. Whew!
The Vatican affair provides a relief from the other edgy sequences with a welcome humor. Watch Hunt tip walk over a wall and lay supine beside a camera over all by a computerized pulley, to come down on the other side stopping inches above the ground. Maggie Q comes in with something that's makes me forget her in the frame, A Lamborghini Diablo, only to be blown up. The meticulous planning here is fun, including that mind blowing latex mask 'developer', shall I say.


The plots weaves into China, where a desolate apartment finds Hunt etching formulae on a window pane with a wax pencil, to something that belies Cruise's age. The plot culminates there eventually constructing an electric climax, and we find Hunt crying. Such an anti thesis isn't it? But Abrams manages to cover that up with smart screenplay. Abrams doesn't make compromises here experimenting. He uses all his crew, to do something Alias does almost perennially, even brings in his trusted composer for the soundtrack. The match is hot, damn the fire engulfs you! Chasing the can (rabbit's foot) across the streets, ensuing in a tense car chase, Abrams familiar stomping grounds, you are treated with a cinematic richness. We also see the staid Mohanagan picking up the metal, and go berserk, she exhibits a primal comfort for the weapon. Too much for a first timer Abrams!


Hunt's cohorts, Ving Rhames' Luther and two new additions, Maggie Q, who is sheepishly underused and Jonathan Rhys Meyers, the football-shootball coach of Bend It Like Beckham. He like Q is sidelined after Match Point. Luther, now a veteran in the Mission series takes on some preaching liberties this time, commenting on Ethan's predicaments. That's character evolution, a welcome change by Abrams, from the wooden beefy geek. He does it this time too, but with a humane involvement. Not to trade off with his terse one liners, sample this, "The Rabbit's Foot is in that building. The good news, its small enough, so we can steal it. The bad news, we have to steal it." Lawrence Fishburne, the indoctrinating and brusque boss, is satisfactory, more liked for his witty one liners again. He doesn't care if your daddy plays golf with the President. Cool!

Its the perfect mediocre relief, one of the best this summer has beckoned, apart from the impending hopeful bonanza, Casino Royale.



PS: Click to enlarge the images. Some have taken an experienced eye of a pointless mobile cameramen who draws unwilling glances. So much for the contentment of my efforts. I dont take any responsibility for any misunderstandings for recognition, and Ving Rhames is really that dark! Rhys really does look like a chicken, who says bird flu's over? Maggie Q I am sorry, no photographs of yours, was busy checking out the Lamborghini and some passenger...All the third party names are expected to be kept unspoken...

Robert Frost's Parody

This is a humiliating piece of trifle poetry, insolent enough that it may sour diplomacy between the Queen's Knightly concerns and the Indian mental fecundity
Ok check this out..
An abject parody of the miles that Frost was to go before he could sleep, and they said he died in a car crash....
Joking, anyways.

***
If it ever once would be a possiblility
That an average boorish Indian in Frost's deep dark woods be
Walking for too long, and among all greenry
He would suffice to describe his buffoonery
What would his reactions be?
I guess he would be Saying this to thee,
The Woods may be lonely dark and deep
But I cant find a dense canopy
To exhibit such an embarrasing humanity
To restrain my self from moral larceny
To hell with Frost, I cant care to be
Foolish enough to wet my baggies
For something so immaterial as society
How do the English plant their trees?
It'll be long before I can walk free
And miles to go before I pee
And miles to go before I pee
***

Cheers!
The R'a'mbunctious Rhymer.

Screaming Infidelities

The post below.
Caution.
May not be the best of the things that you will read.
And all the facts and logical conclusions, may not be what they are meant to be.
Maybe this tortuous, verbose text is futile, the tormented critter behind is not discursive enough.
Or still perhaps, The damn Queen's language is not enough.
Sayonara.

Confessions

Perhaps one of the most corny weeks in these retreat so far, this week was a killer of an introspection getaway. An aisle where canvases were conjured, canvases were defenestrated, and what was sifted through not just in this pensive thought, was formed. A strong opinion, a robust reticule of existence, a variegated tapestry of a succulent life. Finally I am alfresco of my conformational parentage. Yes, the impediments were also parental, and from this tree, on an obscure, nebulous branch I am cavorting, sometimes in simple disbelief, sometimes in a reverie, and some other times in an abject ferfuffle of thoughts, to find a way. To try and crane my emotional self, and look down, even dare to. And as I endeavor to suffice for the endarkenment of my directions, I find the tree goes down, way down, like Jacks' Beanstalk. And its trunk whose apex is beguilingly crowned with this plethora of avenues of my life, its branches. And these sinuous alleys of a chicanery of perhaps my own quiddity, have been swooping all around me, forcing me to accustom my limping limbs, and totter up and down to imbibe the remedials. The trunk of this tree disappears in the daunting mist down that hails an unfathomable distance. What Do I do? What Do I get? Where Do I find my Chainsaw? A Relentless deadlock?
Crouching and fighting, reversals, counter reversals, a double trap, a chasm, a canal, a hole. Each opening into other propositions, each more obscure than the other. All I do is chose.
Where have I come, have I lost or have I won,
Famished guilt of coming undone.
New facades of myself are dawning upon me everyday. A corrigible vehemence, so unsociable and repelling, inadvertent revelations that I cant 'maintain' a conversation, even an argument where I am more myself. A bereaving person out to find culprits of his own shortcomings.
Well, I am a remnant of frustration, breathing a life into this hardened heart of stone, frigid with something devilishly unpalatable. I see my counterparts, or once counterparts, who now have leaped into a fast track of progress and excellence, and all the while I was grappling things that I was never suppose to lay my hands on. Remorse? With an denying mien, an incessant bombination of denial in my head, at loggerheads at reality, I am held in a state of ethereal suspended animation of conscience. The rope is slipping away, my destinations, a castle of my dreams, is falling away from me. Or is this just a rusticating pleonasm. Perhaps all is not lost. I disappoint people who I owe everything I have, have achieved or will achieve. The things that go way deeper and with a more seminal finality that it overrides all echelons of relationships. I have made them incomplete, or am very well in the tryst to do so. An earnest squander. Those words shall echo in my mind until this insipid phase persists, or till I am committed to make this just a phase. I stand in front of the mirror and contemplate on this vicarious being. Talk to myself, for hours, become inundated with wrongs and ghosts of the past, and with this intense carousel of memory, I talk, end the confabulation often on a more retributive note, Lights will guide me home, and ignite my soul, and I will try to fix you.

How did I land up in a such a sludge of predicaments, where the more I save myself, the more I contain the incisive punctures in my protean mind, the more I get dirty and tainted. This quicksand of time, where the progress is a regress, only in the negative direction. And what amounts from relativity is a cumulative loss, loss of mine and the gain of others. My hopes built on the gracious and generous foundations of my prospective capabilities is tilting. The more mentally mollifying analogy, I am in a dizzy state, perhaps my inebriation has me unsteady and unsoliciting. Life's a cruel taskmaster. The abrupt variation in the currents, have got the worse of me. All the beckons of being haunted, of living a gauche component in an array of life, its this. Plain and Straight. An incompletion, a task undone. A sum total of a remainder of an unbalanced equation, and I am carrying it over and over again, till the point of excruciation. Moment of Truth I guess.

I don't know what will this lament be a moments worth to me, or to that matter to anybody. So trifle and trite have I become, dwelling in scanty terrains, already seething with exhaustion through banality. Talk to me and it wouldn't be before long when the quarry is cajoled out of its haven, a scared, ignorant and basically a diffident creature, living dangerously in the swift winds of life, and precariously sailing to be a doubtful recipient of a shipwreck in this torrent of life.
Sorry, you have landed up on a loser's blog, another line without a hook, that is a shitpot of all his anguishes. But on a departing note, say a prayer for me. All I ask you for.

May I be saved.
Amen.