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.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Monday, October 16, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
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...
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...
Thursday, July 06, 2006
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
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.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
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
~~~~~~~~~~
[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.
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.
Monday, June 12, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
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.
Friday, June 09, 2006
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...
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...
Thursday, June 01, 2006
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
***
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.
The R'a'mbunctious Rhymer.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Da Vinci-ed
This is an exclusive post. Because, as the clock strikes 1110 hrs, that is in 20 minutes, I will be witness to the abated adaptation of the greatest best seller of all time.
The Da Vinci Code.
Adios.
The Da Vinci Code.
Adios.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Bureaucratic Entanglement
For the past few days, I was there alone, naive, verdant and affected. Against the most insidious of the machineries of this great malfunctioning country, but for some placebo effect, the outcomes have been surprisingly far less catastrophic. The Bureaucracy. It was present more daunting than ever in one of its most crapulous manifestations, BSNL. The Bored Senile Nefarious Legion, pathetic de-acronym job on my part, but hell do I care, they stood for all that for me and more. The innocent 'request' was for an internet subscription, whatever happened to the customer relationship and servility. Perhaps I am being an idealist. In their dingy workshops, they fabricate the most impervious systems in this world, inert to change, to sedition.
In the BSNL office, with innumerable clusters of moth eaten files, covered with a stubborn patina of dust and so to say abeyance. The very arrangement, or the lack of it, was a testimony to the counter productivity of the institution. If there was a vacuum cleaner so invented that would challenge even the most obstinate of the dust, our sarkari offices are there for a letdown for the claimers. The sweating officer incharge, was sitting, though a little more patient than other in the kin, was blithfully ignorant to the relentless ringing of the phone. Another vestige of the falsification of the 'at your service' flattery painted even more carelessly. Collectively, the head office of the feckless firm was looking like a warehouse, with rags adorning the floor, you get the fleeting feeling that you are in a tent house. It took me an hour to get myself to be rude enough to fight myself out of that cacaphony of other crapulous junta around. Strange ways of functioning there, rule one came as a soft admonishment, "Push enough and be vehement enough to get yourself to be heard. Those people aren't going to help you in any way. To Hell with them." In this period of tryst, the officer was half the time on the phone and the rest was a bashful display of self absorption.
This led me to filling up the necessary documents, deposition of money. The labyrinthine queue, replete with people of all shapes and sizes, with the hankeys and shirt sleeves at overdrive, the summer was almost adding insult to the injury. In all of the tumultous two and a half hours of the sordid affair all was done, which consisted of filling up the form and getting the receit. For the rigorously bruised self respect, I came back with a compensation that I will get to blog from my couch within a day or two. But, the inevitable 'but' is a staple of this decrepit organization. First three days went in hope and fading away of it. When with a sprightly heart I used to gaze at the 'This page cannot be displayed' message, that I could soon cross the protocols of the world wide web, repaid in sweat and anguish. But the smile was constantly dampened, when three days later I was standing again in that forgetful place. Till it went out, giving way to a rebellious rancor. But still you know that it wouldn't help you, only you would be the cardinal sinner in the eyes of the almighty officer, being a subject to his spurious wrath. With empty assurances, I came back everytime. It was close to a week now. And I had stopped looking at my system, even switching it on and gazing at the 'server not found' window. I peeked up, squinted my eyes with a gnawing sense of inadequacy, the seventh day, was when I put on teeka and left my home.
Getting down to the fixated venture of working up the 'connections', I found a person to go with me and be my advocate, to curry favor, bearing the facetious grin of familiarity, he asked like a personal concern, damn, he was good. That was alleviating though for the time being, thinking that would serve the now desperate purpose, I returned. But like a cursed creature, a dunce at timings, I couldn't comprehend their definition of two days. The next day was a moment of truth, the ultimate reckoning. Its me and me alone. None else. I was terse and forthcoming. This time holding my volume, I intoned the matter. And through the babu's protean gaze, I caught his scanty brain's ability to make his thick spectacled eyes focus. He said, curtly, "No orders yet". I realized the point at once. I had come in knickers, so maybe that would be enough to get his volatile arrogance to spur up. I was spurned. Compromised. With an intention to come with a phone call from his boss, I left for their other branch. But the appurtenance of the 'but ' come again. To my utter disgust, the epochal orders had been issued the same day. It struck me like a brick. The whole week I was being manipulated like a jackass, made to shuttle like a guinea pig on the tread mill, running around in circles, with such a heinous insensitivity, that it made my head to spin. With growing unrest, I stormed out of the Spartan building, to go back to square one, putting all the effort to a wistful ineffectualness. That moron officer reacting in his standard, corner-of-the-eye look, meanly dismissed me to some other person. This turned out to be the same person I had been trying to make myself heard for the past week, only were we dealing with the hindustani mannerisms of 'bhaisahab', 'suniye' etc. Back to square one, told you.
With another temporizing assurance, I held myself with a determination more immovable than Himesh Reshammiya's cap, I insisted on leaving until he was ready. With great pains, he managed to move his perverted arse out of his cavern. And within half an hour, after the necessary technical earthing glitches did I get a constant line, and for a relieving change, my Internet Explorer didn't show 'Page Not Found' this time. I hung my head down in mollification and smiled with a sense of achievement. It was high time I faced such a demanding facet of our needs, and in god's name I wouldn't forget how this realization came, when a mundane procedure underwent metamorphosis from the pressures of inefficiency and corruption, into a veritable battle of truth.
This post is commemoration to all I underwent in the past week. With each passing day, my efforts unsubstantiated, it was a charge to allay my bruised ego that I refused to surf from some meek terminal.
Beuna Fortuna.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
In High Spirits
Its been roughly eighty hours since I came out of the ICU. (Actually, its equally arcane to me as it is to you, when will I run out of those splendid metaphors to denote that place!) And, it was a hortatory epiphany that I just had, it was perfectly reasonable how was I estranged to this facet for so long, and it was an overwhelming feeling...to know that, Life Is Beautiful. I am spending more than ten hours outside my abode, each day. Homesickness, anyone? Well, I am, but this appetite of schmaltz is pacified now and then from the then wonderous and now infinitely manipulated invention of Alexander Graham Bell. But what cant possibly be recreated in drastically antonymic surroundings, is my almighty place. Yes, that's what it is. I am place-sick. Hey, suggest me a better name for this emotion.
I have been roaming around the roads, filling my lungs up with plumes and plumes of nitrous dioxide, sulphur dioxide and the gloomy gang, not to exclude the insolent SPMs, and the same old feeling of being 'the one' himself, the one on the road, where the road is nothing more mundane than your kitchen garden and you have the landmower! There is nothing more confounding than being sidelined and its even more so, when you have the horses. And if you thought that, I was already writing my epitaph, if I have such an idea about driving, another frivolous being bent on temerity, well here I am not alone! And this assembles a competitive cabal of 'riders', for whom the glory is in burning rubber, however pointless the trip is, its the ultimate zealotry to emerge out of the fading bedlam of smoke and steel!
Well, its veritably a matter of life and death that I don't often get my hands on any of our vehicles. As mostly, I am not on the driver's seat, I am promenading into the urban jungle. Worshipping hedonism, returning to gluttony, regaining my spendthrift choler. To my utter delight, you'll find this place where all the snobs and wannabes of the resplendently discussed rat race gather, called a 'mall'. One is coming up in every outskirts of any group of houses. Understandably, this is a self-centric view on my part. On the leeward side, there are parents flexing facial muscles on the prospects of profligacy their wards can have around them rightly at their doorstep. Then the evenings are more about checking out the new store or movie than a match of cricket. Take it, or leave it, Consumerism is here to stay, legally, commercially, filling up the coffers of the government.
Some other things that are here to stay, are my spirits, and those of our intoxicated country. I was watching this interesting debate on television last night. On the watchdogs of everything that goes around, even a bee biting the arse of a minister is a headline, the assiduous news channels, this time what was the cynosure of their ever shifting attention was the banning of liquor in India. With their sensically-impaired reporters who are half the time performing some Japanese folk dance, pressing the earphone, checking the mic, strafing left and right and so does their ardent dance partner, the hapless cameraman. In all the performance, the interviewee cant help but maintain a silly expression on his face, staring listlessly in the lens. With their equipment (the cameraman is a part of it, mind you) , correspondents were posted at bars and on the streets of Delhi and Mumbai, trying to impress and collect a public opinion. The views were largely contradicting to the usual sensibilities I share with my teetotaller group. Although most of us handle the issue with the characteristic intellectual look on our highly deceitful faces, and utter that, "It's all a matter of personal choice, this generation is responsible enough to handle such an issue." (In Set: My Drink)
But the doubt killed the dog (hee-haw) just there. How do we trust people? Does this developing country run by seniles is ever going to be forbearing towards the bastion of this almost ostracised component of the society, the neo-teenage group, the 20s people? Will we ever be perceived more than a creed of harebrained fanatics, just high on hormones? This debatable segment of verdant parvenus is never respected by the society, largely, in their choices, the solemnity of their decisions, even when they are financially independent, but prudence is always compromised for age. True, there are the black sheeps, who are so successfully advertising the wanton youth of India, but the typcasting is infuriating.
I have been roaming around the roads, filling my lungs up with plumes and plumes of nitrous dioxide, sulphur dioxide and the gloomy gang, not to exclude the insolent SPMs, and the same old feeling of being 'the one' himself, the one on the road, where the road is nothing more mundane than your kitchen garden and you have the landmower! There is nothing more confounding than being sidelined and its even more so, when you have the horses. And if you thought that, I was already writing my epitaph, if I have such an idea about driving, another frivolous being bent on temerity, well here I am not alone! And this assembles a competitive cabal of 'riders', for whom the glory is in burning rubber, however pointless the trip is, its the ultimate zealotry to emerge out of the fading bedlam of smoke and steel!
Well, its veritably a matter of life and death that I don't often get my hands on any of our vehicles. As mostly, I am not on the driver's seat, I am promenading into the urban jungle. Worshipping hedonism, returning to gluttony, regaining my spendthrift choler. To my utter delight, you'll find this place where all the snobs and wannabes of the resplendently discussed rat race gather, called a 'mall'. One is coming up in every outskirts of any group of houses. Understandably, this is a self-centric view on my part. On the leeward side, there are parents flexing facial muscles on the prospects of profligacy their wards can have around them rightly at their doorstep. Then the evenings are more about checking out the new store or movie than a match of cricket. Take it, or leave it, Consumerism is here to stay, legally, commercially, filling up the coffers of the government.
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Some other things that are here to stay, are my spirits, and those of our intoxicated country. I was watching this interesting debate on television last night. On the watchdogs of everything that goes around, even a bee biting the arse of a minister is a headline, the assiduous news channels, this time what was the cynosure of their ever shifting attention was the banning of liquor in India. With their sensically-impaired reporters who are half the time performing some Japanese folk dance, pressing the earphone, checking the mic, strafing left and right and so does their ardent dance partner, the hapless cameraman. In all the performance, the interviewee cant help but maintain a silly expression on his face, staring listlessly in the lens. With their equipment (the cameraman is a part of it, mind you) , correspondents were posted at bars and on the streets of Delhi and Mumbai, trying to impress and collect a public opinion. The views were largely contradicting to the usual sensibilities I share with my teetotaller group. Although most of us handle the issue with the characteristic intellectual look on our highly deceitful faces, and utter that, "It's all a matter of personal choice, this generation is responsible enough to handle such an issue." (In Set: My Drink)But the doubt killed the dog (hee-haw) just there. How do we trust people? Does this developing country run by seniles is ever going to be forbearing towards the bastion of this almost ostracised component of the society, the neo-teenage group, the 20s people? Will we ever be perceived more than a creed of harebrained fanatics, just high on hormones? This debatable segment of verdant parvenus is never respected by the society, largely, in their choices, the solemnity of their decisions, even when they are financially independent, but prudence is always compromised for age. True, there are the black sheeps, who are so successfully advertising the wanton youth of India, but the typcasting is infuriating.
Back To Civilisation
Installment to 'The Exodus':
The train, true to its ticket, reached Hazrat Nizamuddin Railway station on the boiling afternoon of 29th April 2006. The same motley crew of boys were all but exhausted now, but one insurmountable spirit that had let them so far, and was also going to take them further, some lived further away. With a wry smile, their eyes squinting in fatigue, and dog tired voice, reducing their voice to meek grumble, they all sat by the windows of their compartment. Looking at the skies, the houses, the civilization that was becoming a thing that could be seen only in print or videos, all of them were unfailingly glancing at their watches, smeared with sweat, seeing the devil recede into its cavern, atleast for the time being. Yes, the dysentery had subsided!
Now, the group that had began the exodus from dystopia some 36 hours ago, was going to split up, driven by the ultimate hortatory urge, whoever stays, stays, who leaves, is forgotten, overlooked and if he has reached home is observed with a discerning avarice. At this time of the day, with the twilight rising for its apogee, the time was about 1600 hrs. The train was late by 2 hours, adding insult to the injury or more punch into the destination. The clock silently struck 16:01 as the motley crew of boys split up, exchanged pleasantries, often breaking up into sporadic laughter, on the idiosyncrasies of the ones leaving, reminiscent of all the trying times they had, augmenting even more maudlin baggage to the fun they had. The ceremonial valediction started from some stoppages before New Delhi. It was a cynosure of everyone else's eyes, the way some group of hobbledehoys gather and just pushed the bar to hooliganism. But underlying all the fun was schmaltz. Weird as it was, as we all stayed together, had tiffs, still had tiffs, and for some seconds thought about home there, the schmaltz was for sweet home. And now, when each one is leaving, the schmaltz is manifesting each heart again, this time for the dingy cells we are coming from, which due to the wonderful fellows was made less painful and enduring.
My stop had come. Dilli. The name permeated my each tissue, as the melancholy mechanical recorded voice of the announcer stated the name of the station. For once in my life, much of which had been restrained by fate within Delhi and the NCR, I missed and loved polluted air, longed to twist my cheeks on the foul-smelling prized drains, missed the arguments with the auto-wallahs for their ever accurate meters, each time wondering how much is he going to clock today, and above all the great human effort of travelling in the DTCs and the rulers of the roads, The Blue Lines. They mash you at will. That's in fact their banned logo! The nostalgia of having altercations with the people who always think that the person driving in front of them is always 5 kmph slower, and for some inscrutable reason always coming in their way. Moron. Sucker. What the f*ck is his problem? Ah! The redeeming sense of contempt. That is Delhi's roads for you. Redefining road rage, pushing the bar higher every time. The beetel chewing creatures who descended from hell, were the personal guard of Yamaraj, the bus-drivers, and all the drivers of public transport vehicles, who can better Montoya given the chance to work for McLaren, the visions in white, who grace the streets with the aroma from their exotic poo, holy cow, the sweet hospitable Delhi-ite who utters indecencies with such a seamless frigidity that you feel spurned, unwanted even cursed.
But behind all that what each one of these perceptibly antagonistic and ever-combative Delhite is a heart that with each beat salutes the indelible spirit of Delhi, whose roots run as deep as the ones provenance. The microcosm of culture and development, of the good, the bad and the ugly, Delhi has it all. The moment the train sauntered through the borders of Delhi, you could see such a transcending vagary of the standards of living, the various strata of socities just unfold in front of you, like you are having the cross sectional view of the reticular network of human civilization. That, is Delhi.
And as I picked up my luggage, and started to turn away, I could see the unflinching glare of the motley crew which was getting dispersed at this stage, where each of our faces said a thousand words. the words which could not be read, or explained, only understood. It was for the first time I felt, a minusucle sense of belonging to this clan of ours, and each one us had this to say, in our heads, "See you soon, I am hell eager."
But the catch is, "I'll come down to your place! Anywhere except the cell in a hell..."
So here I am, this is me, And this is the place I wanna be.
Houston, Touchdown.
Back to civilization.
The train, true to its ticket, reached Hazrat Nizamuddin Railway station on the boiling afternoon of 29th April 2006. The same motley crew of boys were all but exhausted now, but one insurmountable spirit that had let them so far, and was also going to take them further, some lived further away. With a wry smile, their eyes squinting in fatigue, and dog tired voice, reducing their voice to meek grumble, they all sat by the windows of their compartment. Looking at the skies, the houses, the civilization that was becoming a thing that could be seen only in print or videos, all of them were unfailingly glancing at their watches, smeared with sweat, seeing the devil recede into its cavern, atleast for the time being. Yes, the dysentery had subsided!
Now, the group that had began the exodus from dystopia some 36 hours ago, was going to split up, driven by the ultimate hortatory urge, whoever stays, stays, who leaves, is forgotten, overlooked and if he has reached home is observed with a discerning avarice. At this time of the day, with the twilight rising for its apogee, the time was about 1600 hrs. The train was late by 2 hours, adding insult to the injury or more punch into the destination. The clock silently struck 16:01 as the motley crew of boys split up, exchanged pleasantries, often breaking up into sporadic laughter, on the idiosyncrasies of the ones leaving, reminiscent of all the trying times they had, augmenting even more maudlin baggage to the fun they had. The ceremonial valediction started from some stoppages before New Delhi. It was a cynosure of everyone else's eyes, the way some group of hobbledehoys gather and just pushed the bar to hooliganism. But underlying all the fun was schmaltz. Weird as it was, as we all stayed together, had tiffs, still had tiffs, and for some seconds thought about home there, the schmaltz was for sweet home. And now, when each one is leaving, the schmaltz is manifesting each heart again, this time for the dingy cells we are coming from, which due to the wonderful fellows was made less painful and enduring.
My stop had come. Dilli. The name permeated my each tissue, as the melancholy mechanical recorded voice of the announcer stated the name of the station. For once in my life, much of which had been restrained by fate within Delhi and the NCR, I missed and loved polluted air, longed to twist my cheeks on the foul-smelling prized drains, missed the arguments with the auto-wallahs for their ever accurate meters, each time wondering how much is he going to clock today, and above all the great human effort of travelling in the DTCs and the rulers of the roads, The Blue Lines. They mash you at will. That's in fact their banned logo! The nostalgia of having altercations with the people who always think that the person driving in front of them is always 5 kmph slower, and for some inscrutable reason always coming in their way. Moron. Sucker. What the f*ck is his problem? Ah! The redeeming sense of contempt. That is Delhi's roads for you. Redefining road rage, pushing the bar higher every time. The beetel chewing creatures who descended from hell, were the personal guard of Yamaraj, the bus-drivers, and all the drivers of public transport vehicles, who can better Montoya given the chance to work for McLaren, the visions in white, who grace the streets with the aroma from their exotic poo, holy cow, the sweet hospitable Delhi-ite who utters indecencies with such a seamless frigidity that you feel spurned, unwanted even cursed.
But behind all that what each one of these perceptibly antagonistic and ever-combative Delhite is a heart that with each beat salutes the indelible spirit of Delhi, whose roots run as deep as the ones provenance. The microcosm of culture and development, of the good, the bad and the ugly, Delhi has it all. The moment the train sauntered through the borders of Delhi, you could see such a transcending vagary of the standards of living, the various strata of socities just unfold in front of you, like you are having the cross sectional view of the reticular network of human civilization. That, is Delhi.
And as I picked up my luggage, and started to turn away, I could see the unflinching glare of the motley crew which was getting dispersed at this stage, where each of our faces said a thousand words. the words which could not be read, or explained, only understood. It was for the first time I felt, a minusucle sense of belonging to this clan of ours, and each one us had this to say, in our heads, "See you soon, I am hell eager."
But the catch is, "I'll come down to your place! Anywhere except the cell in a hell..."
So here I am, this is me, And this is the place I wanna be.
Houston, Touchdown.
Back to civilization.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Masala Chopsticks, Desi Ishtyle !
Where is the world heading to? And where am I? Well these days, mall-trotting, an extreme case of the rampant "hyper-metro-pia"... diseases these days, come in all shapes and sizes!
Since my six day duration of stay at this Utopia of sorts, my mornings are busy without any work, and keeping my blogger instincts alive, I was conscious enough to put my charades to a more yielding pretext. And whence an excursion was planned, with my cousin as accomplice, it was ingenious in its own right. Ingenious, well, it can be pardoned as one, when you manage to get a first day first show, 15 minutes before the show and especially when you thought about wadding your way to the theatre 30 minutes ago! The favorite, the most trustworthy and beguiling terms of Delhi-parlance, “jugaad” saved the atomic quirky enthusiasm we all were soused in and the chancy feeling of a thing that may go either way!
The entire nepotistic arsenal was spent for the new Abbas-Mustan Venture, 36 China Town. The movie which is perhaps the most advertised around all facetious forms of media, has a motley crew of wags, and to my surprise Kareena ‘Kaput’ was teensy bit less animated here, probably she did not have that much footage to wither! Anyways. Quilted in my relishable comportment, on a commodious seat at the PVR Spice cinemas played a fine proprietor to my overtly animadverted arse.
The celluloid houses Shahid Kapoor and Kareena 'Kaput' (:P) as two desperate part miserable in their own rights, who have left their homes in their amateur pursuit of their respective dreams, and as the directors cliché goes, they go bust. There's the regular pack of unaccounted facetiousness and badinage, Paresh Rawal, Johnny Lever and a brave Tanaz Currim. Akhshaye Khanna, the no-nonsense, relentless, the-world-is-falling-but-I-am-cool attitude cop, who maintains a unique unforeseen acquaintance with his suspects, and you find him cavorting and belching along with agog, and his facile sidekick with his intricate, daedal cigarette lighter, with an amazing timing of functioning. The eye candy is temporally fended by Isha Kopikkar, and a prodding Priyanka Chopra, who seems to be acquiring a penchant for special appearances. However, she appears towards the end, coupled with one of the fore mentioned, for conforming to the paired state of each, makes it acquire an lilt to piece up a jigsaw together.
With a rundown on the casting, I had this befuddling urge to click some shots from the movie, which later materialized as manna for my blog review, hope I get to have some variance in this bland though vapidly elegant template.
And it began.
The celluloid is washed with a drenched, with females mind you, introductory Upen Patel who takes his nascent steps into filmdom through the canvas, with his jingle in the background. Upen plays an effervescent, philandering and chauvinistic Adonis, who considers his conscientious duty to accompany every sexy lass in the world and blandish her for a quintessential 'long drive', through his own effusive and haughty pick-up lines. Upen Patel, another crossover from modeling, damages the cliché ‘models can’t act’ to some extent, but does not do much to invent one of his own. Considering the plaudits he has gathered on the ramp, the transition looks promising, except his snub expression, of some combusted toast, like his forehead lines look like creases on crumpled cotton, appended by that ponderous countenance of sizeable amplitude, in toto a gobhi ka pakoda...!
The story begins with Sonia Chang’s, a rich and divorced owner of the plush Chinatown Casino, little kiddo being kidnapped suddenly one fine day. A bereaving Ms. Chang is on a heavy dose of sleeping pills, deeply anguished by her fruitless efforts. On the other end of the vicious maze of fate, in Mumbai, the defenestrated Shahid and Kareena, are roaming aimlessly at their wits’ end, and as an indispensable karma in Bollywood, the same fate allots them an opportunity to realize their dreams, when they find the wandering child in front of them. Needy and desperate, both of them join hands, which progresses into an ineluctable love affair, almost a staple move since the land and the stars were created! They inform Ms. Chang about the epochal procurement, and overwhelmed she announces an in-house party at her Chinatown pub. (pub- casino, casino-pub, its all about losing your money ;)
Paresh Rawal, a convalescent gambler who has undergone therapy against gambling, but develops convulsions on being recipient to any air flux coming out of a casino, and a fawning husband of a sultry wife, is the owner of 5 hotels, 4 out of which have been mortgaged due to his extravagant tastes, which encompasses gambling, feckless gambling and more gambling. That night, Paresh also gets to lay his hands on the counters, and goes berserk, betting the fifth hotel too. Johnny Lever is another upstart lay-bet, who is going to Goa, in the same casino; this time equipped with some incanted die, courtesy some baba, with his candid and frugal wife Tanaz Currim. What’s in the offing is anybody’s guess. Both of these master wisecracks form a hilarious coalition, and you get your share of laughs in the movie, towards the interval.
This is where Abbas-Mustan piece together an eclectic ferfuffle, with the concurrence of all characters on this night, when Ms. Chang is murdered. It’s not until dark, when our to-be lovebirds reach 36, China Town. Finding the place all dark and desolate, they start searching for Ms. Chang, and happen to discover her dead body. With their faces drained they escape the mansion and inform the Police. Here is where our super cop Akshaye Khanna comes in. After this there is no looking back. Post interval sees a paced concoction of comedy and suspense, where everybody gets ridiculous defending themselves from our super cop’s ingenuous volley of questions. Shahid gets caught, and becomes the prime suspect of the murder, subsequent with Johnny’s hilarious conviction to escape. Paresh Rawal has a connubial quandary when that night, his wife ends up sharing her bedroom with Upen Patel, and the rest as they say is comedy.
The most incredulous character, 'lively' in its own right, is the corpse of Ms. Chang. So nimble in its (well its a corpse right) movement, that it goes on mission to comute through all modes of transport. The expeditious entity goes through the whole mansion, eluding all the 10-odd ill fated crew, giving them their prerogative of shreiks and freaks, and then whisks away through a suitcase and what not! Watch out for it.
Such is the plot weaved, that all characters happen to visit the foreboding bungalow at that inopportune time. Ashcake Khanna, with his scripturally rendered acumen and intelligence starts catching everyone who happened to relate with the murder that fateful night, and each has their own laugh-rioted contribution to make. Check out, what happens to Johnny and his wife and how they try to get rid of the predicament. Shahid Kareena just had to come close after the oh-so-selfless Shahid helps her in trying situations and gets caught in the process. The movie boils down into a trademark fare, a fast pace whodunit, with a sharp cop with a difference, and a motley crew of idiocies, there is loads of humor strewn throughout. The movie proved to be worth a family entertainer, with Ham-fisted Reshammiya’s A-a-ashiqui (: D) catching the pulse of the crowd, providing extra chutzpah to the package. The touted humor is worthwhile and both the master craftsmen (Rawal & Johnny) manage to gather an applause or two from at least the packed hall in which I was sitting, and the audience wasn’t that enthusiastic! The movie ends on a unconventional, yet remotely expected climax, referring to the killer.
36, China Town is a slick and the colloquial masala potboiler, targeted at the family segment, as well as for people eyeing heartening entertainment and engrosses you till its duration. The movie is interspersed with enthralling but identifiable situations, though to the restraint of being sodden boring, the acuity of the script and sarcastic dialogues make for worth a watch. The movie picks up its comic horses before the interval where Paresh Rawal and Johnny Lever are in full swing. The imperative comedy is satisfactory, and all the characters with their grotesque peccadilloes and idiosyncrasies make 36, China Town, a movie to commence your summer break with. The astute dexterity of the plot emboldens each character enough to be at least watermarked into the audience’s memory. The underlying moral admonition of the story, it constructed around the avarice and conceit of the degraded and conscientiously abstemious human mind, where each character brandishes his or her own personal acquisitive motive besieged to this highly object-referential world.
Akshaye Khanna carries his part of the deal with finesse, with his usual caricaturesque expression, if you have cared to observe, one eye frowned smaller than the other, like a pseudo-thinker! Otherwise, he plays the cop with vibrancy and that crafty commitment, which is a regular from his caliber of acting.
Shahid and Kareena, well I take their names together, because for the first time, the movie is not based on their spoony romances, and the director duo is liberal enough to give the audience a much needed breather. It is this disparancy which emerges a rather saving grace for the venture. Otherwise, Shahid is spunky in his performance and Kareena has overacted a little less. On the whole, they are a salutary part of the film.
Paresh Rawal, Johnny Lever, and a fervid Tanaz Currim, do a commendable job according to me and keep you interested through the reel’s duration. With their waggish fustian, their humor is practical and crunchy, replete with innuendos.
Upen ‘pakoda’ Patel, has some verbal acting skills to acquire. As it is he was dubbed, but overall, for a new comer he was content in his confines. And the dude’s got some dancing talents to show. For once, I saw some heedful lip service done, where the lips and the voice were not in China and Japan simultaneously. And in this frame, Upen is orchestrating his antics, with that flourishing move of the blade of his hand, pops the abated question, "Long Drive pe chalen?"
Rest, the killer is…
Mail me for the answer!
Hint: The killer has not been mentioned by me anywhere in this article.
Since my six day duration of stay at this Utopia of sorts, my mornings are busy without any work, and keeping my blogger instincts alive, I was conscious enough to put my charades to a more yielding pretext. And whence an excursion was planned, with my cousin as accomplice, it was ingenious in its own right. Ingenious, well, it can be pardoned as one, when you manage to get a first day first show, 15 minutes before the show and especially when you thought about wadding your way to the theatre 30 minutes ago! The favorite, the most trustworthy and beguiling terms of Delhi-parlance, “jugaad” saved the atomic quirky enthusiasm we all were soused in and the chancy feeling of a thing that may go either way!
The entire nepotistic arsenal was spent for the new Abbas-Mustan Venture, 36 China Town. The movie which is perhaps the most advertised around all facetious forms of media, has a motley crew of wags, and to my surprise Kareena ‘Kaput’ was teensy bit less animated here, probably she did not have that much footage to wither! Anyways. Quilted in my relishable comportment, on a commodious seat at the PVR Spice cinemas played a fine proprietor to my overtly animadverted arse.
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The celluloid houses Shahid Kapoor and Kareena 'Kaput' (:P) as two desperate part miserable in their own rights, who have left their homes in their amateur pursuit of their respective dreams, and as the directors cliché goes, they go bust. There's the regular pack of unaccounted facetiousness and badinage, Paresh Rawal, Johnny Lever and a brave Tanaz Currim. Akhshaye Khanna, the no-nonsense, relentless, the-world-is-falling-but-I-am-cool attitude cop, who maintains a unique unforeseen acquaintance with his suspects, and you find him cavorting and belching along with agog, and his facile sidekick with his intricate, daedal cigarette lighter, with an amazing timing of functioning. The eye candy is temporally fended by Isha Kopikkar, and a prodding Priyanka Chopra, who seems to be acquiring a penchant for special appearances. However, she appears towards the end, coupled with one of the fore mentioned, for conforming to the paired state of each, makes it acquire an lilt to piece up a jigsaw together.
With a rundown on the casting, I had this befuddling urge to click some shots from the movie, which later materialized as manna for my blog review, hope I get to have some variance in this bland though vapidly elegant template.
And it began.
The celluloid is washed with a drenched, with females mind you, introductory Upen Patel who takes his nascent steps into filmdom through the canvas, with his jingle in the background. Upen plays an effervescent, philandering and chauvinistic Adonis, who considers his conscientious duty to accompany every sexy lass in the world and blandish her for a quintessential 'long drive', through his own effusive and haughty pick-up lines. Upen Patel, another crossover from modeling, damages the cliché ‘models can’t act’ to some extent, but does not do much to invent one of his own. Considering the plaudits he has gathered on the ramp, the transition looks promising, except his snub expression, of some combusted toast, like his forehead lines look like creases on crumpled cotton, appended by that ponderous countenance of sizeable amplitude, in toto a gobhi ka pakoda...!
The story begins with Sonia Chang’s, a rich and divorced owner of the plush Chinatown Casino, little kiddo being kidnapped suddenly one fine day. A bereaving Ms. Chang is on a heavy dose of sleeping pills, deeply anguished by her fruitless efforts. On the other end of the vicious maze of fate, in Mumbai, the defenestrated Shahid and Kareena, are roaming aimlessly at their wits’ end, and as an indispensable karma in Bollywood, the same fate allots them an opportunity to realize their dreams, when they find the wandering child in front of them. Needy and desperate, both of them join hands, which progresses into an ineluctable love affair, almost a staple move since the land and the stars were created! They inform Ms. Chang about the epochal procurement, and overwhelmed she announces an in-house party at her Chinatown pub. (pub- casino, casino-pub, its all about losing your money ;)
.jpg)
Paresh Rawal, a convalescent gambler who has undergone therapy against gambling, but develops convulsions on being recipient to any air flux coming out of a casino, and a fawning husband of a sultry wife, is the owner of 5 hotels, 4 out of which have been mortgaged due to his extravagant tastes, which encompasses gambling, feckless gambling and more gambling. That night, Paresh also gets to lay his hands on the counters, and goes berserk, betting the fifth hotel too. Johnny Lever is another upstart lay-bet, who is going to Goa, in the same casino; this time equipped with some incanted die, courtesy some baba, with his candid and frugal wife Tanaz Currim. What’s in the offing is anybody’s guess. Both of these master wisecracks form a hilarious coalition, and you get your share of laughs in the movie, towards the interval.This is where Abbas-Mustan piece together an eclectic ferfuffle, with the concurrence of all characters on this night, when Ms. Chang is murdered. It’s not until dark, when our to-be lovebirds reach 36, China Town. Finding the place all dark and desolate, they start searching for Ms. Chang, and happen to discover her dead body. With their faces drained they escape the mansion and inform the Police. Here is where our super cop Akshaye Khanna comes in. After this there is no looking back. Post interval sees a paced concoction of comedy and suspense, where everybody gets ridiculous defending themselves from our super cop’s ingenuous volley of questions. Shahid gets caught, and becomes the prime suspect of the murder, subsequent with Johnny’s hilarious conviction to escape. Paresh Rawal has a connubial quandary when that night, his wife ends up sharing her bedroom with Upen Patel, and the rest as they say is comedy.
The most incredulous character, 'lively' in its own right, is the corpse of Ms. Chang. So nimble in its (well its a corpse right) movement, that it goes on mission to comute through all modes of transport. The expeditious entity goes through the whole mansion, eluding all the 10-odd ill fated crew, giving them their prerogative of shreiks and freaks, and then whisks away through a suitcase and what not! Watch out for it.
Such is the plot weaved, that all characters happen to visit the foreboding bungalow at that inopportune time. Ashcake Khanna, with his scripturally rendered acumen and intelligence starts catching everyone who happened to relate with the murder that fateful night, and each has their own laugh-rioted contribution to make. Check out, what happens to Johnny and his wife and how they try to get rid of the predicament. Shahid Kareena just had to come close after the oh-so-selfless Shahid helps her in trying situations and gets caught in the process. The movie boils down into a trademark fare, a fast pace whodunit, with a sharp cop with a difference, and a motley crew of idiocies, there is loads of humor strewn throughout. The movie proved to be worth a family entertainer, with Ham-fisted Reshammiya’s A-a-ashiqui (: D) catching the pulse of the crowd, providing extra chutzpah to the package. The touted humor is worthwhile and both the master craftsmen (Rawal & Johnny) manage to gather an applause or two from at least the packed hall in which I was sitting, and the audience wasn’t that enthusiastic! The movie ends on a unconventional, yet remotely expected climax, referring to the killer.
36, China Town is a slick and the colloquial masala potboiler, targeted at the family segment, as well as for people eyeing heartening entertainment and engrosses you till its duration. The movie is interspersed with enthralling but identifiable situations, though to the restraint of being sodden boring, the acuity of the script and sarcastic dialogues make for worth a watch. The movie picks up its comic horses before the interval where Paresh Rawal and Johnny Lever are in full swing. The imperative comedy is satisfactory, and all the characters with their grotesque peccadilloes and idiosyncrasies make 36, China Town, a movie to commence your summer break with. The astute dexterity of the plot emboldens each character enough to be at least watermarked into the audience’s memory. The underlying moral admonition of the story, it constructed around the avarice and conceit of the degraded and conscientiously abstemious human mind, where each character brandishes his or her own personal acquisitive motive besieged to this highly object-referential world.
.0.jpg)
Akshaye Khanna carries his part of the deal with finesse, with his usual caricaturesque expression, if you have cared to observe, one eye frowned smaller than the other, like a pseudo-thinker! Otherwise, he plays the cop with vibrancy and that crafty commitment, which is a regular from his caliber of acting..jpg)
Shahid and Kareena, well I take their names together, because for the first time, the movie is not based on their spoony romances, and the director duo is liberal enough to give the audience a much needed breather. It is this disparancy which emerges a rather saving grace for the venture. Otherwise, Shahid is spunky in his performance and Kareena has overacted a little less. On the whole, they are a salutary part of the film..jpg)
Paresh Rawal, Johnny Lever, and a fervid Tanaz Currim, do a commendable job according to me and keep you interested through the reel’s duration. With their waggish fustian, their humor is practical and crunchy, replete with innuendos..jpg){kind=small}
Upen ‘pakoda’ Patel, has some verbal acting skills to acquire. As it is he was dubbed, but overall, for a new comer he was content in his confines. And the dude’s got some dancing talents to show. For once, I saw some heedful lip service done, where the lips and the voice were not in China and Japan simultaneously. And in this frame, Upen is orchestrating his antics, with that flourishing move of the blade of his hand, pops the abated question, "Long Drive pe chalen?".jpg)
Rest, the killer is…
Mail me for the answer!
Hint: The killer has not been mentioned by me anywhere in this article.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Pixel For Pixel
You know what...Shit Happens.
It happens anyway.
People so insouicantly fritter away their own dirty linen, be so wasteful in making a seemingly devilish move. One of my dearest, and contrary to what many negatives would think aftre this post, this is our standard procedure...Anyways, Katti, you asked for it dude!
Now that the pixels are out of the mail bag, the ones that I would be reciprocating to the unconsciously self-destructive to the almost convictional perosnality that would be revealed to the unaware and endarkened world. Balasubramaniam Karthik, often refered in the 'circles' as B. Karthik, or still B.K. more morbidly, these refering to the abstrused doctors who have reached an impasse at the All India Seminar on Mental Therapy Procedures and Research, their challenges, he being a profound one. An ideal to fall back on, he is currently the advising head to Karzai on the scatological strategies to control the Taliban. Now we know what Bush couldn't get in Iraq!
For thou asinine soul that did not mind, what would hold for his would be pitiable arse who would be dissolved in the sardonic deeds that his shrinking brain couldn't find...
Prologue:
This will have its derogatory effects far more visceral than all you viewers can adjudge. The comment column is the space to watch out for. So Karthik, "You, sundown, My comment page..."
Alright I am exaggerating...
See for yourself...
The Opener:
It happens anyway.
People so insouicantly fritter away their own dirty linen, be so wasteful in making a seemingly devilish move. One of my dearest, and contrary to what many negatives would think aftre this post, this is our standard procedure...Anyways, Katti, you asked for it dude!
Now that the pixels are out of the mail bag, the ones that I would be reciprocating to the unconsciously self-destructive to the almost convictional perosnality that would be revealed to the unaware and endarkened world. Balasubramaniam Karthik, often refered in the 'circles' as B. Karthik, or still B.K. more morbidly, these refering to the abstrused doctors who have reached an impasse at the All India Seminar on Mental Therapy Procedures and Research, their challenges, he being a profound one. An ideal to fall back on, he is currently the advising head to Karzai on the scatological strategies to control the Taliban. Now we know what Bush couldn't get in Iraq!
For thou asinine soul that did not mind, what would hold for his would be pitiable arse who would be dissolved in the sardonic deeds that his shrinking brain couldn't find...
Prologue:
This will have its derogatory effects far more visceral than all you viewers can adjudge. The comment column is the space to watch out for. So Karthik, "You, sundown, My comment page..."
Alright I am exaggerating...
See for yourself...
The Opener:
Yeaheah, a little modertion front on, this is....
The indelible,
The indomintable,
The...
Ok Ok, we know you have got a 'french' beard...
.
***
/\
~. .~
[ ^ ]
\/
.
.
.
.
Rest, I think it will be a long time before the ground of the feilds of comments in this blog are not audience to more savages and swears. So,
No Comments.
Over to Karthik.
The Existential Hiatus
That was one long occlusion that was omnipresent, whose existence was in the absence of myself. Since the commencement of the formalities before the valediction ceremony that lasts five days, back to back events, which seek to delve into our stealth to conceal the sprightly joys in our bottoms, the non-audible ones, mind you. The whole vibe that many of my conscientious well-wishers, may conjure up is that the events our subjects and the valediction better known as the 'majors' in some fellow abbatoirs, here we regard them with a venerable abridged phrase, 'end-sems'. The whole camaraderie started from 12 April itself, with the whole thousand strong commonality running in circles on the dazing fancy footwork of their senile but surreal in their chicaneries, who in the end, make you stand at the same square from where you started.
As the mass hysteria began, I could not help but abstain from all the hullabaloo, very well aware that this mayhem would be the only largesse that our authorities will show, a gratuity resembling a certificate that this lexicographic bipedal may be professed as an engineer. My Degree. Those days portrayed the whimsical authorities to their best pococurantism. With mates running around the place painting it yellow, the deadlines just wont stop. Notices to follow deadlines, garnished by more deadlines to meet the previous deadlines. Some of the more pragmatic pedagogues had their charter of demands up and in time. When you are called to a prof's house and if you are from a seminal and a prime spot on the map of India, take Delhi for an instance, you are in for a game called waiter-waiter, and of course you play the waiter. Give them what they want, and you will get what you watch the populace go ga-ga over. Thought, I respect that thoroughly. Even they are aware of the ineffectual and futile bibelots that they follow, or are rather happy to do so. The more respectful ones, who atleast gauge the stature of their coeval ululations in the eyes of a haggard and largely nonchalant student, realize it first hand the bootless concern we all maintain. And so the mafia way of things is incorporated. Yeah, the mafia. (The author's visage is currently a painfully contorted DeNiro)
After storm which wasn't preceded with the quintessential lull, like it passed with the victims or more veritable preys, were more than happy to face the hard rock, atleast the simulacras of abhorrent Bappi Lahiri would stop. Our ears were already bleeding. On the penultimate day to the departure, there was a subconscious shrug on everybody's expressions. We had already started bidding adieu to each other when we returned to our hostels that day. Like saying under our breath, "See you again, but I am not that eager alright!" With a haste unseen to their ownselves yet, they started piling stuff, literally sitting on them to flatten them down, and disposing the crapulous mass into their cupboards and trunks. I was one proud member of the mayhem, but rendering my characteristic choler to the blithe affairs, I was packing till the last second before boarding the cradle to freedom, the heavenly auto-rickshaw! With six of us along with their baggages stuffed into the vehicle, we smirked at each other's composure to accomodate. Perhaps, we were too involved in the near future than what buffonery ensued in the present.
Now that I am back, back again, back strong, not all the same although, there is a Nicholas Cage animation a la City of Angels, to stand on the tallest building in my locality and jump to be imbued into the urbane noise that soothes your soul, the white noise that would be nothing short of a chopper hovering back their in the abysmal locales of the graveyard I am on a sabbatical from.
Looking forward to your cynosures...
Ravi
As the mass hysteria began, I could not help but abstain from all the hullabaloo, very well aware that this mayhem would be the only largesse that our authorities will show, a gratuity resembling a certificate that this lexicographic bipedal may be professed as an engineer. My Degree. Those days portrayed the whimsical authorities to their best pococurantism. With mates running around the place painting it yellow, the deadlines just wont stop. Notices to follow deadlines, garnished by more deadlines to meet the previous deadlines. Some of the more pragmatic pedagogues had their charter of demands up and in time. When you are called to a prof's house and if you are from a seminal and a prime spot on the map of India, take Delhi for an instance, you are in for a game called waiter-waiter, and of course you play the waiter. Give them what they want, and you will get what you watch the populace go ga-ga over. Thought, I respect that thoroughly. Even they are aware of the ineffectual and futile bibelots that they follow, or are rather happy to do so. The more respectful ones, who atleast gauge the stature of their coeval ululations in the eyes of a haggard and largely nonchalant student, realize it first hand the bootless concern we all maintain. And so the mafia way of things is incorporated. Yeah, the mafia. (The author's visage is currently a painfully contorted DeNiro)
After storm which wasn't preceded with the quintessential lull, like it passed with the victims or more veritable preys, were more than happy to face the hard rock, atleast the simulacras of abhorrent Bappi Lahiri would stop. Our ears were already bleeding. On the penultimate day to the departure, there was a subconscious shrug on everybody's expressions. We had already started bidding adieu to each other when we returned to our hostels that day. Like saying under our breath, "See you again, but I am not that eager alright!" With a haste unseen to their ownselves yet, they started piling stuff, literally sitting on them to flatten them down, and disposing the crapulous mass into their cupboards and trunks. I was one proud member of the mayhem, but rendering my characteristic choler to the blithe affairs, I was packing till the last second before boarding the cradle to freedom, the heavenly auto-rickshaw! With six of us along with their baggages stuffed into the vehicle, we smirked at each other's composure to accomodate. Perhaps, we were too involved in the near future than what buffonery ensued in the present.
Now that I am back, back again, back strong, not all the same although, there is a Nicholas Cage animation a la City of Angels, to stand on the tallest building in my locality and jump to be imbued into the urbane noise that soothes your soul, the white noise that would be nothing short of a chopper hovering back their in the abysmal locales of the graveyard I am on a sabbatical from.
Looking forward to your cynosures...
Ravi
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