That's me in the corner.

I've spent my life in a state of extreme bewilderment; mostly directed at other people. When I was a kid and I had to attend any gatherings or parties, I'd stand as out of the way as possible (while remaining as close to the food as possible, of course) and look around me in as perplexed an expression as you will ever find on that many square inches of expression-capable chubbiness. It strikes me now that not very much changed with the years. The anti-social tendencies remained the same, the proximity to the food increased if anything, and the expression became more and more befuddled as time went by. It felt very much like walking into a play or a dance recital (or any one of those darned cultural events) very late and watching everybody else consult their programmes and nod knowingly at each other and generally watch them sail smoothly by your floundering I-wish-I-were-a-corpse. Or it could be likened to watching the movements of an intricate dance, whose steps everybody knew but I. And not just knew, mind you; they danced like they were born to it. And I? I gamely pretended that I had the faintest idea what I was doing, and as has happened so often in my life, it appears to have worked. Still, even now, give me a moment of solitude at one of those things, and you will see my expression begin to slip back into that habitual worried puzzlement; the eternal suspicion of the one who doesn't laugh because he doesn't get the joke, and has a sneaking suspicion he never will. To this day, you will see me professing great interest in the contents of my glass (most often Sprite that I claim is vodka, so as to blunt the inevitable offensive mounted by drunk and intolerably cheery people) or in the display of my phone; which in reality is telling me nothing I don't already know, which is : this is not my world. I would walk with my own people if I could find them. Until then...you play the hand you're dealt, and no second chances. Them's the breaks.

Standing in a corner, removed from it all, can I honestly claim that I am different? Well, different, yes; better, no. On this, the occasion of another toe of mine entering the grave, I plan to celebrate those differences. For all they cost, they make me the person I am. It might not be enough for some, but I always get up again and you're never gonna keep me down. So, on this somewhat less-than-momentous day, I raise a decidedly non-alcoholic glass to fishes that live on the sole belief that there is water for them somewhere. And may I never feel any other way.

The Return...or a return, at any rate.

Greetings and salutations, you lot. This is a bit like posing for a picture that's going to be on the cover of a magazine; I'm not sure who's going to be reading this, I'm not even sure if anyone'll be there. Still, make a fist of it eh?

Yes, I've been away for quite awhile now. Got out of the habit of writing, I suppose; and then I just lost the inclination. Sometimes, I think that writing might drain a little too much of yourself; I know, I know, very similar to the whole your-soul-in-a-photograph thing. But seriously, when you're holding on to some semblance of you (normality's too strong a word), writing might let a little too much slip through. Interesting digression that; and now, the news!

I'm a working man now. Granted, for a given definition of 'work' but still. This is scary. I wanted this job, or something like it, more than anybody knew for most of my life. And now that I've got it, I'm shit scared. You see, this is past the point of no return. No more 'Get Out Of Jail Free' cards, no more safety nets, no more 'Would you like to continue from your last save point?'. Okay, so the last was wishful thinking;but if wishes were fishes, we'd all be Bengali. Anyway, work; the very word is anathema to me! I mean, I'm me! If dictionaries had an entry for the word loafer, mine would be the picture right next to it! Probably one of those dreadful pictures Modi keeps taking of me, come to think of it; the man's got a talent I really wish he didn't. But yes, I'm a loafer. I go out of my way to avoid going out of my way about anything! I probably nicked somebody else's way to begin with! I've managed to not properly do a spot of homework since 5th standard! And I'm working a 9 to 5! Well, a bit worse actually, mine's a 9 hour shift. You see my point?!

Ah well, we are well and truly in the twilight zone now. 'Serious' and 'responsible' are the flavours of the day. To be perfectly honest, I'd rather have cough medicine; but time's a-tickin' away and there are no easy ways out now. Here's to fish out of water and lost Dorothys; I know how you felt.

Things move on, as they tend to do; people, not so much. Some people's thoughts are so dominated by the past, they're fulfilling their own prophecies. I can't stand it. I've been made aware of certain ways of thinking that are still very much in vogue in certain communities/situations. I tell you this, boyos; I was, in equal measures, appalled, disgusted, pitying and angry. Medieval does not begin to describe it. Upon my oath, I am not a violent man but some people need to be dragged kicking and screaming into 'modern times'; with extreme prejudice, if necessary. The world's more about respect now, or at least, it should bloody well be. Respect a person's right to make their own choices; you're not the one who has to live with the fallout. You simply cannot wield sovereign authority over another person's life; not if you want them to be happy, or if you want them to grow a backbone. I honestly believed that times, they were a'changin'; well, there's a hell of a long way to go yet. I'm sad more than anything, now that the anger's burnt down. I'm one of the lucky ones; I've always been given full authority to screw my own life up as I see fit. But, now, I'm aware of those who weren't so lucky. There, but for the grace of God, go I. What can I say? 'I'm sorry' just doesn't cut it, does it? All I can say is, everything passes and...you never know. Fare you all well.

Incidentally, college is over. I'm done with Loyola now, and I don't think there's ever been a relationship in my life that I've been so happy to sever. Barring a couple final twists of the knife, I'm done with you and your moralistic, preachy, 'high-ground','for your betterment as a person' bullshit. Eat shit and die.

I'm not normally quite so vitriolic. I believe that it's justified here, though. Ah, who cares? I'm glad to be out, with some modicum of respectable English left; and to have met a few good men along the way. It was hell, but they made it survivable. Here's to silver linings and helping hands unlooked for.

2008's been a roller-coaster year, really. Helter skelter in the summer swelter, and we're not even halfway through yet. Started quite brilliantly and then nosedived faster than a P-47 with no engine. Reached an uneasy kind of plateau now, but it's that kind of equilibrium that you only find when you don't have many options. So it goes. Truthfully, the most pissing off thing about this year is that it's proved the truth of far too many old adages and sayings. It's always so depressing when the collected wisdom of the human race turns out to be right on anything; makes you wonder if there's a point to it all.

My comp crashed, and I lost everything on my hard drive. Everything I've written in the past 4 or 5 years. That contributed a fair bit to my unwillingness to write, as you can imagine. There are some things I've lost now that I can truthfully say I will never match again. I lost a fair bit, yeah. To be fair, I've learned quite a bit, as if in compensation. Knowledge is an iffy thing sometimes, but I think I'll follow Tennyson's Ulysses where it's concerned. Well, not quite as far as he did, obviously. He was willing to go beyond the utmost bound of human thought; I'll give you a raised eyebrow or two. But it's worth the occasional snicker sometimes, knowledge. It can't be a substitute for all the things you wanted, but it can get you by. That's all we're after.

Or I might be speaking for myself there. After all, that's all I ever do; and I wait with lips sardonically curled for the reactions of the world. I twist and turn and play out this merry little farce I've concocted for myself, a tune that nobody else knows; and if I'm honest, I'm not sure how many would care to. I laugh at the piper, the players, the piece and the public, all unheeding; and I trust that there are some who are not taken in by it, who can see through it all. For someone who's spent his life constructing elaborate, grandiose and dramatic faces, it's far more important than you would expect that there are at least a few people who aren't deceived. Deception is the game we play when transparency has absconded with our savings. But, as always, we're more faithful to what we'd rather have over what we do; the bird in the bush, the grapes overhead.

Life's shit sometimes, yeah? Hope can be the Philosopher's Stone, but equally it can be fool's gold. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here? Sure, sometimes that's the way you think you gotta go. Life's too bland without it, though; it's like endless courses of stick without so much as a sniff of a carrot, or what happens when all the good cops go on strike. It's when you can't look forward to...anything, right? Because you tell yourself you've no reason to.

No eagles will come tonight. Maybe rain, if we're lucky. Onen i-Estel Edain, ú-chebin estel anim; I gave hope to the Dunedain, I have kept no hope for myself. That was her path, but it sure as hell won't be mine.

Here's to estel and good old fashioned stubbornness; 'cos you're never gonna keep me down.

More fair than thoughts of mortal men...

The final Harry Potter book is releasing in a matter of days. And I really don't give a damn.

*obligatory pause for shocked gasps, and purchase of hexes*

My feelings regarding HP are known to many. I was indifferent to the books; indeed, I even liked a couple. That all changed when the first movie came out, not long after the release of Fellowship of the Ring; and I happened to see a review that began "A Class Above Tolkien : J.K. Rowling is in a league of her own." Blood pressure significantly rising, I searched around and found quite a few other reviews with the same gist.

Ever seen a bullfight? That moment where the bull realizes that there's an annoying little gnat waving something in front of it? That, for reasons unknown, eradication of said gnat might prove beneficial to all ...bovinity? Okay, metaphor stretched enough.

Basically, I saw red.

Long story short, I immediately launched into a vicious, no-holds-barred campaign to wilfully malign and deride Rowling and Harry Potter, not necessarily in that order. Battle lines were drawn, and all acquaintances were immediately divided into 'us' and 'them'. Though outnumbered, I like to think that we gave more than we got.

Age has made me wiser, and more mellow. Can't even type that with a straight face. Eventually, I grudgingly admitted that it wasn't exactly Rowling's fault that some reviewers were idiots...apart from that terrible label of 'better than Tolkien', I really had nothing against her or her bespectacled creation. Truth be told, I quite admire the woman, what she's achieved. And if you take away the knee-jerk enmity I've felt towards the books for the past few years, they're actually not bad.

But they cannot, under any circumstances, be compared to Tolkien.

It's sad, you know. It's downright terrible to see the contempt and disregard so many have for the man and his works. How they sneer and scoff at the very mention. 'Boring', 'Couldn't bring myself to finish it', 'Childish'...all these I've heard and more. So many times, I haven't dignified such comments with retorts. I still don't believe it's worth it, but he deserves respect; even disregarding the fact that, without his imagination, fantasy would probably be a stunted shadow of what it is today.

Often, his characters are condemned as being too unrealistic, too noble and good. To those with that complaint, I'd advise reading his books; that should prove sufficient to counter that argument. You see, that's the thing...most modern fantasy authors embrace 'realism' as their mantra, blindly mouthing it to the point where it becomes a dogma. Realism has come to mean everything that is low and base in people and the world. Granted, there are exceptions, but the troughs always seem to outnumber the waves. Sure, no world can be in black and white...but that doesn't mean we have to exalt gray to the exclusion of all else. Gritty truths, grimy lives and tarnished beliefs. Of such materials are the epics of today forged. Now if you accuse Tolkien of failing to abide by this 'code', I will whole-heartedly and gladly agree. Good authors and characters can inspire a person in many ways; it takes a great author to make people aspire, to make them believe to such an extent that they want to better themselves.

Tolkien doesn't merely touch the reader. He evokes. Whether it's through his sublime poetry(if you haven't, read some of his poems...my favourite poet, however much of a recommendation that is) or his prose, he evokes emotion on a level impossible to most. If you'd asked me in 2004, I would've said impossible to all...but Mr. Erikson has since enraptured me enough to win himself a place up there with one foot up on the dais, but still one step below Tolkien. More fair than thoughts of mortal men? Absolutely. Or women, for that matter; sorry, Rowling.

And so, in a world of people stirring themselves into an almost religious frenzy, awaiting the prizefight on the 21st of July, Potter vs. Voldemort with a fervor akin to zealots hailing the coming of a messiah, one heathen goes about his way, smiling contentedly.

For he knows the Lord has come and gone, and all who follow after can merely aspire to climb but a little way up His mountain, that they might spy from afar the magnificent peak that is John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, and wonder.

Amen.

Now you see it...

'It's all in the eyes', he said, from deep in an armchair; regarding me over steepled hands with the light of the setting sun in his hair. 'At once a person's greatest strength and weakness. They can show you the truth and they can lead you astray. They lie at the root of everything, and they can lie in the face of everything. Sure, you can probably find poems and songs composed about a person's lips, hair, pectorals or posterior...but the only ones that are worth a damn will be about the eyes. They're the windows to the soul; they're the hallways of the heart. But what are they to us? The open doors of opportunity.

What is magic? Magic is merely the art of convincing people that they don't know everything. It simply involves taking their established world-view, turning it upside down and producing it from their distant cousin twice-removed's ear, preferably decked out with their neighbour's watch and accompanied by a fanfare of trumpets and a flock of doves. It isn't simply doing the seemingly impossible; it's thumbing your nose at the whole question of possibility in the first place while nattily turned out and with a beautiful assistant on your arm.

The mistake people make is in assuming that they want to know the truth', he gestures animatedly. 'They don't. They want to sit on the edge of their seats; eyes and mouths wide open in childish wonder, wanting to believe what they see. Wanting to believe in the illusion, even if they recognize it as such on some level. They want to believe that, despite the rigid stricture knowledge has imposed on the world, there still remain fragments of mystery, room for the unknown. They want', he snorts, springing from his chair, ’to be duped! Don't you see? Nobody can ever take complete credit for tricking another person; it's a two-man job. People fool themselves, some more than others; we just facilitate the process.'

'Why do you think they're so harsh on magicians and our ilk?’ he asked, relentless in his pacing. ‘Because they somehow realize that they'll never fall under the spell again, and that angers them. They WANT', he gesticulates wildly, 'to be taken in! They WANT to be tricked! If man ever decided to live by the straight and narrow, we wouldn't be made of double helixes. Oh, they'll rage and storm and hiss and boo; how they will curse you, almost hate you if you get it wrong!’ Seemingly drained, he collapses back into his armchair, as dramatically as when he left it.

'But if...just if you manage to fool them...they'll love you for it.'

Maybe I've been here before...

I remember that night: the cold and the pain. The cold is obvious, I am a Chennai boy when all's said and done, and the wind was doing a pretty good job of cutting through me like I wasn't even there. As for the pain, I did twist my ankle coming down the stairs. But I'd be lying if I told you that was all there was to it.

Sitting on a pavement watching the traffic go by. Listening to the empty words being spoken. Oh no, they weren't intended so, but when there's so much to say, words just don't cut it. Taking stock of the meaning, the emotion that lay behind and around those husk-like words. And trying to gauge just how I could get out of this seductive trap I set for myself.

It ain't always roses and whipped cream, I can tell you. Some nasty things have been locked up in that cellar...that said, I see the person who did those wrong things every time I look in the mirror. And the only thing that stops me breaking it is that other person. The one who was there when he was needed. The one who wrote all those notes. The one who actually tried to give a damn.

The good comes with the bad. There's no way you're gonna cut yourself a better deal there, 'cos that's the only one coming. I do believe it wouldn't make sense any other way, though I'm open-minded enough to try me a slice of the good life, if any's available.

Didn't think so.

Sitting on a pavement in a strange city listening to an off-key voice singing 'Mama, I'm Coming Home'. Thinking hell, it don't get much better than this for a memory.

All too soon, it was done. A scooter trundled up, introductions were made and it was time to be moving on. Poker faces all 'round, what else did you expect? Mumbled platitudes about taking care and chilling and that old favourite, 'I'll see you soon.'

You get through these things. That's all you can do. A brief respite from the bleakness only makes stepping back into it that much harder. I'm always the staunch advocate of taking something away from everything that happens to you, but sometimes, you got nothing.

Maybe that isn't true though.

I remember that night: the cold, the pain...and the affirmation.

The past is never gone. It just reinvents itself. From a room with a scrawled and misspelt message on the ceiling to a cold and empty street. Two different cities, two different people. But the same underlying message.

I got your back.

All the world's a stage...

You know, I've been trying my hand at writing of late, with somewhat predictable results (cue The Good, The Bad And The Ugly theme). And it struck me one day that writing is somewhat comparable to acting. Of course, acting requires a bit more of a hands-on approach; but I started to wonder which occupation takes more of a toll on a person.

As an actor, you step into a character's shoes and be him or her. But as a writer, you not only create the character and give it life, you must justify the character's existence as well. You are both God and Satan, holding complete and total power over them; the final arbiter of their fate. A corner of your mouth quirks upwards as you describe their happiness, and you descend into the same emotional trough they enter in times of sadness. Finally, the best you can hope for is that, when you put the pen down at the end, it will not seem so much like a part of you has died.

I am nothing if not maudlin. But enough of that. Melancholy might be an excellent sauce for memory, but laughter gets us through the day. Hats off to Steven Erikson, by the way, for being good enough to almost knock Tolkien off his perch, and for feeling no such qualms about killing off his best characters. Bastard.

I've always had this strong fascination for acting in general. The whole donning a person's identity, complete down to miniscule characteristics and minor oddities, always fascinated me no end. God knows I've put on other people's masks often enough for fun; but I never really tried to find out if I actually could act seriously. Pity, that; would've liked to...after all, my first and only foray into the realms of theatre met with great success. I was hailed as a child prodigy for a while afterwards and my spiffy costume was the talk of the town.

You might've heard of it...Arjun Sukumaran's critically acclaimed performance in Cinderella. And not as the bloody pumpkin either, you mangy curs. So who was I, you ask? Well, I was the chap the story revolved around. No, not that pansy Prince chap! I was the guard!

What guard?

Whaddya mean, what guard?

The bugger who puts that bloody chappal on that bloody woman's foot at the end! The chap who's absolutely essential to the bloody story! Yes, that bloody guard!

Pheh. I don't care about you bleedin' Philistines, I liked it. Even if the bloody woman playing Cinderella stamped on my hand and nearly put one of my eyes out with that pointy bloody slipper. I did it all for the costume, which was :

(a) bright red
(b) festooned with all manner of gaudy gold thingies.

Ah, fashion through the eyes of a fifth standard kid.

Never could construct a good enough excuse to be allowed to wear that thing again, though.

Shame.

...

On second thoughts, thank GOD!

PS for all the Sishya people - Remember the pumpkin falling over backstage? Hehehehehehhe. Yes, I know I'm a bad person. Last one to Hell's a blistering barnacle.

Statutory warning : The paragraphs below have no connection with each other. Any resemblance is purely coincidental. Attempts to piece together any deeper meaning may result in a 'take two aspirins and call me in the morning' type of conversation.

Funny thing happened the other day. Classmate of mine was about to give a seminar on some organization or the other with the byline 'Terrorist or Liberation Organization?' or something to that effect. In quite typically irreverent fashion, I said 'That's simple, it depends on which end of the gun is facing you at any given time.' Much to my astonishment, the silly bugger liked it so much he actually included it in his seminar, saying that he was quoting some professor of Economics from Madras university. The Economics part had me spluttering a bit, as some of you can imagine, but onwards to the ever-elusive point. In my experience, philosophy is the last refuge of the competent. (And the first refuge of the average classmate of mine in college, just to give you some point of reference.) I mean, you could use philosophy to explain just about everything in the world. Experienced practitioners of the art might even be able to use it to explain Indian politics, cricket and traffic. Although, in that last situation, it's not philosophy that first rises to your lips, merely some...genealogical comments, if you will. Pseudo-pithy remarks, like that of mine mentioned above, can smuggle you through just about nearly every debate you'd encounter. Which seems somehow pointless to me; you can sit and reduce everything down to some abstract, offhand comment until the cows come home and hopefully run you over.

But what good is it? Try spouting philosophy at anyone who's just undergone what the textbooks call 'a significant negative change in his life-index' , and you'd be lucky to escape with your life. I've been on both ends here, so I know what I'm talking about. The bottom line is, philosophy is not the be-all and end-all that so many people seem to think it is. Give me philosophy and twenty bucks and I can buy some bhelpuri.

To conclude, there was this time I was having a rather heated debate with one of my teachers about something or the other. I was fighting a valiant rearguard action(that is, shovelling heapfuls of manure at him), but slowly losing ground, mainly 'cos I hadn't a bloody clue what he was talking about. It's bad not knowing the answer, but when you don't know the question, it's worse.

Excerpts:-
Teacher: '...but give me one good reason why history is so important!'

Me, tongue firmly in cheek: 'Because if we don't remember history, then we're doomed to repeat it.'

Teacher: *spluttering, at a loss for words* 'That's...that's...that's bloody PHILOSOPHY!'
And I think he had something there.
It's almost scary, the power music has over me. It can transport me from one extreme of emotion to the other, even against my will. And, against all odds, it would appear that I am a creature of emotion. If there's one thing I absolutely hate, it is being mastered by something else; which, come to think of it, is probably one of the reasons I've stayed off the cigarettes and alcohol. It's been more trouble than it's worth sometimes, to keep pleading off and deflecting the numerous offers and questions, but I've stuck to it; ultimately because of a lack of faith in myself. Don't get it? Simple. Knowing that I have no self-control whatsoever, it's better I stay off the bloody things in the first place, rather than have to deal with any addiction later. And that will follow because, for some bloody reason, I take everything to extremes. Anyways, back to the main thing. It comes down, as it so often does, to the basic opposition of reason and emotion. I'm ultimately inclined more to the former, for the plain and simple reason that you never read about people murdering other people in a fit of reason or a frenzy of logic, do you?

So many people have the habit of trying to pass themselves off as infallible. It struck me the other day that I'm precisely the opposite. In a very strange fashion, I'm quite proudly flawed. I'm not ashamed of it, I make no attempts to excuse it; I cherish my idiosyncrasies as any man would cherish companions he has spent his whole life with. Which is not quite so far off the mark. I would prefer to think that mine are mostly comical rather than tragic...but only time will tell, and he's proving to be a closemouthed bastard.

All that is lost can never come again

Many people have commented lately on my style of writing. 'Unorthodox' was perhaps the most common word used. Well, I don't understand. I don't know how it is for others, but my writing is a direct reflection of the way I think. There is absolutely no difference between the words I hear in my head and those I write. For me, there can be no other way; I can't even begin to imagine it. Sometimes, my thoughts take on a strangely familiar cadence, like a ball-bearing dropping smoothly into a groove, and the words begin to flow, with no end in sight. Those days have been rare of late, which is why I have not been here for a time. The roots of my inspirations, such as they are, apparently lie in solitude; and there's been precious little of that lately.

These days, when I look at people, all I can see is a cage. A cage formed by their principles, the rules society imposes on them and their own self-restraint. I see these lines shooting everywhere, and now and then, I see one of them through a person's heart. It might be a hope, an expectation, a false step, anything. Such a person leads a normal life to all outward appearances, but he bleeds inside, for what may never come to pass. It might be anything, great or small; who are we to put a price tag on a dream?

This morning, I saw a man standing outside a house. He had a grindstone, and was stropping a blade on it. Such a scene would have not seemed out of place in any Indian street for the past God-knows-how-many-years. It was comforting to know that sometimes, things don't change. Of course, the incredibly depressing voice of rationality immediately spoke up. 'His time's almost up. The man's obsolete, an anachronism. In a couple of years, we might even have knives that keep themselves sharp. What price your grindstone then?' Always an anchor, to bring me down. Still, it might be quite a few years yet before he no longer treads these scarred roads. Take heart from what you see, and move on; delve too deep, and you will feel the sting of reality, with only yourself to blame. I smiled to myself, and moved on. My road does not end here.

Decidedly drowsy...

It's a rum thing, but I've finally come to the conclusion that, when it comes to food, I should stick fimly to the consumption side of things , and stay far, far away from the production side. We just don't get along. I was feeling hungry a while ago and I noticed a can of beans sitting around. 'Beans', I said to myself, 'how hard can it be?' Sitting here, I can tell you without fear of contradiction that the beans got the better of that encounter. Anyway, cooking's such a violent pastime; beating and grinding and whipping and shaking and boiling and churning...I'm a pacifist at heart and all that violence disturbs me.

Haven't seen much of college lately. Should pop in there sometime, just to remind 'em I'm still on the rolls.

Went to Pondy a couple of days ago. It was the first place I've been to where, in the menus, the alcohol comes before the food. Quite interesting, that, non?

Just saw Munich. I liked it quite a lot. Brings up some interesting stuff, doesn't it?

Dear god, the ghastly cl0ck just went off. With a bloody tune that would bring a tear to the eye of any torturer looking to expand his toolset. My mother is a devious woman. Scatter a few of those clocks around the house and what do you have? You might just make it past five 'o' clock, but not even El Kabong could sleep through the six 'o' clock cacophony. Talk about your sneaky, underhanded...so that's where I got it from. Dayum.

It's alive!

Feels vaguely appropriate to be making a comeback on this day...rain pouring down, rolls of thunder...it feels very...portentous. No, not portentous of anything in particular, just generally portentous. Yes, so, anyway, Abandon hope... lives again.

Reasons for the hiatus? Well, I've just been too darned lazy, uninspired and coincidentally completely addicted to this PlayStation game I just picked up. I've been losing sleep playing that damn game, and my eyes have been way too blurry to use my comp. So, really, it's all Sony's fault. I'm with Mr. Gates on that one.

College grinds on and on. No light at the end of this tunnel. 2 years to go and it's wearing me down. Upon much reflection, I've concluded that, overall, Satan would be quite envious of my college principal...after all, he's running a way more organized operation. Not only does it inflict more mental pain and anguish on us than Satan could imagine in his wildest dreams (which, given the circumstances would be pretty wild), the best part is...wait for it...we're PAYING him to do so. Think a very elaborate and painful method of experiencing suicide through damnation in just a few easy steps. I'm telling ya, he's gnawing on his pitchfork in envy.

Having shared this opinion with my classmates, who wholeheartedly agreed, I then proposed that perhaps Satan should come visit the place, and maybe pick up a few tips. And this guy goes, well, maybe he did, and liked it so much he decided to stay on and teach in the English Literature department.

Hmmm....

Oh, and incidentally, today some classmates of mine and I were loafing around college and generally chatting when I, for no apparent reason, asked them what, in their opinion, was the most significant book ever written in terms of its influence and impact on mankind.

Yes, I do love coming out with these important-sounding queries.

Anyways, predictably, inevitably, the first book mentioned was the Bible; given my college, it was hardly a surprise, but I had foreseen this and quickly eliminated religious books from the list of possibles. Again predictably, inevitably and sadly, the second book mentioned was the Kamasutra; again, given my college, hardly a surprise. We're a mixed bunch, ain't we...from salvation to fornication in under three seconds.

Well, anyway, Origin of Species was my tentative suggestion...Das Kapital also found favour...and the most unexpected entry (well, to me, anyway) was the American Declaration of Independence. I'm not too sure that counted as a book per se, but for the sake of debate we let it stand.

Thought I'd toss this one out to a wider audience. The name of the book is sort of necessary, author name also preferably, and why you think that that book was the most influential.

Cheers.


And, yes, I already tried, but somehow nobody seemed to agree with me about Lord of the Rings. Darn heathens. One day we'll convert you all by fire and sword! And a hard-boiled egg!

Don't you want somebody to love?!

Almost a month since my last post but, rest assured, I'm back with a bang.

Due to certain issues that arose with my brother(ie, his constant and nasty habit of being in my house even when I've told him to push off) I, being the compassionate brother that I am, figured out the perfect solution.

Marry him off!

...somehow, he didn't seem to think that was an option. Seemed quite decided about it also.

But such minor obstacles will never deter the march of genius!

This has been long overdue, but the results are below.

(For best results, listen to Jim Carrey's version of the song 'Somebody To Love', from the movie 'Cable Guy, while reading this post. If you do not have it, shoot yourself now.)

-

My Shaadi.com Profile


Ashwin Sukumaran


He is 28, single, male living in Gaya, India.


About Him

His Basics

Age : 28
Date of Birth : 28 March 1978
Marital Status : Never Married
Children : Yes. Not living together
Height : 5' 10"
Complexion : Wheatish
Body Type : Athletic
Manglik : Don't Know
Special Cases : Mentally challenged from birth

His Education & Career

Education : Masters - Fashion
Occupation : Beautician
Annual Income : Under Rs.50,000

His Location

Current Residence : Gaya, India
Residency Status : Work Permit

His Religious & Social Background

Religion : Spiritual - not religious
Caste / Sect : -
Sub caste / sect : Epicureans
Mother Tongue : Chatlisgarhi
Family Values : Liberal

His Cultural Background

Country of Birth : Papua New Guinea
Grew up in : Azerbaijan, Burkina Faso, Kyrgyzstan
Personal Values : Liberal
Can speak : Cantonese, Japanese, Persian, Pushto, Swahili

His Lifestyle
Diet : Veg
Drink : Yes
Smoke : Yes


Hobbies, Interests & more

My Hobbies : Cooking, Gardening / Landscaping, Dancing, Astrology / Palmistry / Numerology, Home / Interior decoration
My Interests : Sports - Winter / Rink, Trekking / Adventure sports, Health & Fitness, Yoga / Meditation, Alternative healing
My Favourite Music : Classical - Carnatic, Ghazals, Qawalis, Bhajans / Devotional, Sufi music
My Favourite Reads : Poetry, Philosophy / Spiritual, Self-help
My Preferred Movies : Romantic
My Sports / Fitness Activities : Winter / Rink sports, Carrom, Yoga / Meditation, Martial Arts, Aerobics
My Favourite Cuisine : Everything
My Preferred Dress Style : Trendy - in line with the latest fashion

More About Him : His Personality, Long-term Goals, Partner Expectations, etc. :-

Me Og. Og hungry. Og want fooooood....

-

Whew. Quite creative, if I do say so myself. So, later on that day, my brother gets a mail from Shaadi.com while he was presumably(!) working hard in his office. It said something along the lines of "Shaadi.com has reviewed your profile and has judged that the likelihood of finding a match is negligible, and therefore your profile has been rejected." (And that was without me
putting a photo also!)

Bit of a shocker, eh what?

Unfortunately, a link was provided to the profile in question in the email, so my brother went and read it. Shortly thereafter, I received a call from the old flesh-and-blood, and he seemed a trifle worked-up about something. He then proceeded to unburden himself by passionately confessing that he was awed by my writing skills and dazzled by my brilliance.

Well, something of that sort anyway.

It was extremely loud, that's all I remember.

Coming out of my cage...

It's the most bitter poison to think yourself alone. Surrounded by people who know nothing of your aims and desires, thoughts and emotions. No matter what, nobody wants to remain a cipher. Each of us needs to be known, truly understood, by at least one other person, even in this time of cynicism and aloofness. Affirmation in the midst of denial? Stranger things have happened.

It's often been proved that the dearer the hand that strikes the blow, the more grievous the wound. And so it is, in all walks of life where we fall upon each other, and cut with words where elsewhere blades might be used; the wounds may not bleed, but are none the less painful for it.
I stand on the doorstep, remembering. It takes so little to capsize a life. Resentment builds up over the years, but ultimately, it's something small, the proverbial straw, that does it. In my case...well, I don't even remember now. The harsh haze of anger blots out my memory of the past few minutes. All I know is where those minutes have led me. Poised to take that irrevocable step out and away.

I turn around and look back. Strangely, all I feel is a sense of conclusion, as if my feet were set upon this road ever since birth; and all I am doing is playing out something inevitable. And weariness. Always weariness, when I think of home. The same old tired wounds, reopened again and again, until our sarcastic retorts take on a tired air; as if they're all we can say to each other now, they've become so familiar. I stare at the house, almost wondering why I can't see the acid etched into the walls, sunk into the foundations, corroding everything that was ever good here. A broken shell, soon to fall in on itself. And we'll all be too weary to care. For me, the weariness ends tonight. I hope.

And it only took so little. I shake my head in...what? Bemusement, certainly, but was that a touch of regret? After all this? And then again, is it so wrong? I guess some things leak through, no matter how hard the shell you've cocooned your heart in is. But all it took was an indifferent rejection. In moments like these, seeds take root in the souls of men. Sparks flare or drift away until they are nothing more than a memory on the evening wind of what might have been.
The memories swarm around me, think and pungent; I breathe their cloying aroma in with the air of an addict taking the hit he knows will kill him. There's too much here, too much I can never let go, and fittingly, all that I should.

Betrayal. Anger. Rejection. Bitterness. Hatred. Anger. Indifference. Anger. ANGER.

Anger to the soul is like a forest fire of startling ferocity. In the instant of its consummation, one might recognize it for what it is, but after that, all thoughts are swept away and the fire consumes the soul, burning all rationality and logic as its fuel.

All my life, I've had a freedom other people envied. Freedom born of indifference is haunting in its brutality.

But, all said and done, the anger is better than the indifference.

Love's a terrible thing, isn't it?

Days go by...

Time's sure flown...I'm practically at the end of my first year in college. It's been a disappointment, a revelation, an ordeal and a test all in one. So far, all the wonderful descriptions of life in college have failed to hold true; life's been good, but despite college rather than because of it.

What have I learnt from the place? Well...

- When I walked in the first day, all early and eager to see what college would be like, they were playing the Exorcist theme on the PA.

*hits head repeatedly*

- One civic-minded teacher spent most of an hour early in the first semester teaching us how to ogle women, and this is the important part, without getting caught. Pillar of the society, that man.

- An OD a day keeps the attendance clerks away.

- When all else fails, samosa and coffee can get you through the day.

- Never, ever listen to your teachers. It'll just give you a headache.

- Sadly, many people seem to think that non-Christians go around with a 'Please, convert me!' sign on their backs.

- English teachers who can actually speak perfect English are a rarity and should not be underestimated.

- When will my college be fully co-ed? When Santa starts carrying around a pitchfork, and chucks the 'Ho, ho ho!' for a 'I'll make you an offer you can't refuse...'

- However, in remaining steadfast, the enlightened management, or medieval martinets as I call 'em, is actually commiting a crime. It has reached the point where many of my fellow inmates, sorry, students have actually forgotten what a member of the female gender looks like. In fact, just the other day, I saw a couple of Zoology students exclaiming in astonishment when a girl walked by. At least, I presume it was astonishment.

- Only the most inspired of people could have conceived a hallowed educational institution where the canteen is right next to the toilets. Having a sense of smell is not conducive to one's appetite.

- You know something's not quite right when :

a) Putting your hands together and pointing your makeshift imitation of a gun at your teacher and going 'Bang, bang!' is actually your classmate's favourite sport.

b) Your teachers are cracking dirtier jokes than your fellow students.

c) It is deemed necessary for English Literature students to study American History, where your fellow students actually manage to produce gems like the following with, and this is the important part, a straight face :

"China attacked Pearl Harbour."

"America defeated the Russians at the Battle of Sterling Road. *after much reflection, the only possible solution to that puzzle is that he meant to say Stalingrad. Doesn't help much.*

"Germany was under the control of the United Nations, but particularly America, in 1939."

"President 'Roo' (I suppose this guy must've been really friendly with ol' Roosevelt to warrant such nicknames), after much debate, decided to invade France in 1942" (forgetting that, firstly, France was his ally and secondly, Germany, which was under Roosevelt's control, remember, had already done it for him.)

d) Your English teachers say things like : "..the both of you three..", "...people are very interested in their own country; especially where it is and what it is..", and finally, the most intelligent thing any teacher's ever said in my hearing; "This college is hell. You should never have joined."

e) The unofficial Student's Anthem goes something like this :

"Oh God, please grant me the strength to endure another day. Do not let my sanity be eroded by the forces of ignorance, evil and attendance clerks. I shall withstand this torture knowing that, if earthly suffering be the key to the Pearly Gates, I'm gonna get me a window seat. With a cherry on top. Amen. Oh, and tell ol' St. Petey he needn't bow."

f) In the box marked 'Suggestions for Improvement', you write 'Mushroom cloud'. And the thought of a mushroom cloud slowly rising over, say, the English Department is your most pleasant daydream.

- Mallus are everywhere. Coconut trees forever!

Of scissors and men...

It's strange how your mind can wander when you're having a haircut. Staring into the reflection of your eyes for any length of time is an unnerving experience, I must say. I look like I'm about to commit murder. Then again, it's probably because I've never felt comfortable letting anyone with blades get close to my face; and this fellow in particular is looking at me like I've got a bullseye painted on my jugular. Ah well, nothing to do but wait I guess...

Hang on a bleedin' second! WHAT is he doing?!

Me : Hang on a bleedin' second! WHAT are you doing?!
Guy cutting my hair : Sir, it is latest look, sir! You will look like movie star, sir!
Me : I don't care about movie stars! Put those scissors down and step away pronto!
Guy : But sir, it is latest look! Girls will be very much liking, sir!
Me : Oh, come on, do I really look THAT desperate?!
Guy : It will suit you perfectly, sir! It will give you the cool dude look!
Me : *after retching at the 'cool dude' part* What makes you think I want to be a 'cool dude'? *heavy on the sarcasm, please*
Guy : But sir, it is very "trendy", sir! (Not kidding, you could actually hear the inverted commas)
Some other guy : Is there any problem, sir?
Me : *explains the situation in as civil a manner as is possible while fending off a scissor-wielding maniac hellbent on making me an object of ridicule-well, more so of one, at any rate.*

Altercation ensues.

Maniac retreats, muttering under his breath, 'Sir is not letting me do my job.'

Whew.

New guy takes his place, and proceeds without a murmur.

And all this for a haircut.

Bah.

...

Well, it's done. My torture is over. I look in the mirror and gasp.

For the first time in months, I look eightee-...well, okay, I look around 21 or so, but still! That's within 5 years of my age! No longer do I look 40! No longer must I-

"Excuse me, Sir, but I think I remember you; didn't you bring your child here the other day?"

I gave the man a look. Withering is the word that comes to mind. Can't imagine why he scurried off like that. It was just a look. Albeit a look with mushroom clouds behind it.

Bloody hell, did I really look THAT old? Granted, I was a bit unshaven, and the hair was a trifle long, but not THAT long, surely?

In my mind, I recall what had happened not half an hour earlier:

Me : Dad, I need the car to go get a haircut.
Dad : What? Get what?
Me : A haircut, dad, a haircut.
Dad : *breaks out into incoherent sobbing and grateful stammering*

The only thing missing was a bleedin' chorus of hallelujahs. And a sacrificed goat.

Places I'd like to go before I die...

Sudden thoughts of mortality? Not quite....but I was thinking about this, so I thought I might as well put it up here. Just to make things more interesting, I've added a couple of places from ancient times; mixing practicality with fantasy was always my favourite poison.
There are probably quite a few I've left out, but these were the ones that really struck home.

In no particular order:-

I want to visit Kashmir someday, though it might break my heart.

Someday, I'd like to visit the mountains of Switzerland and see the edelweiss with my own eyes.

I want to sit on the banks of the Rubicon and look south; here, the dice were cast.

I wish I could see ancient Byzantium; and see the golden birds on the boughs.

I want to stand in Tiananmen Square, and see if the Square of Heavenly Peace lives up to its name; and to remind myself that nothing's impossible.

I want to visit Jerusalem; to see what so many died for.

Ninety miles outside Chicago, I'll find a streetlight and step out of the shade; any guesses?

I wish I could stand on the deck of a ship sailing off the Isle of Paxi at the precise moment when Jesus Christ was born, so that I may know if a voice that shook sea and sky actually did cry out, 'The great god Pan is dead!'

I want to go to Greece; anywhere, but especially, I want to stand on the grass at the pass of Thermopylae; here, there were giants, 'and dying, died not.'

This I want most of all, and ironically, I know it will never happen. I'd give anything to walk the Elysian Fields. Anything. If that made a certain individual drop his pitchfork in excitement, so be it. I have a feeling it would be well worth it.


What about you?

A room full of emptiness...

An outflung hand clutches a knife against a backdrop of white sheets. The air is still. Peaceful, and yet not; a brittle peace, born of breaking. Sand still trickles in the hourglass, but it is smashed beyond repair, and holds no meaning now. Can Time ever be escaped, or denied its due? No...the most one can do is surprise it, perhaps, if such an implacable entity could ever feel surprise. Take the initiative, and what do you have? Nothing...but perhaps, a nothing far better than the one left behind.
The rising sun shines through the careless windows. Whatever illusions of sanctity lay about the room disappear, as the red dawn cuts a swathe through the shadows. Red is the dominant colour here, as the red tinged morning light creeps slowly up the white sheets and over the hand, to mix and join with its fellow. But this red is deeper, dark with the memory of life, of the heart. Red on white, a clash of contrast; the stain grows and grows, until the sheet is but a memory of its former purity. Red, white, red, white; the colours merge and swirl until they almost seem like something more...but not quite. So too is all that is pure destined to know taint, in some manner of the other. Nothing is free from blemish forever. A flash in the night, a spark in an eye, a stroke laid apart, a cut to the heart.
The pitiless morning light reveals more and more. The eerie order of the room, a moment interrupted. A pair of fish in a bowl, so motionless they might be dead. The still figure lying on the bed. Many words might come to mind at the sight. Disarray. Composure. Turmoil. Determination. Here again, the overwhelming sense is one of brittleness, a body bent and stretched every which way, past every limit and boundary. Until finally, the essence folded inward upon itself, and the light of brighter days was extinguished forever.
Blank eyes survey the room. The pitiful figure elicits no more than a passing glance. Behind the transparent eyes, a dispassionate mind idly wonders. What was it, that proverbial last straw? Was it a sudden affair, conceived and executed in the same breath? Or had the fire been smoldering for some time before suddenly bursting into flame? Was this a planned event, with perhaps arrangements made to feed the fish; a last flicker of compassion for those souls needlessly condemned to share this last voyage?
Cold hands lift the bowl to meet that analyzing gaze. Is this life? What do fish think of the world, as limited as it is for them? Do they consider the hand that feeds them to be their defining reality, and send up prayers to it? Do they feel gratitude, or awe? An inclination of the head to acknowledge a favour from an equal, or grovelling prostration of the mind?
Questions unanswered, eternally so; for it is never the lot of such questions to be easy in the answering.
The eyes swing back to the bed. Here, after all, is the reason for coming; and though time has no meaning here, some things must be brought to a final conclusion. A professional, perfectly matched to his job; a state of equilibrium where happiness and other emotions hold no sway. What guides his steps, what hand is on the strings? Justice and judgement are the domain of those subject to him. If asked, although by whom is quite the puzzle, what defines him, that crystal gaze would be turned upon the impudent questioner; who would then realize the truth. Inevitability. What else could it be? But sometimes...sometimes, for some, a measure of something more...
With the tread of ages, the figure crosses to the bed and looks down. And the dead woman opens her eyes, sees him and smiles.

Hear ye, hear ye...

I've started up another blog, one dealing more with literature and literary appreciation, especially with regard to poetry.

Check it out at www.echoesofheaven.blogspot.com.

Farewell,

Ye Olde Sticke-Inn-The-Mudd

So disillusioned...

Can you understand how I feel? You look at me and tell me that I should not be so depressed, and that there is so much to be grateful for in this world. You cannot understand how I feel. I may be wasting my breath, but I will endeavor to make you realize why this world holds no joy for me.
I am nothing.
That is it, in a nutshell.
I am a mere shadow, a ghost, drifting my weary way through this world meant for others. An undead figure in this world of vibrant life...living my own hell in this half-life I endure. Where you see joy, I feel despair; when you sing with requited love, I know loss. When you live...then I see the unattainable. Not for me this gift you possess of living in the moment. I spend all my days with this bitter truth by my side. My every waking moment is clouded by the realization that I am insignificant in the larger scheme of things...and my curse is that I cannot see it any other way.
If I were to die tomorrow, I leave nothing by which to remember me by. No sign to show that here was once a person...not great, adequate at the most and perhaps not even that. Yet a person who once lived, thought, laughed, lost, breathed, screamed, hoped and dreamed. In such a short time as to beggar disbelief, no one will know these things. No one.
I will be survived by no one. I will leave nothing to mark my passing. No children will mourn me. No offspring who carry my blood will shed tears when I leave. In perception and acceptance of my own flaws, I chose not to visit them on a spouse, and thereby on any children...maybe I did the right thing...who's to say? But maybe is a small thing to me, when you consider my future; as inevitable a future as the Fates might have decreed, if they were. I am doomed to die, at whatever time that may be, unloved to any significant extent, and in all probability, alone.
It's humorous, actually...in my younger days, I thought I could leave my mark on the world...give it something that it would never forget, and could never be grateful enough for. That my name would be written with a flourish in the annals of history. That I could truly be immortal.Truth be told, I was a bit of a romantic back then. In my own opinion, a dirty word; yet it is far more polite than calling myself a hopeless fool with my head in the clouds. Both are true. I actually believed in truth and justice and all those other myths. I believed in optimism and the essential goodness of man, would you credit it? I believed in Love; even when mine was spat upon and lay scorned in the dust. I believed in Hope until Realism, a far less demanding mistress, took me to her bed. The price? That I sacrifice all these foolish notions and embrace the truth, the least watered-down version of it I could find, however bitter it may be. The scars of that deal lie heavy on me sometimes, but all in all, I consider it a bargain. Sadly, I am not yet rid of this romantic taint; it troubles me often. It clouds my reason and impairs my judgment. I apologize...I have digressed onto the subject of what I was; but you must admit, it is far more palatable than the subject of what I will be.
What would I wish, you ask. Ah, now you are entering a dangerous realm. My wishes are not something anyone else should be allowed to know, lest I be lynched and dispatched in the name of public safety. But, since you asked, I must answer.
I would wish to be remembered for who I was, not some hopelessly flowery platitude that would be as untrue as it were flattering. If there were to be a statue made of me (Hah! Getting above myself, aren't I just!), I would have it BE me...not some Adonis, with sharply defined muscles I never had or a nose that could cut bronze; I would not want to see people who knew me as well as anyone could have to stoop and read the plaque to know it was my avatar they were looking at.But most of all...this I wish. I wish that someday someone might think of me and say that I was someone they remembered fondly, although like a fading photograph, I would be blurring round the edges by then. Let them I say that I did a little good along the way, and that I did not go out of my way to cause harm; at least, not more than necessary. Saying that I was a good man would be sufficient grounds to lock the misguided speaker up in a padded room, and so I do not wish anyone to say that. Let just one person stand up and say, "He was hopelessly flawed and a delusional fool...but he brought a smile to my face once, and that will be have to be enough."
And it will be.

Random rants...

Another year gone by, and what does it mean? Sad to say, pretty much nothing in the larger scheme of things. 'Course, that ain't gonna stop people from getting drunk and going around yelling, and I quote, "'APPY NEW YAAR!" to random other people on the street. And the cockneys think they've got the market cornered on unintelligible accents; they should come and have a talk with ma homies down in Gumidipundi.

No sir, I have nothing but the greatest respect for black peo-...did I say black? I mean coloured, of cour-argh.

Ah screw it, I'm probably the most politically incorrect person around, why do I try?

Looking back, it was quite the eventful year; boards, college, music...I guess it sort of marked the division point, ya know; an arbitrary line between school and college, teenager and adult(well, legally at least). Responsibilities looming large on yonder horizon and here I am still longing for those good ol' loafing days.

It's a bit scary to think of all that lies ahead now that I'm 18 and in college. It's even scarier to think that now I'm allowed to drive. Kiss that population problem goodbye. Told my dad I want a nice red car; he was relieved I didn't ask for black, until he asked me why red. My answer? So that the blood won't show.

...yeah, that didn't go down well in certain quarters...

Attended a bleedin' wedding recently; one of those affairs which attract Mallus from all over the world. As I stood there blinking like a deer caught in headlights, it felt like they were all descending on me and saying something along the lines of, "Remember me?"

Talk about bluffing and poker faces, I gotta be the champ; managed to end the evening without starting off any family feuds and in possession of all my limbs, if not my composure.

So anyway, I was introduced to all my nieces and nephews. Yes, the sad truth; due to some family mixup, I am in fact an uncle; and was forced to behave as such while the little buggers went insane all around me. Note : When I say 'little', that ain't always correct. The wedding I was attending? Yeah, one of my nieces was getting married. Given it was in the last days of the Year of the Rabbit, but I have a sinking sensation I'm gonna be a grand-uncle soon. Why me?

I'm not cut out for unclehood. Being surrounded by tiny blokes, all looking up to me as if I'm some respectable fellow...it scars a loafer deeply, that sort of thing.

And then I'm dragged all over town by my dad in his neverending quest to discover the best banana chips in Kerala. Quite a task, you might say? Indeed. Personally, I think he just wants an excuse to go around buying the bloody things by the bagful and dumping them all on me to lug around. But anyway, my dad asked this wizened old man in a lungi outside the hotel where the best chips could be found.
And he said, "Aye, there be a place you can go...but the road is long and hard, and many have given up; but if ye have the courage to go down that road fully, aye, your prize shall be the best banana chips in all o' bonny Kerala!"
My dad's eyes glazed over, as if he'd seen Paradise, and it was left to me to intimate that a few more details would not go amiss.
"Do ye ken a path known to some as Kunnur Road?"
Yes, my dad cried excitedly, I know Kunnur Road!
"Once ye be on Kunnur Road, ye must set your feet southwards, past the coconut tree with the inebriated fool singing "I Believe I Can Fly" in its branches..."
Yes, yes, go on, my dad urged him.
"...past the group of BLTs (Bunions, Lungis and Toddy)..."
My dad looked like he'd have a heart attack if the bugger didn't get on with it.
"...and at the very end of Kunnur Road lies the establishment you seek...come closer, I dare not speak the name above a whisper...it be called Kumari Banana Chips."
Great, my dad said excitedly, and rushed off to fetch the car.
The old man looked at me and said, "There be one thing you need to know afore ye go...it's guarded by a terrible beast out of legend, a beast that-" and the wizened old man in a lungi keeled over dead.
(Upon reflection, I have come to conclude that the bloke had had too much toddy and had finally decided it was time for the quintessential Mallu afternoon siesta; but hell, it's more dramatic this way, and plus he looked like he'd been dead for quite a while anyhow.)
So, after hours of mindnumbing boredom, we found the coconut tree with attendant inebriated fool, not singing any longer as someone had mistaken his head for...well, for something to throw big, heavy things at. We had a little trouble with the BLTs, as they were pretty much everywhere , but we forged on nonetheless. And finally, the sign appeared, like sweet water to our parched eyes.

Kumari Banana Chips
Kunnur Road, Kozhikode

So finally, at the end of the day, my dad got his banana chips and I...well, got bored as all hell.

Oh, and the 'legendary beast' turned out to be the bouncer of the establishment; although in the old man's defense, he did look as if he had come down out of the trees only a short while ago. And the only thing legendary about him was the bloody smell.

And after all that, I'm notified that my berth in the train is a bleedin' upper berth. So I'm making like King bloody Kong while this annoying little kid thinks its funny to yank on my leg and my mother is cheerfully and loudly enumerating the various things I'm doing wrong and the countless ways I could die; just about the only thing she wasn't doing was placing bets on the likelihood of my imminent demise, or maybe my dad was doing that.

Sigh.

Well, at least the bleedin' banana chips were worth it.

Drive-by musings...

Time bled slowly across the window as the world blurred past in horizontal streaks of light. I watch each new scenario unfold before me with numb and jaded eyes. My mind wanders. I wonder if it is true that the world is destroyed and created anew each and every instant. Destruction and creation on such a colossal scale taking place in less time than it takes to blink. I wonder what Valkyries did once the old Norse beliefs were overthrown. Did they moonlight as angels for Christ perhaps, or maybe put away the armour and took a job waiting tables at some celestial bar; where perhaps Loki would show up now and then to quaff away his sorrows, and Odin and Fenris would get thrown out for starting yet another barfight. I decide to anchor my free-flying mind to my eyes, and pay more attention to what I'm seeing.

All I can see are brief flashes of people, frozen snapshots in a variety of poses and attitudes; captured as they will forever be rendered in my memory. Does this not give me some power over them? Have I not siphoned off some part of them, forever to be caged in my mind? No doubt my soul is owed to some pagan gods when I die, but for now I shake these shamanistic thoughts off and look around, trying to penetrate and uncover some plausible meaning behind this random frenzy that surrounds me.

Somewhere between the eyes and the mind, this incomprehensible chaos I was seeing began to take on familiar overtones. This is life. This is the world I spend my days in, distilled down to its ultimate reality. Poets can write and idealists can dream of the essence of human nature, but the truth is evident, right in front of my eyes. Chaos. That is our nature. That is our destiny.

What does it mean, this mindless scurrying? I do not know. Ant-like but not quite. It seems to me that people are never content where they are, and they always want to be somewhere else. Exceptions and rules are for scientists and fools, I merely state what I believe. Rhyming is never a good thing, especially when spontaneous and in one's head.

Perhaps I should be worried but- And the windshield shatters inwards.

In that moment, everything took on a strange kind of beauty. I looked at the world with new eyes, and my heart almost broke with the essential simplicity of it all. So clear. Everything is beautiful in its own way. The ways of things are not for us to question. They just are. Each serves a purpose and fulfils a destiny; is that not beauty? The flickering lights of the stars, tracing an erratic path across my field of vision. The back of my hand pulsing as unseen veins and tendons move and send ripples across my skin. The slivers of glass exploding away from the point of impact. They know nothing of good and evil; they kneel before higher powers, cause and effect. My mind clings on to the last flickers of consciousness like an addict afraid to kick his habit. Some battles can't be won.

...

I open my eyes. The world has a grainy hue to it, like something you'd see in a run-down cinema hall. I blink to clear my eyes when suddenly my attention is held by a raindrop in midair above my face. I gaze at it as it descends. It shimmers as it falls ever closer, almost as if it is trying to tell me something. It sparkles with maddening intent, and teases the eye with whispers of hidden depths. A world might be hidden behind those prismatic flickers; and to my whimsical mind, the notion does not sound strange at all. But on it falls, drawing near to its inevitable conclusion. I reach my hand out, ignoring the pain, meaning to stop it, to warn it; anything I could possibly do to prevent such a tragedy, for surely to stand by and let something so beautiful be destroyed would be an evil act.

But raindrops know nothing of good and evil.

Splash.

...

I open my bleary eyes to the tune of 'Sare Jahan Se Accha' blaring away loudly somewhere off to my left. Some patriotic individual was reversing his Ambassador across the street. I look around with that particular confusion that is the curse of the recently asleep. The familiar confusion of twilight traffic still surrounds me, the rain is still coming down and my auto driver is still engaged in a furious discussion with some petrol station attendant. On the face of it, nothing's changed...and yet I feel this terrible sadness in me. I feel as if I had, for a brief fraction of a second, held a truth in my hands, a truth so pure and all-encompassing that I may never know its like again; and the next instant, it melted away like water on sand. I wanted to weep for the loss, wanted to weep for not knowing what I had lost; and for not knowing which was the greater tragedy.

Isn't it always the way with truths? The ones you should know are the ones you don't, and the ones you want to are the ones you won't.

Garden State...

Home.

What is home? A place? An ideal? A concept? I guess it's different for each one of us. It marks the first division we ever make in our lives. There's home; and then there's the rest of the wide, unknown world. As children, that's probably the first distinction we ever make between 'me' and 'you', 'us' and 'them'.
It's that essential thing we need. No matter how far we go from it, or how long we're away, it's always there when we come back. Sure, it'll have changed; but in the most essential way, it remains the same. You'll still feel like you belong.
I don't know who I'll be in 10 years. I don't know where I'll be, or what I'll be doing. I do know that I'll have to leave someday.
And then one day when I come back, what'll it be like? Will it be the same?
Chances are it won't. Neither will I.
But it'll still be home.
It's not necessarily the place where we were born, or the house we grew up in. Home is just that place that speaks to your heart in some way too deep to understand; that place where you can truly be at peace with who you are and what you've done.

...what's the point of going anywhere without having someplace to come back to?

Ambrosia?

The whole question of God and religion is the verbal equivalent of quicksand. No matter what you say, you're gonna offend someone at the very least; and if you're a case, like me, the worst can be pretty bad. For example, I tend to be a bit free with my speech; and now that I'm in one religious college, surrounded by pious buggers, that is not a good thing. For a while there, I thought it would all end in tears; ie, me running around Loyola being pursued by a bunch of guys alternating between waving crosses at me and chucking holy water over my head, and chanting stuff along the lines of "Oh Lord, help us exorcise the devil in this man!"...well, at least until they realized that it would be far simpler and infinitely more satisfying to simply whack the bugger out of me.....yeah, I know. I have waaaaaaay too much time to think.

Anyway, I chanced across this in a book I read recently, and it struck me as being rather perceptive. So I figured, I might as well put it up here...yes, this is a shameless attempt to buy me more time to find some goddamn inspiration! So sue me!

The extract is from a book by Neal Stephenson. I strongly recommend reading his work; it's brilliant. This extract describes what happens when a group of men, each of a different race, manages to cross the Pacific on their boat, dubbed the Minerva. The scene occurs when they are about to step onto land for the first time in months.

Note : The only language common to them all is something called Sabir.

Moseh went ashore on the first boatload, fell on his face in the sand, and kissed it. "I will never set foot on a ship again as God is my witness!" he hollered.
"If you are talking to God, why are you speaking Sabir?" shouted Jack, who was watching from the poop deck of Minerva.
"God is far away," Moseh explained, "and I must rely on men to keep me honest."

Halcyon days...

Heil. I have returned to plague ye all once more. Aye, 'tis a black, black day.
Apologies to those benighted souls who were actually waiting for me to update; if any do exist, please. Seek professional help. Such self-destructive tendencies never helped anyone....not that they're meant to, of course, but still.
The principle remains.
On a more serious note, I do believe I am long overdue for some Grade A, PAC-certified ranting. So, without further ado....

I happened to be recently browsing through some of the stuff I had written and, for whatever reason, decided to save. In between the frequent puking and ad-nauseating, I chanced across these lines, trapped in the detritus of some aborted song which was mercifully never finished and inflicted upon the world :

Stuck in this world of frozen moments
Snapshots of eternity.

Now I'm not a person who has a tendency to pat myself on the back or anything*pause for the expected derisive comments*, but it did seem like I had something there. Of course, then I immediately began to ponder on this whole 'frozen moments' thing and memories in general. I swear, I have as much tendency to ponder or philosophize as rabbits do to...you know. Things. Bad bad things. You get the picture.

Anyway, once I was off, there was no stopping me...'cept of course, bhelpuri somewhere in the middle, at which point I adjourned briefly, but I digress.

Memories are funny things, really. I've heard it said that the first thing you remember sort of indicates the way your life will go. Well, my first memory was of me sitting on some couch somewhere, trying my darndest to read a novel; Kane and Abel, if I remember rightly. The difficult part wasn't the reading, actually...it was the understanding. Gimme a break, I was somewhere between the ages of 4 and 8; I had absolutely no idea why Jeffrey Archer, who seemed to be a decently intelligent bloke (based on the compliments paid him on the back. Yeah, I actually believed the stuff they wrote there back then. Sad, ain't it?) would want to devote so much of his book to girls and their mysterious, alien ways. *All hands, prepare for impact!* I must say, it was a bit of a shock when I finally did get around to reading it in my more-enlightened years and figured out exactly what the old bugger was talking about. Jeez.

Something else I remember even before this, but too vaguely to count, is my brother slamming me headfirst into a steel cupboard to make me go to sleep in the days of my babyhood. The logic is actually quite painfully clear; no pun intended. That diabolic little Einstein reasoned that if I stopped crying, I must be sleeping. And I had a tendency to stop crying once I was introduced to Mr. Steel Cupboard at quite a high rate of knots; oh jeez, I bleedin' wonder why! Therefore, based on the data provided so far, all he had to do in order to return to his bloody Tom & Jerry Show and watch it in peace was commit this vicious and unprovoked act on my hapless infant self; of course, he didn't see it that way, oh no. He was merely 'putting me to sleep'.
It's a bloody miracle I lasted this long, I say.
And turned out pretty well if I do say so myself.
Right, right, I'll stop it now.
Either way, those theorists had it right. Those memories did sorta set the tone for much of my life so far. Sad...but true.

Like I was saying, memories are funny things. You can clearly remember something that happened years ago, and yet your memories of last week can play you false. Sometimes they're welcomed, sometimes they're cursed. Quite often, they're embarrassing; aw c'mon, don't deny it. We've all got stuff we'd rather never saw the light of day; me more so than most people, thanks to all you cursed wretches with whom I had the misfortune of spending my school years. TTM, Saki and Sir Cockalot himself; that means YOU.

I'm really letting loose here, aren't I?! Refreshing!

Back!

It seems to me that these memories can be triggered by the most trivial of things, and yet in the most surprising ways. For example, a particular smell or atmosphere might bring up memories long forgotten. A song can make me experience the same emotions I was feeling when I first heard it, no matter how long ago that might have been. A book can make me actually relive past events, to the extent that each familiar page, each familiar paragraph holds some meaning for me above and beyond what the author could have ever dreamed it would. I mean, I can actually recall what my thoughts or emotions were upon reading a particular line and other crazy stuff like that. Even given that I should have been locked away in a room with padded walls long, long ago, I wonder if this happens to these 'normal' people I keep hearing about. Anyone? No?

Well, would ya look at that. A few bare paragraphs of writing drivel and I'm spent?

I think I'm getting old.









Oh shit, how'm I ever gonna pass anything in college now?




Note : PAC = Pure and Absolute Crap; a measure of quality that should be familiar to any godforsaken blighter who had to write an English Language paper in school. Or, for some of us, Economics as well.

The tides of emotion...

Ah, what a beautiful day...this is Chennai at its best....days like this are few and far between, and they have to compensate for a whole ton of sweating, sultry days, but still...awesome weather.

It seems to me that everyone lightens up when the clouds start gathering and the wind starts gusting. Everyone seems to ...My teacher actually paused his lecture to us about how he will not tolerate gay behaviour in class and said 'Ah, what the hell...get out, you rascals, and be sure to invite me for the wedding.' A moderately shocking event; he does so love his rants. On my way out of college, I bump into a million guys who either stop me and say bye or just wave; I mean, I got a comradely punch on the shoulder from a guy who I'm not even sure I know. I look around and everyone's smiling; 'cept of course those evening college losers whose day of drudgery is just beginning :D
I guess there's just something in each one of us that responds in some way to the rain. True colours start showing, and irritations and annoyances are dismissed as just not being worth it. Sadly, this is by no means universal; there'll always be a Mr. Scrooge around. Yet, out on the streets, people are transformed.

Some dance in the streets, lifting their laughing faces to the weeping skies above and letting their bodies speak for them. Some run outside to rescue the garments hanging on the clothesline, laughing hysterically. The two-wheeler guys speed off to wherever they're bound, either ruefully smiling or cursing their luck as they get drenched; depending on just how far they've left their childhood behind. Shops with awnings suddenly receive a sharp increase in apparently interested window-shoppers, while the pavement vendors are forced to conclude their business for the day. Roadside romeos take the opportunity to drape their arms around the shoulders of their soon-to-be-(hopefully)-significant-others and hurry them off to shelter, while Mylapore Maamis chivvy their unruly brood home, all the while muttering dire threats of doom if anyone so much as sneezes later. The kids, especially, are in seventh heaven; a chance to drench that pest next door/an annoying relative? Christmas come early! Of course, you get the occasional one who becomes pensive, melancholy and reflective...right up to the time when a passing Amby speeds through a nearby puddle and gives them other things to think about; should I just give 'im the finger, or follow 'im home and kick 'im in the old fruit-and-veg? (Obviously depending on whether the shirt was a genuine Armani whatever, or one of the infamous Burma Bazaar genuinely fake types.)

And lastly, you have the people who find a nice out-of-the-way corner and just look around, enjoying the rain and observing the antics of everyone around them. Indian streets always offer up a variety of sights with which one may delight the eyes; and never more so than when it rains. Look around; this is life! Raw, unadulterated life! All the fake, uptight, holier-than-thou attitudes are washed away, leaving something that's a cross between a riot and a Hindi movie. The kids laugh wildly, the adults smile with as much dignity as they can muster, and the in-betweens like me? Ah, who ever gave a crap 'bout dignity anyway? We've got the rest of our lives to be old in. Me, I don't intend on starting now. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's raining again, and I feel a sudden urge to be helpful and go buy something for my mom ;-)

Note : As has been observed before, the author is borderline insane. Pliss excoos.

Bunking blues...

Life goes on. Monotonously so. It may be considered a curse to live in interesting times, but hell, at least they'd be...well, interesting. Trees are growing a bit taller, waves are making funny patterns on the sea, and no doubt TP will come up with other similar gems to describe the monotony daily existence can be. Those who don't know who TP is should be hung, drawn and eighthed, at the very least. Sixteenthed if I'm having a bad day.

And college has turned out to be extremely...disappointing.

I don't get it. I want my money back. All that time spent inching my way through school, only to find that the light at the end of the tunnel was merely a decoy; the proverbial carrot held in front of the donkey. And Lord knows I feel the donkey now. Whatever happened to all the 'College will be great, it'll be awesome fun!' and other similar comments? All I can envision in the foreseeable future is surgically precise bunking; just under the point where they'll catch on to it, and just over the point where I don't know which book we're doing anymore. Oh yeah, and seeing as how one of my teachers is an incredibly suspicious and paranoid bloke who probably can't sleep at night because he does actually believe that they (for a given value of they, depending on who he's against at the moment; normally constitutes most of the world, but lately, it's started to be exclusively me) ARE out to get him, I have to make a special point to attend his classes, before he starts putting up those 'Have you seen this child?' posters. Apart from anything and everything else, I just plain don't like being given dirty looks and lectures by a bugger at least a foot shorter than me who looks exactly like one of those wannabe wise tortoises from Amar Chitra Katha or books of that sort. I mean, if I stepped on the guy, there's a reasonable chance I might kill him, and he picks on me? It's just wrong.

Another annoying thing 'bout my college is that there's really not much you can do when you bunk. Bunking's sort of necessary now, 'cos I firmly believe that if I attend each and every pointless class they want me to, my I.Q. would drop faster than my reputation around college. So basically, I spend at least a part of each day wandering around the place with time on my hands and nowhere to go.
Option 1 : The canteen. The people's choice, the fan favourite, etc., etc. Bit too popular though, 'cos I'll bump into far too many people. Also, there's a good chance of the nosy teacher mentioned above prowling by, not to mention that the teacher's canteen is right next door and I just might bump into the bloke whose class I bunked the previous hour. With my luck? I don't think so.

Option 2 : The students common room. WAY too many seniors. Plus, nothing to do. Can't even read 'cos of all the noise.

Option 3 : General loafing. Hell, this is what I do most of the time anyway!

Option 4 : Go home. Ah...if only...

And there's nothing I can do about it. I doubt the Principal would see the funny side in my submitting a formal suggestion that the quality and variety of the facilities available to bunking students is in much need of improvement.

The other day, I realized that I actually WANTED to study. The feeling remained even after dunking my head in cold water a coupla times and checking my temperature. If it's gotten to the point where me, a diehard loafer, wants to break out the books and get down to some busy work...Satan's going ice-skating down below. The sad truth is, college would be just so much better if I actually had the opportunity to STUDY Literature...instead of being given a scarce, barely detectable ration of it amongst all the other crap they're force-feeding me. I look at all my friends who're doing Lit. in other colleges...sure, they don't have as much free time as me, but at least they're DOING something. It's depressing that I'm not...and vaguely disturbing that I want to. I mean, if loafers weren't by definition too lazy to be fanatic about anything, I'd be a fanatic loafer; converting heathens by fire and sword, or at least getting someone else to do it for me, lol.
Finally, it's nearly been a week since my college culturals, and the memory still haunts me. Long story short, my department's performance in western music was...below the mark? Disappointing? Absolutely abysmal? Oh yeah. So much for my grand entry onto my college's musical scene, lol. To sum it up best, after the event, while I was trying to drown my sorrows in a Sprite or two, I remembered to switch on my phone, which had been off for a while. I then received the following messages :

Class prefect - I'm going to kill you guys for this performance
Classmate - that left me breathless
Senior in charge of Western Music - Come to my office now.
Senior in charge of Western Music - R you comin or not...

Says it all, don't it just!

Minus human

Knowing what the right thing to do is and doing it are often quite distant from each other; and it takes great willpower to bridge that gap. After all, we are merely human; with all the attendant vices and virtues that entails. Everything from Flanders to Crecy, Nanking to Hastings and Agincourt to Auschwitz could be excused with those words. I digress, however, so back to the topic at hand. Take a mild example; how hard is it for you to be happy for a friend who's just won some sort of contest that you also happened to participate in? Not very, you say? If so, I shake your hand, monsieur, and happily proclaim you unfit for membership in the human race.

On the other hand, most people would have at least some trouble reining in their baser feelings of sadness, self-pity and envy and rising to the nobility of genuine goodwill for the other; that being merely my opinion. If so, what of it? Does that make you a bad person? By nearly any reckoning, you cannot be so judged under those circumstances. Unfortunately, that 'nearly' leaves you open to attack from the most vicious quarter; your conscience.

Always be mindful of those who profess to have no conscience, for they are the most guilt-ridden people of all. No matter how excusable or justifiable the situation, once the guilt sets in, it does not fade so easily. The only thing to do is put a brave face on things, I suppose, and conduct yourself with as much grace as possible in public; to do otherwise would be unseemly and unworthy of friendship. True feelings can be unveiled in private; in my view at least, the baser emotions are not for the world to see.

If we were each content to wallow in our humanity, there's no hope for us. If we can somehow summon the strength to rise above those murky depths, then and only then can we justify our existence.

Each and every one of us has his or her demons to confront. We carry them with us as we make our way; that perpetual weight on our shoulders, ever hindering, ever tormenting. And I dare say a good number march under the banners of Guilt. How many were added today, I wonder...

Here's to the night...

Well, it's a pretty decent night, as nights go; I'm not much given to prancing around after dark smelling the sweet air and singing at the moon, because I live in reality, not some romantic English poet's dream. People who try that 'round here would step into something unpleasant, smell things decidedly not sweet and if they tried yodelling, would probably receive a couple of resounding chappals abaft the mainmast/a kick or two in the old tiffin-carrier, if ye know what I mean. But, all things considered, it's a nice night. Right. Now that we've gotten the establishment of the fact that it is, all said and done, a fairly decent night, out of the way...

...I'm not sure what to do.

Now that I've eliminated the midnight prowling thing, it leaves me few options. Playing guitar would probably result in me having to convince my irate dad that I have not lost my mind, I am a normal person and no, I am not doing drugs. Reading...well, I do it all the time anyway. The whole night-time Romeo thing? Hmm...I'm not the kind of bloke to go waltzing Matilda, Mary or Meenalakshmi, as the case may be, even during the day. At night? People are excitable, and my appearance is not one calculated to convey my benevolence and love towards my fellow man. Long story short, were I in Japan, there's a small chance that you'd hear people running around screaming 'Gojira! Gojira!' .

I could also be mistaken for either a convenient fire-hydrant substitute or a convenient night-time snack, depending on the animal doing the mistaking; though it must be said, it is unlikely anything short of yes, Gojira itself, would make the latter mistake. Biting off more than they could chew is the expression that comes to mind here.

Hmm...what else? Well, and this has frequently happened, I could be accosted by policemen on the grounds of...well, general principles, I must suppose, 'cos I never really understand what they're saying. We're even though, 'cos they don't really get me either. These meetings generally end inconclusively; with me wending my way homewards under the vague impression that I had just been asked what the time was, and they probably wondering exactly what this Kuppaswamy character was doing out so late. Right. So. No more escapades with the law, thank you very much.

Must be careful though; as it gets later/earlier, one's tendency to philosophize increases steadily.
And once you go down THAT road, oh boy, you're gonna be up a while, so break out the coffee. It's far too easy to fall into melancholy's waiting arms. And when you do, the night seems that much darker and colder, and it's not so easy to fall asleep 'cos you start wondering what reasons you have to wake up in the morning. And...well, yeah, I guess I'm done with the philosophy now.

So...

Sleeping? It's cliche; I mean EVERYONE does it...but it doesn't seem like there's much choice left. So, I'm gonna go sleep now.




That is, if I'm able to.

Because my mother, despite the fact that I turned 18 less than a week ago, offered to sign me up for some BharatMatrimony.com site.

I think I should be worried.

Not-so-serious thoughts...

I'm going to be local till I die.

You don't need pants for a victory dance, 'cos I-R's better than Weasel.

Dance in the light of your burning bridges.

Always leave your heart in your other pants. Love's a nice place to visit, but...

If Helen had just had a couple of bad hair days, things would have gone off much better for those Trojans.

The winner of the All-Time Manga Award was that general bloke whose last words were "Why, they couldn't hit an elephant at this dist-". He was referring to the enemy snipers, and apparently, they could. I mean, seriously. It's gotta be embarrassing winding up outside the Pearly Gates with your feet firmly planted in your mouth.

The saddest thing in the world would be a haemophobic vampire. The funniest thing in the world nearly happened when Akshay Modi nearly ran over the guy waving the checkered flag at that go-kart place.

Where Destiny/Fate/La Cucaracha are concerned, I'm the guy walking around with a 'Kick Me!' sign on my back.

You've got to admire the commercial instinct of the Indian when you see advertisements that read "VCDs, DVDs, STDs! Wide Selection! Hurry!"

It worries me a bit when my Personality Development teacher compares life to Vasantha Bhavan. Someone's been hitting the sambar a bit too much, eh?

I have a sneaky suspicion that Terry Pratchett had it right when he described an atheist's death. It would be moderately shocking to discover that the gods in which you didn't believe not only exist, but are coming towards you, sporting the divine equivalent of broken bottles, with an 'We'd like to have a word with you, smartypants...' sorta expression on their faces.

What happens if you play blues music backwards? Your wife returns to you, your dog comes back to life, and you get out of prison.

Running into ex's is always tricky. I suggest putting it in reverse and backing over 'em again.

You can try to get cheap thrills by telling Christian kids that Santa Claus is fake, but they're just going to tell you that you're going to hell.

It's strange how the basic reproductive urge is clouded by so many trivialities.

La Bamba is the most insidious song ever written.

If this were a perfect world, the colour pink, people who use multiple exclamation marks while typing and all those incriminating photos of me out there would not exist.

Against Life's dirty dozen, all I've got's a six-shooter. Enough said.


Oh, and here's the fun fact of the day:

We're all going to die.

Uh huh.

You better believe it.

Serious thoughts...

40 years ago this day, we were at war with Pakistan. Less than 20 years after Partition.

Admitting one is wrong would probably short-circuit over 90% of the world's arguments, yet it seems to be extremely difficult.

Some memories take far too long to fade. Some never will.

There's no point giving up if things aren't going well. You don't get your money back.

If people would just accept the fact that they could be wrong, shrinks would go out of business.

Patriotism is not negated by admitting your country's made mistakes.

God's a name for all the things we don't understand.

Dreams are far more dangerous than you might think.

Search hard and you'll always find a silver lining.

Don't believe the truth, and you'll die happy.

And yeah, I do believe music can save my mortal soul. So sue me.

Key words : 'thu' and 'indeed'. Oh, yes; also 'high'. You get the picture...

Recently, I was chatting with this foreign bloke I know somehow, and in the course of the conversation, I typed 'thu' in response to some outrageous comment of his. Prompt came the query 'What does that mean?'
Now, I must admit, I was baffled.
Exactly how does one explain that particular expression to someone unfamiliar with local lingo? It's not a meaning that lends itself to easy explanation. It fills the mind with vivid images; one such being a lungi-wearing loafer, teeth discoloured by years of chewing paan or some such rot, pausing in the midst of a tirade against his tardy assistant to spit meaningfully against some handy cobble.
How exactly is one supposed to express all that, I ask you?
If you're prepared to get all philosophical about it - I will now pause for the groans to subside - that word actually does bear some similarity to Indian politics, on the whole. Utterly incomprehensible to the outsider, most often off-colour in nature and can either be used to mean a lot or mean nothing at all.
'Course, if anyone so wished, they could quite possibly draw parallels between Romeo and Rasputin. (BESIDES the obvious one; give 'em some credit.)
*change of subject*
Forget one-liners, one-worders are way better. Take in particular the word 'indeed'. Honourable mentions also go to 'quite' and 'rather'. But 'indeed' is on a whole other level. My nomination for the best English word currently existing goes to this one. It can mean just about anything! Extremely useful when a non-committal reply is one's only hope of escape. Also quite handy in indicating one's reluctance to continue conversation, although, sadly, many fail to grasp that last point. Also, it works extremely well when used in conjunction with the raised eyebrow; if Jeeves does it, it's gotta be worth trying, eh?
All that in just two syllables.
I rest my case.




Oh yes, the convo. I recall blabbering something inane about it being similar to the English 'Tchah!' or something along those lines, anyhow. (Yes, I was flying high that day, as some put it.)

Draining bitter dregs...

It's just so incredibly frustrating when something you've really worked at falls apart in the end. I'm guessing at least a few of you would know what this feels like; if so, you might be able to comprehend how down I am right now. Some things aren't meant to be, next time you'll do better; don't people understand that all those statements are meaningless? Good intentions prompted most of those statements, it must be said; but still. All said and done, the only person who you really have to answer to is yourself (and eventually, maybe this God bugger I keep hearing about). And inside your head, there's no comforting wool you can cover your eyes with and no rosy-hued sunglasses to wear. It's a harrowing experience, being in a situation where not a single excuse you can come up with carries any weight.

All I want is a room somewhere...

What is the one thing you simply cannot live without? No, I'm not talking about a set-top box or a new wardrobe or crap like that; I'm talking about things that really matter to you. Enough so that life would not be or could not be worth living without them. Let's look at some of the things deemed 'essential' by most people.

Happiness? Honestly, show me someone who's truly and completely happy without being locked in a room full of Enid Blyton books all his/her life, and I shall not speak another word.

Money? Pretty much related to the above point, but anyways; hah, no Indian can say that it is impossible to live without money. Step outside and take a look around, pal.

Significant others? Often, highly proportionate to the above factor, hah. Broken hearts litter the streets nowadays, but I've yet to see anyone actually die of one.

If you pause and think, really think about it, there's very little we can't put up with. Most, if not all the stuff we moan about is actually quite trivial and meaningless if looked at in the larger scheme of things. We have a wonderful capacity to adapt ourselves to surviving nearly any situation and overcoming nearly any obstacle.

Well, for the record, the one thing I cannot dream of living without is my sight; and a close second would be my sense of hearing. It may be weak of me, but overcoming those hurdles may prove too tough. Take away my capacity to read and enjoy music, and what have I left? This world would hold no joy for me then. Sad, but infinitely true.

Here, I feel compelled to mention a person I don't know and who I've barely spoken to; yet who I've come to respect greatly. He studied in my college, and later returned to teach English there, and has been doing so for quite a few years. The striking thing about him is that he cannot see. Despite being blind, he is one of the most commited and approachable teachers on campus. Everyday, seeing him navigating his way through bustling corridors, aided only by his memory and that tap-tapping of his stick; the sight profoundly humbles me

I don't know the depths of willpower and courage required to not only overcome your own disabilities, but to devote your life to helping others. Someday, I hope to find out.

They'll be coming for me soon....

It's insidious, the way these morbid thoughts can creep up on you at the end of the day. One moment you're leaning back in your chair firmly believing all's right with the world, the next you're questioning whether it's all worth it after all. There's something about the lengthening shadows that affects a man, I suppose. Those twilight moments when you look back at the day and wonder if it was worth getting up in the morning for. But worst of all are the times when you think about whatever goals or aims you may have in this life, and realize just how far you are from achieving them.

There's probably some proverb about people who always live either in the past or the future; there's a proverb about practically everything. I dunno...It seems to me that it would be far less trouble concentrating on putting one foot ahead of the other than wondering how you're going to cross a distant river or climb a distant mountain or . My metaphor may lack a certain something, but hopefully it conveys the message. Some blighters spend their whole lives worrying about things that never come to pass; others worrying that some things may never come to pass. Either way, focus on the 'now' part of things, and leave 'then' for later. And if some of you thought that was a pun, I do not quite stoop THAT low.

For those of you who have dreams that you know will never come true, all I can say is I share your pain. I know this feeling all too well. I too have a dream, a vision; and it will never come to pass, despite my being ready to give anything to make it so.

My dream is this : before I die, I would like to visit America; Washington DC to be specific. Once there, I would like to board a helicopter and fly to an area roughly above the White House.

From there, looking down, I would like to see a trail of destruction and carnage weaving its way through Washington and ending somewhere below me.

And peering downwards, were I to discern an auto, lying upside-down with its wheels spinning gently, the wreck smoking on the lawn in front of the White House, I can truthfully say that I could go to my grave at that moment wholeheartedly believing that this God bugger, whomsoever he/she/it may be, has things well in hand.

Now that is what I would call a Kodak moment.

And yes, I am borderline insane.

'Educational' institution? Really now?!

Fact 1 : My family's out of town.
Fact 2 : There's nobody home.
Fact 3 : I'm sitting at home joblessly, plunking away at my keyboard.

So, pliss excoos me (a true tamilian classic if I ever heard one) if I ramble on a bit.

College is really starting to give me an insight into the gnarled and twisted depths of the human soul. I tell you, the buggers I see prowling the hallways everyday would probably make any self-respecting humanist shudder and give up the ghost. They range from the classic 'Dai, machan!' cases to the more laid-back lets-bunk-class-and-go-smoke-weed types. And those are just my fellow students. My professors are in a class of their own. Whether it's the one who recites every line of a novel as if it's the final line in a Hindi movie's climatic dialogue or the other bloke who thinks I'm trying to kill him 'cos I bumped into him and sent him flying twice in one day, most of them qualify as only slightly more sane than the students. Honourable mentions go to the French teacher with a voice like a foghorn and the German teacher who can only be described as a vulgar old man. No really, the bugger must be pushing 70 at least, and he cracks jokes that are worse than most I've heard from fellow students!

One thing to be said about college, it does introduce you to people from all walks of life; nothing can prepare you for the sheer variety of people and personalities you'll encounter in college, so I won't even try. It's an eye-opener, it really is; school will always be looked back upon with nostalgia, but college is just a whole different game.

And so it begins...

Food for thought. In a few hours, a coupla blokes who I've known for years will be leaving to do their college abroad. Granted, the US isn't exactly another planet and it's not like I'll never see them again; however, it just got me thinking. Let's face facts, this life and everything in it is transitory and ephemeral. People change; they mature, make new friends, see new places and experience new things. In this case, when (or rather, if) these guys come back, things will obviously be different.
They'll have changed; I'll have changed. That old sense of comradeship will be missing, and as I'm typing this, I begin to realize just how essential that is. The stupid inside jokes no normal person could ever comprehend, the easy laughter that could and often did get us chucked out of various respectable establishments 'round the city; the good old days when all we did was wander the streets at night, with no aim at all beyond pure and simple loafing. And then the inevitable philosophical questions would come; whatever happened to truth, justice and that pizza we were supposed to have for dinner? We were irretrievably young; with all the attendant curses and blessings that brings. To hear us talk, you'd think that we'd remain that way forever.
What the future holds will be something altogether different. Time will have taken its toll; the light-hearted memories will be replaced by the seriousness of reality. Given all the overwhelming evidence against it, is there still a chance that the old friendships of long ago can be resurrected and given new life? It would be impossible to easily slip back into the old ways and foolish to try. What's gone is gone; but something new can be built in its place. Time will tell, I suppose.
What I've said here is merely a poor attempt to relate that sense of despair every mortal being feels when confronted with eternity. Is everything we do destined to be nothing more than a brief light in the dark? Are we to be no more than water on sand? Should we spend our lives mourning all that is lost and can never be again?
In all this chaos, one needs a few stable things; things that you can hold on to, if you will. In all this change, there has to be a constant. The ravages of time will surely take their toll; yet it is possible to make something of ourselves after they are done. Some things endure, some do not; but we do have some say in that, if nothing else.
And now I'm not sure exactly what I meant to say.