A Tableau

The dreary hot days of  summer afternoons, with nothing much to remember by, except the tales of a great grandfather whose photo hung unnoticed on top of the kitchen door. The days where you drew cars racing through colourful hills and sunsets, coniferous trees  and exotic lakes, wishing for those vistas of freedom, blocked by grill doors of civilized fear.

The memory is a lamp made of frail glass, like that sold on a pushcart during the days of habitual powercuts. Games of hide and seek with people who no longer are around; charades which linger around in the recesses of your mind like the candle lit shadows which seemed ever present.

Of a swing, which has hung where it has for generations. The wild days of dauntless fury it has seen, holding your ambition, propelled by hands of love, and words of encouragement which turned you into what you are today. The simmering patterns of sunlight, dutifully falling everyday, till an apartment grew out of an old house.

A landscape festooned; A swing, which tends to the present, yearning for that story; Replaying all those tears, laughter and diffidence like the song your mother sang to put you to sleep.

A precious grasp of knowledge, half hidden in ignorance and half in childish hubris, now stares at you, frail and old, like those hands which carried you to look at the trains. As if the roads, lined with cars are a noir, for they remind you of some days which were better, some which were worse but all equally hazy, all mixed with elation and rebellion.

The duress of an archaic system pressed itself all around you, yet innocent you built ships and castles and planes, crossing seas and bombing nations with your imagination,  bridges arranged with marble lights, hoping to find the meaning of distance in a map.

Your dreams, let loose; You see a chance in everything, yet opportunities were as biased as the coin in your magic kit. Those glasses, which you wore as you raced to school on a fifty cc two-wheeler, are now nowhere to be seen; much like the suppressed dreams lost in reality; much like the paper boat sinking in the rain; much like the paper planes flying across the class room and landing on a despotic girl’s head; much like your favorite green and maroon pencil sharpener gifted by an aunt abroad being taken away by a heartless teacher, hoping to reprimand you for a mistake of another, whom you cannot remember.

Prayers told with half opened eyes, confused veneration- in fear, untamed by rote, by repetition into belief. The smell of coffee and the rain, folded together like the supplement into the newspaper. Chagrined balls of despair, turning to bowl you over and you remind yourself that you have a long way to turn fifteen.

Like a piece of paper with a word slipping out of a dictionary. The wonderful days, rush back to you, like your neighbour’s pet dog. And like the dog which was greeted with chains, you pick it up and shove it back into the page.

I am not a book review bot

Howdy world! I have not turned into a book review writing bot. Blame it all on twitter! I never have the motivation to write a post any more. The blog was once upon a time where after much deliberation, I would write a clearly worded rant. But now of course, the little blue bird and 140 characters rule my life(addiction, you see).

There are a number of factors, which have led to this post. The cherry on top of the black-forest of course is that I met Brainstuck and The Alchemist. Over come with nostalgia and admiration(it was a Harry meets Dumbledore again moment), the little (kid) dinosaur decided that it was time to make an appearance again(much like a renegade school boy, I used to be).

Of course, what exactly I am supposed to write fails me. If only there was a Mississippi(yay! I got the spelling correct for the first time ever!) I would be a Huck Finn,  rescuing a Tom from the clutches of authority and helping him to escape North. As it stands, I am lost in a world of monkeys on typewriter, forever writing the script of you-know-who knows what.

Life, has turned, back flipped, somersaulted and even spun around in a Romanov influenced roulette before being dipped in the spirits of confused responsibility. One thing that hasn’t changed though is that I am still made of the same skin and blood and brains, unscathed by numbers, laws, boredom, accidents and gravity. The world as a maitre patisserie would say is like the sponge layer.

One of the reasons of abandoning ‘blog posts’ probably was that it was the vogue. But the nouveau riche of twitter have with some panache revived the Prime with All Spark-esque memes. And when a silly girl’s post became an overnight sensation much like a boy who think he can sing, it was time to contemplate a return to the not so dark art of writing blog posts.

Blogposts have gained social acceptance faster than Galileo did but twitter has gained social prominence faster than your great granddad who got a OBE did. And prominence is much more tempting than acceptance especially since it is the only way to sate your ego after seeing a 100 million likes on that stupid status update. Nevertheless, a blog is a blog is a blog. A space where your everyday trash can become priceless junk in the future.

Thus I return to being a blogger from a reviewing bot. If I fail to write a post a week feel free to fast and start a campaign on twitter. I shall without fail consider mentioning your efforts.

Until then, so long and lots of Plationic love, yours truly, V.

I exist

I would love to stand on top of the tallest hill in the world and shout my lungs out and roll on the grass at that tallest hill laughing away like a maniac. But since I cannot for myriad reasons(like for eg. me being really lazy person), I just decide to think about it and end up day dreaming, rather evening dreaming while doing the chest press at the gym.

It is rather significant fact that life is so much more enjoyable when you pretend it to be enjoyable. Over a period of time it does become enjoyable. In that way anything and everything is enjoyable, including walking in 40C and sweating all over. Life is in pretense than in the actuals, simple because there are times when one has no clue as to what is real.

It is easy to say gulping down a tetra pack of apple juice is your reality but it probably isn’t the reality of a prodigal daughter sitting in a bar and drinking away or that kid in the corner of the road trying to sell coloring books for some unknown mafia. But you learn to ignore both and still fall in love with that costly car and that dark street with a single street lamp and cool evening sea breeze.

Not that you are poor or something. You have reached material contentment and it should last a while- as long as people keep making annoying ads.

I stopped calling myself a writer. Not that I can’t find time, but I don’t see the point in writing. You can feel depressed and bothered and writing does ease it, but you don’t make anything out of it. You take a stance on a topic and you can argue but you don’t achieve anything. Thinking is one thing, doing is another. I am trying to figure out how to get things done.

I will start writing stories and the like again sooner rather than later but I continue writing poems every now and then- poetry is that verse that reminds you of your joyous self. Some say I read too many depressing books, but I enjoy them. There is a part of me that enjoys being grave. There is no use fighting my love for melancholy, I embrace it, enjoy it and continue. And while it my sound bad, it was necessary to reach this point- now I can enjoy those smaller things which I couldn’t before. I am happy because I don’t have a reason to feel sad. And even when I feel sad, I know I am happy about it.

I went to North India for the first time. There are as many Indians as stars in the universe. You can never put it in words nor in pictures. It is one long motion film, never ending and never ending. The contrasts are too much but Jai ho! and corruption followed me all the way to Wagh Border. Someone told me corruption isn’t in our DNA, but I tell you it is.

I refuse to write about things that bother me any more because I know they bother me and that if something has to be done about it, I need to do it. All that is important is that I remain happy forever. And that is possible only when sources I seek happiness from exist and are happy.

I still dream and I always will, it is just that I see things differently when I am awake, but my dreams always inspire me.

I exist because I think, but more importantly I exist.

On the lighter side…

Totems have been made famous by that little spinning thing in a movie. But totems aren’t just minuscule little spinning things, they probably are more than that but who cares anyway.

They say life is in detail. But detail takes too long and the macro is just too glossy at times that you are left spell bound. Problems in life really happen when you are confused. Most of the time, I am confused as to whether to be confused or not. It just kills me.

Emotions seem like choices to me. It is so easy to predict when I am going to get angry. It really becomes a choice then- do I go ahead and become angry or control my temper? It probably shouldn’t be like that. But if it is, then it is right? Hell to probability.

The most hated man on Earth is not Osama but Murphy. No arguing that. But not many know who he is. Not that we all know who Osama was. But giving a care is like following rules in Chennai-redundant.

At times things make absolutely no sense, at other times, things seem as if they are nicely drawn bath with awesome fluids in it to make you feel good, but they come at a price, always.

There is so much of nonsense out there that it should be free, but we end up paying for it anyway- education apparently.

Never expect people to make you happy. But if you do- read Dostoevsky or try reading. Or even better read Rushdie.

The world has always been crazy- it just seems crazier because we seek sanity more than ever before. Stop watching TV and get to reality- it should set you alright.

But if the crazies bores or wears you down just project some more of that TV nonsense into reality or simply switch the channel to NDTV.

Corruption is like honey potatoes. You have no clue which part of the world it was invented in, but everyone thinks it tastes good.

In the end all that is going happen is that everything is going to end. The problem of course is knowing where is the end. After all we are nothing but a ray seeking an end. For some humour died with the Docomo ads.

DEMIAN by HERMANN HESSE(book review)

DEMIAN BY HERMANN HESSE

Complete, contemplative and beautiful!

The story of Sinclair the narrator how he grew up and the influence of his friend Demian on his life. Simple yet powerful, this coming of age book is like no other.

Hermann Hesse is one of favorite authors. His writing has this force which is calm yet stimulating. While his protagonist is clever, knowledgeable and talented he is still brash, raw and innocent. One cannot but help identifying with him and in my case, this book is a landmark, just like how Siddhartha was. Like Siddhartha here too the protagonist is someone who moves from the existing conventions and lives a life of his own.

Hesse gives you hope, while reminding you that there are many obstacles you have to conquer- the biggest being yourself. The writing doesn’t merely appeal to you- it talks to you. While the book was intended to represent how a generation felt(Hesse has published it under a pseudonym as he felt that youngsters would feel that an older person will not understand how they feel), it is universal and personal at the same time.

The beauty lies in the simplicity of the writing and the depth of the theme. The book brings in art, music, writing, spirituality and religion- factors that influence and have a grip on you. The book is truthful and makes you think. To me it brought back memories of earlier times. In a way it reminded me of where I am today and because of what and gave me a renewed confidence.

I could completely identify with Sinclair, though Demian and his mother seem rather mystic. But that is part of the book- as everyone else except the author are influences that appear in the person’s life. There are some among humanity, who live with, for and because of a greater force, the characters in this book are such.

Simple and powerful, this is a must read book.

rating:- 9/10

Change

They say nothing is constant except change, but no one seems to have any change! I treasure change- no way would I part with 5, 10 or even 20 Rs. , I need to have enough of ‘em! As it is, bargaining with the Auto drivers is madding, I am not going to fall for the no change excuse- no sir!

The summer is here, already. It drove in a Nano, whizzing past the Altos, Autos and well the thermometer got all hot for it apparently. Hopefully it knows that Nanoes are prone to catch fire- time we replace our veins and arteries with Havells?

Too many things happening, though everyone seems to be talking only about the World Cup. Time for hockey to get a jockey- the next best thing to naked you see?

Bad jokes apart, I am busy playing a game with the universe. And I think we have a NDA(Non-disclosure agreement), so can’t say much about it. Well expect:-

1) One can become calm without studying B.calm.

2)Catch 22.

That book was amazing! I did hear many people couldn’t get past the first page- blame you not- that is why it is really good! Catch 22, you see? My life is being defined by these ridiculous books and terrible books(the ones authors send me- one fellow even spammed me for giving a thumbs down!), which frankly I am enjoying.

But on the down side, reading a lot means, I cannot write. And anyway, my brain is dead, almost. Guess I haven’t done anything intellectually challenging for a long time now. It probably is going to take a lot of effort to get it back alive- maybe I should eat Aliva?

The heat is unbearable! And for the first time in my life- no proper summer holidays! I feel all grown up- need to keep reminding myself, that I am only 19.

No exams for 2 years! Doesn’t that sounds wonderful? Apparently not, for some. Not that the exams are challenging or anything. See, now I sound all snobbish, which I am not. I am just a normal person, who suddenly seems to like using ‘I’ a lot.

But of course no one thinks I am normal. I am so used to standing out in a crowd that, that has become my way of blending in. You know that lemon slice on your drink? Some love to give it a squeeze, others just look at it curiously, while the rest throw it out without another thought.

I am of course, not a lemon slice, I used to be, maybe, but not now. What is the point in trying to make friends anyway? I have enough of them(they can be counted with one hand) to keep me happy for now.

Anyway, take care, be nice and use nycil, nicyl or however you write it.

Thinking aloud

Congratulations to Egypt and her people. To stand up without ammunitions, with only peace, hope and belief as their weapons, they have achieved something which many of us had written off as impossible.

Like rest of the world, I am just another sympathizer. Fair enough, because it did not happen close to my home or in my country. But when people tweet and retweet, when they post updates on facebook and write about in their blogs, I wonder, why don’t we have the guts to stand up.

Each and every day, I come across stories of horror fueled by corruption and spread by a supposed invincibility. We all know. Most of us dismiss as ‘normal’ and conclude ‘what can I do’. But when people can say things on twitter, when many Indians can waste time on facebook liking pages about TV shows and trying to become tycoons and millionaire farmers, why can’t we stand up? Why can’t we make the buffoons realize that we will not tolerate it.

I am not talking about the poor. I am not talking about those people, who we think do not exist. I am talking about you and me, who are ready enough to bribe a police man when caught, who are ready enough to curse the same police man and at the same time sympathize with him. I am talking about us hypocrites.

We live in a pseudo-democracy. We are in times when newspapers are willing to accept money for publishing articles, when news channels no more report but propagate, when you no more know what is reality.

All of us,know about a particular man who was behind the whole Commonwealth games and what he did. We tweeted, we created facebook pages, but why weren’t we able to do anything about it? Because we accepted it as right. Right of that class of this country to steal and do whatever they want. We are sadly, happy enough to sit in our A/C rooms and cabins and let things pass. We are couch/recliner rebels. We dare not do anything about it- for our rights begin and end with being able to talk about something.

We are expected to believe that one man can steal unbelievable amounts of money. We are willing to let ourselves be divided in every way possible, without doing anything about it. We are willing to accept that it is alright for traffic to be blocked for hours for one person to go.

A certain Sen, can be put behind bars, without 99% of the country having heard about the case. And the media shall show you an actor’s wedding even when there are floods or droughts in another part of the country.

We are in a free country. But every choice has a cost- the cost of choosing to stand up for our rights is increasing even as we brush aside everything as ‘normal’ and go on with it. We cannot support our neighbours when they are pressured by certain people, we cannot fight for those people whose lands are stolen, we cannot even be without paying for a college seat.

It is depressing to think about these things. The choices we have are- a) take the ‘wheel of the bus , b) get out of the bus , c) show support to someone who is willing to take the ‘wheel. Most of us can’t drive a two-wheeler properly, so let alone a bus. We cannot get out of the bus, simply because we are in the middle of a jungle and do not know where to go. But if someone is willing to take the ‘wheel, why don’t you show support?

We do need someone to take the ‘wheel. Unfortunately, to appeal to the masses, to garner support from the educated Indians who work in big offices, you need a lot more than them merely having faced the blunt of the various negative forces. They are like fishes, who refuse to believe that a bigger pond is just a jump away today. Tomorrow our pond is going to become so small, that we are going to die here.

To the usual readers of this blog, these things I say are nothing new. I ask myself what have I done? Nothing. I am just another 19-year-old who refuses to grow up – I still believe in those good things which people said when I was a kid. I wish I can do something. But I have come to realize that that something should be big enough to not fall. It will be hard work, to build this force, brick by brick, but I am willing to do it. What is in my head, stays in my head, till then.

The above might be just to convince myself that I am not turning a blind eye to the things that bother me, but I am hoping that isn’t the case. Youth Unite was an experience. I saw how people react when posed with even a simple thing like writing about what they think on various issues. I will continue to have hope and believe in what I believe.

End of rant. Thank you for reading.

Sometimes Witty, Sometimes Vetti

Life is moving so fast that I can walk faster than a car. A car stuck in a traffic jam in T Nagar. But every speeding human, has a ticket to somewhere and mine it seems is to Kerala. Finally a place where my name will be home! The chutzpah of it all. This will be the first time in my life, I will be away from home for 10 days. I am terribly excited and fired up to count the assets before I see them.

Fortunately this time, it is a job which is less tiring. I shall admire the sea,the  nari(wolf? or naari=women?) and the scenery and of course curse the coconut trees that block my view every now and then. That is gross stereotyping of course, but well, I am typing this right now.

I have in a way run out ideas for blog posts. Once upon a time, that would have been a whole post by itself, but that was once upon a time. This week has been pretty busy. Went to one of those big corporates with lots and lots of cubicles and people who kept saying “I don’t have access”. Well at least they all can excel. Word. Power to point out a bad font.

I want to write more stories. So planning to post a story a week. The first two were inspired by Chennai. Do read them, if you haven’t already. And if you have, hope you liked them.

Now that my vetti-time is over and I have run of anything witty. Tata!

The Artist

She sat on a wooden stool next to a stub. Her hand moved over the cavernous canvas, freely sketching a parapraxical tree.

A thick, short trunk which called upon an infinite foliage. The olive melt into the bright green- an iridescent plaque of herself to be hung on a sour cream wall of a monstrous mansion. Her passions tempered into a 30 inch hypotenuse, the diagonal to the quenching quadrilateral.

Behind her a seemingly infinite jungle made of imported trees, with eyes prying and mice hiding from venomous snake in rat holes – a montage to the erogeneity of the city. In front of her a perfect boulevard, leading to a monumental arch, commemorating the thesauri of a linguist state.

Yet, neither the painted jungle nor the built arches inspired her. The tree which once belonged there and had cast its shadow to the dusty traveller and the hopeless migrant, was now a marginal stub- cut and left to grow mushrooms, moved her enough to empathies and create.

She sat there, dreamily, unaware of the snide sarees and disgruntled dothis- the gossip mongers and jinn eyed obnoxious self-professed moralists, who knew none better than to judge. Her world moved faster than the time it took the sweat to trickle down from her forehead to her brows. She was in a canopy of dreams and azure blues, beyond the jaded varnish of a painted plants and polythene leaves.

On the stub, stood her paints, strew around and left a mark or two of colours on the once magnificent Banyan. The clock milled along second by second, exasperated, waiting for the artist to reach the poignant final stroke, so that it could stop itself and look at the world for a moment. The Janusian winds urged the dead leaves to rustle a bit more on the cobbled paths and moved the fountains to spray drops on to her enchanting face.

Her hands moved faster than the dissonant traffic, that screamed away past the red lights into junctions of copping helmets. Her face gleamed brighter than the setting sun, the awakening neon lights and the impending moonlight. As the day set into the inevitable night, a sudden chill thrust itself on the painted tree and the paint flowed no more.

In desperation, he searched for her and her work, but none was around. Neither a stub, nor a stool. All that remained were bright lights of the newly laid pathway and flowers with name boards. The trees swayed silently, absorbing the din, the jinn and malign.

As he came to his senses, he realized that it was a dream. A young girl with her mother walked by- there was a book in her hand whose cover he recognized.

Sometimes all it takes is a leap to create faith

He stood at the balcony- he was a score stories high.

He watched as the evening sun dealt its oblique rays on to the transgressed shore. The waves crashed in hope to win back the mile they had lost to the thick boulders of the city. Under the heavy cloud of the city’s spirit and pollution, the panorama was breath taking, literally.

He was long used to the choke and wicked whispers of this city built by Britannia and concrete. The bridges that seemed to connect, also cut through the arteries and brought to an end the tracks left by the last generation. Anachronistic cenotaphs to iconoclasts and sensationalists, served to remind anyone who would look- the origins of the parimutuel progress of the city’s neighbourhoods.

Today, he stood on the balcony with a railing painted black and potted plants hanging in proportional chains looking at the sunset, waiting for the right moment, to do what he wanted to do.

The sparrows, parrots and crows, flew in tight groups keeping shape, towards their distant homes, cemented into the souls of every growing area. The decadent heart, was slowly being to be troubled by the clandestine wheels, which clogged the cycles and caused the tired black cells to curse and honk their way to a place of hopeful quite and peace.

The city with its sundering cacophony was a furlong away from where he was- caught in the mesmerising magic of the sunset. The ravenous sun, which scorched hard on works and toils, was now bidding its adieu for a few hours. It first dipped behind the miranda glasses of an assurance company- he moved a couple steps and could see it again. It then hid behind the veils of a corporate- he again moved.

The sun now hung, on a few yards of open horizon, between the corporate and a newspaper company. It pressed on now, a few yards from the translucent waters of the sea. By now he was at the end of the balcony. To get a better view he climbed over the spiky railing and stood confident on the edge.

A crowd gathered below- reporters hoped to scavenge a scandal,  police to ponder a rescue and others out of abject curiosity. He saw the finally minuscule crimson dive- he jumped.

As the crowd rushed fast towards him, he heard them scream and could feel the din. He was a star- he was a son of the sun. When they noticed who he was, the crowd was stupefied and a wail hung over.

The implications- the heir to the horizon of bridges had leapt over a rail! The parks laden with waste newspapers, airport with incomplete hangers! The shock. Who would bear the riots and rage of the malevolent men?

But their worst fears failed to come alive. He hung on from a shock cord. The sun after all never dies- it sets, only to returns to arise and awake.

The crowd noticed he wasn’t who they supposed. Neither was he a bud with two leaves – he was a someone, who they never knew was there.

Sometimes all it takes is a leap to create faith.