I am Jwngshar

Reminiscence

2011-09-03T14:58:00.001+05:30

When beauty's a soft whisper.. And love's just a sigh..
Your life's just a rainy day.. as tears roll by..
And the whisper and the sigh.. its all that you could ever wish for..
When our dreams no longer have you and I..

Personal reflections

2011-02-06T23:15:00.004+05:30

I hate getting comfortable with anything.. makes me feel like I am missing out on real action somewhere else.. hence I get real restless when I feel I am getting comfortable..

The becoming of life

2010-08-19T06:05:00.002+05:30

Callously grown seeds of innocence brutally mowed down in the desert of materialistic knowledge and selfishness, that’s what we all are.
Inexorable existence is what we are doomed to live through.
Wish I could start afresh; wish I could start everything anew.

Sublime notions with subtle sarcasm overflow this river of thought;
When the levee breaks, I wonder, “would I wish for the drought?”

Sublime thoughts that rain down upon the parched terrain of my brain;
The mellowed tunes of experience in the hall of wisdom
Reminiscent of what we should not have done and what life itself has become.

The Cemetary

2010-06-28T03:11:00.001+05:30

And there, nigh upon the river bank, lay the two burial grounds: one where the graves were marked by marble tombstones with the names neatly etched upon them and pretty flowers grew in well-trimmed neat rows, reinforcing the sanctity and solemnity of death of those who had the money to spare to be buried in a rich manner as that which suits the ones of noble birth.

The other one which bore no boundaries except for those shrubs and small trees that grew wildly at will and in no particular order, stretching to where to where opportunities lay and defiling themselves in a crude, unorganized manner, for they reflected no beauty of any sorts, as the one that befits those who lay buried in them, nameless and deprived in death as they were in life.

Melancholy remains of the past

2010-06-28T03:05:00.001+05:30

Like the lost pages of an old chapter in my book of memories, the past disappears,
Slowly withering away, with the faded lines and yellowed surface.
Bits of joy strewn upon the lives that lay far apart upon those pages,
Are now blotted like the stray droplets of ink upon the leaves of my book,
And not a moment of idleness walks past me now,
Without a tinge of grief, upon the loss of the past
Even as new stories are being written incessantly.

On The Turning Away

2010-04-08T18:26:00.003+05:30

Too often had he procrastinated; too often had he shied away from facing the truth. It was about time he confessed what he had done and what he regretted and would regret his entire life.

He was a simple man condemned to be tormented by perpetual sorrow. It was not that he did not try to be happy. He tried in umpteen manners. He had chased away his unseen fears and locked up his reticent being, in an effort to kill the pain and to bring to him better hopes of the life ahead.

There was a time when the rejection to his plea for love brought him down to utter misery.

He felt humiliated every time he called and received no reply.

The cool wind blew across his room and mingled with the smoke he exhaled. The placid silence of the night soothed his loneliness.

Marianne Faithfull in her prime was singing in a sweet melodious voice a weeping song that bore the sound of days long gone; distant moments lost to time.

He had become vain and spiteful. He scribbled in an utterly illegible hand:

“Oh where can I hide the torment of the past?
The melancholy chimes that ring in my head.”

“Lost is the droplet in the sea of forbidden dreams.”

Beginnings of Decadence

2010-04-08T18:22:00.001+05:30

Watching the old barren tree with its rotting leaves fallen around it, he sat on his old armchair and pondered. There was a time when the tree was green. There was a time when the tree bore vibrant colored flowers and cheerful fruits. There was a time when its branches swayed with the breeze, ushering in pleasant forebodings and better times. There was a time when he was young and full of life. He could run and walk and do innumerable tasks that required beastly strength. He was indeed a beast of a man, tall, gaunt and unafraid.

Life had drained away since then. He was no longer the virulent, youthful person that he once was. Age had struck him down with sinister motives. His youth waned and gave way to wrinkles, cataract and diseases faintly known to him before. Tormented by varicose veins, he could barely walk a few steps at a time now. He could no longer work and had to rely on his kith and kin that pitied him and brought in two square meals a day.

Restricted to his chair all day long, he had nothing left to do but to think about times gone by, the times that have come and the time that would come by soon. Of course, the times that would come would not be of great promise; because what lies ahead is just death, or days of excruciating pain and humiliation just before death.

He often wondered how it would all end. Would it be painful? Would it be like a blissful afternoon sleep? Or would it be violent and incomprehensible?
It was beyond his ken to lay down the path ahead. He thought and he thought, only to run in circles that grew wider and wider, leading to no end. Sometimes he resigned and thought about his life this moment.

Pathetic, sad, lonely, with most of his near and dear ones already gone, leaving behind just memories and legacies of sorrow and longing, he was leading a life of pain. His hours were spent in fruitless rumination and careless drooling sleep. He wondered if this was what everyone felt like. He tilted his head to his right and looked at the reflection on the window pane. It was a sight not pretty to behold.

He suddenly realized the stillness of the air in the room. There was no breeze left to usher in any tidings. He suddenly grew afraid. He was uncertain of what he saw and what would become of him. He looked away from the reflection and stared blankly at the dying tree. Tears trickled down the folds below his eyes. He was not ready yet for it. He would never be ready for it.

The longest train journey ever..

2010-04-07T02:52:00.001+05:30

Day 1:
It has been close to twenty four hours now as I write this, since the time I boarded this train and it is not yet even half the distance. I do not know what inspired me to undertake this journey. Having experienced it more often than not in the past, I knew that it was a tough task to survive fifty six to sixty hours on a train. It becomes even tougher for me as I do not speak much with strangers and end up keeping silent for unbelievable spans of time. Sometimes, it startles me to hear my own voice during such journeys.
I face a lot of problems due to my silence. I do not complain or fight if my privacy is infringed upon, although I treasure my personal space the most. I hate it when the person next to me takes my newspaper without my permission. I do not like it if a stranger comes and sits beside my head while I am blissfully sleeping. And I hate it the most when my co-passengers turn out to be too talkative and ask too many questions. Trains are the best places to lose your privacy and live amongst complete strangers at their total mercy. It is a monstrous, horrendous, unacceptable thought for me and despite the risk of losing my sanity within the next three days I decided to travel for one last time from Bangalore till Guwahati by train.
I had my reasons for choosing this journey.
1. I am broke. I barely have a grand left in my bank account.
2. I wanted time to read (I know it is a pathetic excuse, but not totally out of place; it is enjoyable to read while traveling.)
3. I wanted to kill time by traveling (and there’s still nobody home…)
4. Enough of congenial modes of transport (flights et al): show me the difficult ways!
Hmmm… fine! Now that I have justified the reasons for choosing this journey, let me go on to describing the first day of the journey.
I spent the first few hours on the train very peacefully. There was no one around me and I was happy. I took my time to set my bed and blanket and slipped off to a comfortable position. I guess I was pretty tired, because I slept off with my specs on and the mobile phone in my hands.
But soon, I woke up with a jerk. Intruders, bloody intruders! They came in hordes and rampaged upon my peaceful kingdom of silent slumber. Yes, my dreaded co-passengers had arrived: Bengali, Oriya, Bihari: God! They come in all shapes and sizes.
Well, that’s me being mean; but believe me, this is all that I can do. Soon, they were all over my luggage, inspecting my bags and shifting them to other seats. I raised a meek protest and got ignored. What the heck, I just went back to sleep. And what the hell, they wake me up to ask me repeatedly what my seat number was. I almost shouted, “R-Tard, read it yourself, its written there!”
The first night was definitely annoying. And then there was this baby that kept crying; and the mom would not care. Early next morning, the baby started wailing again. After about an hour of putting up with its wails, I finally decided to give it a good ugly stare. I made the angriest look I could make and looked at the kid. Shazam!! The kid stops crying pronto! He looks at me with the most amazed stupid look. I began to wonder if he was too scared or something. I felt pity for it and decided to make a funnier face. Bloody, hell, it did not even take him a split second to start laughing like a mad hyena. Damn, I am a cartoon. Maybe if I made a movie of myself without me knowing it, I’d roll all over the floor laughing and saying, “Haha! What a cartoon moron he is!”
I immediately turned away from the kid like turning away from a shark which has just smelled my blood. I occupied myself with the book a close friend had given me to read during my journey. “Cry, The Beloved Country”, Alan Paton: good stuff; touching stuff.
After about two hours of reading, I decided to look out. This is the part I love about train journeys. Any point in time, you look out of the window, you will most likely see verdant plains or the most amazing hills or vast water bodies, flushed reddish and sparkling yellow by the sun, depending upon the time of the day. The lazy buffaloes bathing in the water look back at you and it makes you wonder what they might be thinking, or if they are thinking anything at all.
I spent the first day sleeping, gazing and reading by turns. After the baby scare, I kept to myself. I look forward to what the next day brings for me tomorrow. Lights off for now!
Day 2:
The second day began quite early and thank goodness it started early. I was probably the last person to have brushed my teeth in the morning as the water ran out in the train. I knew that would happen and I made it a point to get up on time. Experience helps. Those times of traveling as an undergraduate in trains have taught me something at least.
I spent the morning reading the book. After a while, a hawker came in to sell newspapers. I bought one for four bucks. He gave me a Telegraph. Bengal already! The newspaper was mostly crappy. No significant news about the country; except for the editorial page and an article by Khushwant Singh, I did not enjoy anything much.
The one thing I like about railways towards Bengal and North East, is the influx of vendors and hawkers. They start bringing spicier stuff: jhaal moori, nimbu chana, singara, masala chaai, nimbu chaai, and what not! You will find unique, inimitable styles of calling out, “SaaaOreees… silik SaaaOreees..”, “Lea-a-der Belllts..”, “Aayyy.. Jhaaaal Moori!”
Apart from the normal hawkers, you will find many fraudsters who ask for donations because they have some sob stories which would only convince the most gullible of souls. But once a while you do meet a few genuine people: like the blind lady I keep meeting every time around Kharagpur. She makes her living by selling incense sticks and she is completely blind. If I were rich, I would have bought all her merchandise every day. She doesn’t look for pity and only sells good stuff. Such people are what the country needs, instead of sick, sycophantic mendicants that crawl all over the country.
Having had enough of the cold A/C air, I decided to stroll out at every station like I used to do when I was a BTech student traveler. It used to be fun: walking around, tasting every local snack, spotting pretty women in other coaches, stealing a quick smoke from the prying eyes of the officials: well, it sure used to be so much fun.
I am not so young anymore to be soaking in every experience like I used to do before, but yes, I am a little more reflective than before. The myriad feelings that strike me and well over within me can scarcely be captured in words, but I can say that whatever I see in the life along the railroads makes me feel more humane, vulnerable and humble. It makes me feel a pang of guilt and sympathy for the people who depend on the rails for two square meals a day. I see men without legs, struggling to get on board the train from the platform, so that they can sell beads, statues, toys and what not. They crawl along the crowded aisles, crying in their nasal voices, which few heed, hoping for the one customer to take a liking for their stuff and buy it from them so that they can buy their meal instead of licking leftovers from the pantry car plates that obese passengers do not care for and throw away. I start feeling sorry for these men and women. I start hating my meaningless existence which has so far only created baseless pain for others and me. It calls to me to find the purpose of our existence in this earth amidst such unjust nature of affairs.
Disappointed with myself at my haplessness and futility, I resigned to my books again. I had nearly completed the Alan Parton book and I had enough time left to finish another short one. But I decided instead to take a break and look around. My nemesis had woken up: the baby was up and running. Oh well, he remembered me and gave me a smile, probably half expecting me to do some clownish antics. Yes, yes, laugh while you can kid. When you grow up you are going to be just like your father who just, “OWWWW”, stepped on my toe and did not even say sorry. Damn! People do not realize where their feet are. A mute beast that I am, I just withdrew my foot and looked out the window.
The day is fading away outside. The golden hue of the sun colors the meadows and gives everything around a certain glow that makes one skip a breath at the beautiful surroundings. It is hard to believe that even under such divine circumstances there is no space within us to share gentle feelings amongst us humans, so as to quietly appreciate the joys that we have in nature and to not waste our time bickering about egg prices and handkerchief sets. The day ends on a sad note nevertheless: What have we humans become!
Day 3
Did I mention that Day 2 ended on a sad note? Hell, forget about that, day 3 just began in the saddest manner possible: the only pretty girl in my coach just got off at NJP station with her family (NJP = New Jalpaiguri). Ah, there goes my heart, sinking like the Titanic. (Oh, yes, my heart is that big.)
And here comes the replacement: Marwaris! The last thing I needed. Damn, these people are rich (mostly) and I have seen them trying to throw their weights around more often than not; and they are heavy.
But thankfully, it was the last leg of the journey and I did not have to open up much. The train was surprisingly on time. I arrived at Guwahati early in the morning. I desperately needed a smoke. And yes, in good old Guwahati, everybody smokes; everybody!
I let the memories come flooding in as I take the first step towards home. Good to be back once a while.

Lament

2010-03-20T00:44:00.000+05:30

And you float on..
With rubber ducks and silly hopes..
While the rain rages on...
Washing us away across unknown slopes..

Where we go from here, you do not care..
You do not care if the daffodils lament..
The babbling brook assuages your pain..
And drags you further into the descent..

The wind and me

2010-02-06T07:19:00.001+05:30

On the commencement of the void
I look beyond the brown wooden window.
Seasons change and the leaves fall to a final swirl of life
And dance about in a whirlpool of untamed wind,
Flirting with the fickle dirt and dust that oblige,
Resting in the soporific wind.
Ah, the crafty wind;
The wind that carried promises of better times below,
Beckons the homeless clouds
To join the merry band
And they rain down on the silly leaves
And wash the dust away.
And then,
With a sinister howl of laughter,
She slams the window upon my face.

The Flautist

2010-02-06T05:23:00.010+05:30

And when he laid his eyes upon her, the fires of hell spawned within him. His eyes sparkled in her gentle radiant light and he could feel his feet no more. And the air around him grew thinner while he gasped in sheer agony and tightly grasped the flute that he bore in his sweaty palms. His music could never be as sweet as the tinkling of her soft laughter. It echoed within his head and turned his world upside down. His hopes rose to dizzying heights. He was trapped in a stolen glimpse of a beautiful moment in time.

It took but a fleeting instant of brief realization of how unseeming the circumstances actually were, to bring him crashing down to the maddening state of hopelessness and futility. The joyful colors faded and his vision sunk to gray shades of despairing gloom. He cursed the unfairness of life and his fate of being a poor, ugly, lowly flautist, who dreamt of unparalleled grandeur, but who could never make it. The blackness of the night that hid his shame and disgrace seemed to be the only solace to him.

But, it was broad daylight and there was nowhere to hide. He could barely resist glancing up again. He raised his eyes and took one look. The world began to glow again.

Metamorphosis

2009-09-10T16:44:00.000+05:30

Shrunk into a puny dragonfly I frantically thrash about the lilliputian deluge caused by the incessant rain pouring from the heavens cursing the very existence of life under dead circumstances where life itself is what I am now; begging to be spared from the fatal fate that lies ahead of me.

Ramble

2009-09-10T16:39:00.001+05:30

Crushed by the untamed winds of time and change, my wings lie torn and my drooping shoulders bear no mark of the man I once was and the man I dreamed to become. I am no longer the king and I no longer have the pride. My kingdom calls for my blood as my tyranny yields to a democracy of pigs led to power by dumb sheep and drunken shepherds.

Dzorkian ramble

2009-09-10T02:27:00.000+05:30

Blown to bits by a neo nuclear atomic gun I lie in fragments of bitter humiliation waiting for the cosmic powers to redeem my radioactive soul that cries in the agony of being separated from the one body that had faithfully supported my life system for the past 12 life cycles. I guess there will be no 13th one for me.

The Spaceship trooper

2009-09-10T02:22:00.001+05:30

I just got enrolled into the space corps. They are sending me to the outermost frontiers of the galaxy where the intergalactic terrorist forces have joined hands to blow apart the last standing alliance of the humans and alpha-Dzorkians.

I might not return my friend. But I swear I shall fight till the last drop of my blood dries out.

A trip from Bangalore to Chennai

2009-06-17T11:50:00.004+05:30

[My attempt to write a travelogue]

“I was lost in a mire of chaos, uncertain of the horrors that might be lying beneath the mud filled sludge. I was scared. I was alone. I had to get away. And then there was hope.”

Traveling holds a certain unmatched thrill that brings in me a sense of being free from the man made confinements of civilization and the unnatural lives that we lead. One fine day during the summer season, I was on board a Chennai bound bus from Bangalore. It was the usual disappointing stay in Bangalore_ pubs, liquor, world cup, music, jamming and a certain inexplicable void within. I was looking forward to the exhilarating experience of being on the move again.

The best part about the highways around Bangalore is the hills, overlooking the lush green fields and the tiny human settlements. The barren hills seem to be slowly overcome by the greenery rebelling vehemently against the unyielding rocks, in an eon long alliance with the rains. Do they fight in vain? Do they wither away in during the frosty, arid winters?

The mist veils the distance as it rains somewhere far away and holds an enigma in the hills. Is it a dream in the distance that evades perception, or is it an illusion?

Naked kids take a plunge into the yet-to-be-toxic youthful ponds in innocent glee, unaware of the troubled waters in life ahead. And the hills continue, like brothers in arms.

Bargur, kingdom of hills and rocks, crowned by the monsoon clouds; coconut trees waving to the wayfarers as the azure skies kiss the weakened sun.

Period.

We passed into the shadow of the clouds. The wind blows the fickle dust about in pent up anger and brings in the rain. Heavy droplets of water lash down upon the roads, the leaves of grateful trees, the parched earth and the laminated glass window of my bus. The crystal clear rain bathes the travel stained roads with freshness. In the horizon I spy upon a land where the sun still shines, showering a golden hue to everything it reaches out to. And it looks heavenly.

The speeding bus overtakes the oblivious clouds and we finally reach Natrampalli, where the sweat and toil of the farmers bear fruit in the form of the green crops, marked by solitary Mango trees nurturing their seeds within the ripe fruits. The grey clouds behind dissolve into nothingness with the placid skies.

There are hills with bald patches at the tops and others with green hair like a crew cut head of a soldier. Unruly uncultivated foliage grows in mayhem beneath the lean, graceful coconut trees. Private lands with painted fences look like the braided hair of a maid from far.

Somewhere near Vanyampadi, there are hills that look like elephant heads stuck at the necks like Siamese quadruples with a baby elephant hill safely stuck in between. The slopes of the hills are marked by the incisions made by the water that must have chosen those paths to trickle down to the welcome plains whenever it rained. There was one particular hill that stood out. I named it “Black sheep hill”. It was brown amongst the greenly populated hills.

In between Vanyampadi and Ambur, I came across a peculiar set of hills that I call “U-hills”. This particular stretch of hills was joined to each other in a U shape unlike the usual V shape of joints.

Dark clouds wait ahead to greet me again, while its sunny elsewhere in the world. A lone chimney coughs out the smoke from its lungs of industry and fire, while the ignorant sheep graze away the grass that lie immobile in abundance. Red flowers blossom on trees and they giggle and play around gracefully in the wind like pretty young ladies showing off the colors of youth and hope. The hills look sad and forlorn here. Forsaken by the helpless sun, abused by man. But hope waits in the green mutiny at their feet.

Sugarcane fields meet the eye and the “Lone-head hill” stands behind them in its grandeur as you pass Pallikonda. Lone-Head hill. I named him so. It has rocks on top that form the silhouette of a perfect human face. A perfect long straight one that I’d like to own, grave eyes that speak volumes of its intensity within, and a tree below that makes it look like it has a beard like Abraham Lincoln’s.

The clouds that crown the hills form myriad shapes that inspire childlike imagination. One with the shape of a wolf stretches forward with its forepaws outstretched as if reaching out to a helpless prey doomed to fall to a greater predator in the eco cycle.

There was another hill I came across that has a gorilla head on its top, with a haughty, angry look on its face.

How I wish I could tread upon those hills and watch the world below scamper about in its machinated hustle and bustle. It has been my desire to travel someday on my own along those highways and behold all the unfabricated, natural scenic beauty that is everywhere untouched my man. The time is yet to come. But in my determination to escape the monotony of our brittle, shallow lives, I will do that someday soon.

Ostracized

2009-06-16T00:28:00.008+05:30

I lay upon the musty smelling rug thrown over a cold concrete slab that was meant to be my bed. It has been many days now. No news yet from the outside. It was sheer madness. I knew that it was sheer madness. But I had to do it. It seemed a hell lot like retribution from my past; the past of a thousand unimaginable, unforgivable, unregistered sins. No sensible man would do it. No practical man would even think twice about it. But then again, it was me. And I am a unique being; one in a billion or so.

Hence it was inevitable that I had to seek quarters more elevated than the rest of the common folk. Therefore I was condemned to restrict myself to a patch of land that I had acquired, moving out only to buy the regular supplies. I had no friends left; all the birds of sunny weather had flown on after taking shelter in my realm during the stormy seasons.

"Fly away", I said. "But do call on me if you need more assistance."

I always had a strange grandeur in my way of offering help. I was always generous and profusely devoted my time in helping those who were less fortunate. But then after all the experience I have had, all that it summed up to was that absence makes the mind grow dimmer. No regrets there. Anyway, no one is as intelligent as I am or as elevated as I am. Hence I live alone and no one dares encroach upon my solitude.

But then, the heart is a fickle organ, beating away merrily, without an iota of thought. The heart is devoid of reason; which I would rather call stupid. This stupid heart longs for company sometimes and I yearn to talk to those whom I loved long times ago. I long for their company and their presence. But this wait is futile. I know it because I also know how vain I am. For all the pride that I have in myself, I still am just a vain loser. Hence, I live here, secluded, deluded and discontent. This is madness as everyone would say. I say it too. But then, to what end do I leave my self-imposed exile for?

Nah! I just close my eyes to everything else and focus on myself and live on till I die. What else do I need? Pah! I need to write...

I got up from the bed and moved to the table, topsy-turvy with torn pages and blank sheets. I sat on the dilapidated wooden chair that I had lifted from the house that was broken down recently by the municipality. No one had lived there anyway for ages. I should have flicked it before, I thought... and I started writing... horrible imbecile rantings..

Useless musings.. only a wretch could be writing this and the one who reads this is no less wretched... accursed fellows doomed to live on..

Goodmorning Sunshine!

2009-06-05T21:41:00.002+05:30

[A beautiful morning in a village in Assam, my motherland of unparalleled beauty]

When the cocks crow in the morning, it is barely daylight in the village. Yet, there is no room for lazy morning extended naps for those who rely upon the seasonal harvest for their livelihood. Indeed, it would be astounding for a city-dweller who was born and brought up amongst the mid-day hustle and bustle of the metros, to find such hectic activity in the early parts of the day.

Having grown up in the village, Sunil Lal was quite used to the din at sunrise. He opened his eyes and slowly sat up on the bed. His wife had already been up half an hour ago. There was cooking to be done for all the twelve of the family members and the 11 local hands that had been hired to help with the planting of paddy. The wife of the head of the family had to take charge of the kitchen, which otherwise would run into utter disarray under the chaotic daybreak circumstances. Sunil Kumar was one of the richest farmers in the region. He was also the village head and school headmaster.

It was not this rosy before. His roots lay in a poor landless family. For forty years of his life, he toiled harder than the bullocks that pull wobbly carts. He sacrificed his higher education to take care of his siblings when their father died. It was a slow rise to where he is now. But it did result in good things and now he was very well off. He was a content man, determined to do no wrong and help those who were less fortunate than he was.

Like he did every morning, Sunil first ambled down to the well to brush his teeth and wash up. The day seemed to be progressing as usual. The spawning of sunlight, the emergence of dew drops on the tips of the grass blades, the occasional draught that blew from the lakeside and the unrest in the pig sty caused by the disgruntled pigs digging around in the mud: these were some of the dozen things that heightened his senses out of the drowsy stupor.

Once the personal activities were done, he proceeded to have his tea with Pithas*. This was a very crucial part of the morning since all the instructions to the hired farmers and laborers were given during his breakfast. In return they would update him on the work done the previous day. It was a very well organized affair where each member efficiently did his part without fail. For the past decade or so, things had been nearly the same every year. Sunil was not a man who liked too many changes. If he were to foretell the future, he would have predicted the same things that happened this year for the next.

After a hearty meal, he patiently supervised the various chores that occupy the entire morning: feeding the pigs, casting the net over the pond to separate the breeds of fishes, tending to the cows and goats. The day seemed to have started very well for Sunil, although he was a little concerned about the swine flu rumors that were making rounds everywhere. The only other concern for him was the faint memory of a slight tiff he had the other day with a surrendered militant who was working for the local politician. The politician was a corrupted individual, much to the dislike of Sunil. Although he harbored no political ambitions of his own, he was quite interested in the political developments and was determined to do his part in choosing the right people to govern the region.

But the disturbing thoughts were soon conquered once again by the pressing need to hurry and get ready as the children and he himself were getting late for school. The school ran on meager funds and he always had to run helter-skelter to meet higher officials to plead their cause. The percentage of students who cleared the 10th standard exam had drastically improved from a mere 23% to 40% under his disciplined leadership. But he wanted more. The state standards were close to 60%. He had high hopes for the next year and wanted to do everything possible to improve the education levels in the village. He often thought of his own children, the eldest of whom would be appearing for matriculation exam in two years. He himself could never go beyond a bachelor’s degree due to his father’s premature death. But his children should do well. Why not? He had taught them all he could. Money was no longer an issue. Sunil believed that not much can go wrong if well planned. All that a person needs to do is to complete his responsibilities well, help those who are less fortunate and have faith in God. Everything falls into place.

Sunil’s fears were allayed; at least for a while. He loved his children and his wife; and he loved his birthplace. Yes, everything should fall into place: maybe next year.

With these thoughts, he completed wearing his trademark white shirt and brown trousers, and the old leather chappals, cracked at the edges. The youngest son was just finishing wearing his shirt. There was a button missing near the belly. He reproached his son for not bringing it to the notice of the mother. But that had to be attended to later. Lifting his son up, he proceeded towards his cycle. The elder son had his own cycle. Together they cycled down the mud path cut between the fields.

Sunil felt a sudden surge of happiness, as if he was young once again. He remembered his teenage days when he used to run around half naked in these fields, bathing in the crystal blue stream that flowed past the village outskirts, climbing trees and chasing cattle. Time has elapsed between then and now, he mused.

Life is beautiful, he thought. He prayed silently for the happiness to continue.

Just around the bend where the mud path reached the gravel road, there was the school. He set his son down as the elder one cycled on. The locals who were passing by greeted him and he stopped to return the greetings after sending his son off. They treated the headmaster with great reverence. They exchanged news about their respective kith and kin and passed on.

After seeing them off, Sunil turned around to head back towards the school. There was a motor bike approaching with a droning sound from behind. He could feel it heading towards him and he turned around once again. It stopped a few feet away from him. They were very young boys. Identifying them to be school dropouts, he prepared himself to confront them and took a step towards them.

And then the pillion rider took out a gun and shot four bullets into him. He did not miss.

Life is beautiful. Things do fall into place, don’t they?

*Pitha: Assamese snack made of rice flour, sugar and coconuts.

In the cell

2009-06-03T14:23:00.003+05:30

Had it been a sunny day, when the golden hue of the sun kisses the fresh greenery over the meadows and the trees where birds cry in distant sweetness bringing in the love of life and hope of the bright times to come, he would have smiled and waved away all worries that pester the mind throughout life.

Had it been a green meadow where he was lying around watching belled, spotted cows grazing away, lazily gazing into the distance at what none perceived and what only the cows knew and saw, he would have gaily looked on in unison with the merry cattle folk.

Had he been a cow, a beast of bondage, yet so carefree and content, and protected by lack of knowledge and freedom from insubstantial constraints, rules and regulations, free to graze, cry and moo at will and sleep under a shed made of thatch with wide holes gaping at the sky in the night, he would have been happier.

But sadly, he was only a poor man in a dilapidated jail cell where the only colors that greeted his eyes were the grayness of the walls and the blackness of the night, living amongst rats, convicted for the murder of a drunken teenager who misbehaved to him at the bar. And in his drunken stupor, he struck him down with great anger and vengeance, lifting a vacant metal stool by his side and bringing it down heavily upon the teenager’s young skull that cracked without further ado, rendering the young man dead in an instant.

The convict thought and thought over again and again about what had happened on that particular fateful day. Had the fat, bald pompous fellow who was sitting on the stool twenty minutes before, not left, the stool would not have been vacant and he would not have anything to hit the boy with. Had he not decided to skip his night shift to drop by at the bar and have a drink, he would have never met such a fate. Had he decided to just sleep, embracing the warmth of his bed, ignoring the blabbering VJ on TV, he would never have been in jail.

There was not a moment when he did not regret what he did and no moment of hope flickered before his eyes. It was over now and the moment was gone. Gone forever was the day when he was a young man of twenty two, freshly graduated and with hopes of making it big someday, someway. Gone were the days when he would spend time in the evenings, walking with her, holding hands, promising each other undying loyalty and love. Gone were those dreams that every young man has and waits and works towards the doom of many such dreams.

It was over. He looked down at the moist ground, holding his forehead with both his hands, elbows rested on his knees. there was nothing he could do anymore. And he cried.

Promises and dreams are anyway meant to be broken.

The Clown

2009-06-03T14:21:00.000+05:30

The master of the ring pompously ushered in the trapeze swinger who had performed a minute ago and uninvited, the clown made his entry, leaping and frolicking about, with a smile painted to his face, imitating the cheerful carefree nature of a child and a fool. The ring master turned back to chase him off, but in an agile maneuver, possible only for a two and a half feet tall dwarf, he eluded the tall man and weaved through his legs, waving at the joyous crowd who cheered and waved back and applauded him.

The ring master decided to avoid him and called forth Ranjit, the lion tamer. The lion tamer and his lion courteously ambled in, with a majestic air about them. The crowd stared in awe at how daring Ranjit seemed and how tame a lion could be. For a fleeting moment, no one recalled the Clown. But his act was not yet over and he lingered on, waiting for the moment he could act foolish again and incite the wrath of one of his circus members and the laughter of the audience. So, when the lion was forced to open its jaws so that Leela, Ranjit’s wife could insert her head between them, risking her head to be chewed off, the clown saw the perfect opportunity to act bold and courageous enough to stop her and risk his head instead. The mere reappearance of the clown in the tense and gripping presence of a dangerous wild beast brought a wave of relief and joy amongst the crowd. And they hooted and laughed, forgetting all they had feared and all that reality held in wait for them in their lives.

Juggling, swinging, singing and grinning, the clown saw the crowd through the circus acts, ensuring that they smile and forget their worries for a while. In the end, he allowed himself to be shot as a cannonball alongside Sheena the cannon girl, swearing to bear the same fate as the pretty lady would, for he would rather die than live on after failing to dissuade her from taking such a drastic action. But as planned, nothing went wrong and they both survived.

One of the clown’s favorite acts was pulling the ring master’s leg. People loved to see the man in charge being made a fool by the rebellious clown; someone who went against authority. The crowd loved the clown as long as he made his presence known by his random mischief, stupidity and vain bold attempt to act valiantly in face of threats and dangers. The clown did all that a principled chivalrous man would do. It was not funny. But the audience laughed mindlessly anyway.

When the show ended, the crowd dispersed with smiles glued to their lips and children happily imitating their heroes of the day. The clown retired to the changing room, the smile still painted to his face. Behind the mask of paint, was a man of about thirty two. Bereft of a family, he did not have many responsibilities towards anyone but himself. Making people laugh was about all he could do and it came easily to him. People loved to make fun of him anyway due to his short stature. All he needed to do was act foolish and become the butt of their jokes and obscure his feelings and disfigurement behind the smiling mask. Sometimes, he slept without washing it off. There was not much life for him without it anyway.

reawakening

2009-06-03T14:20:00.000+05:30

"Waves in the ocean
That wax and wane,
Make futile foams
That rise in vain;
Gleefully flying for the moment...
Just to fall back again..."
They say...

But I am on a new high;
Just upside down;
No wonder the King has lost his crown.
How I wish I were dead.
And I wish I were fine.
Never knew when I crossed that line..

"Your wish is the tear shed in disguise.
And you are much too young to be wise.
Words can't help any more than fools' gold...
And friends can no longer make you feel nice.."

So much for your blabber..
And so much for their slander...
I heed no piper...
Nor shall I wander...
Although the spring is gone...
With words unsaid, and deeds left undone...
There's much left to do..

And while the world sleeps..
Mark my words...I shall return.

The Silver Lining

2009-06-03T14:17:00.001+05:30

(A poem I wrote in my 10th Standard)

I am, but a traveler, thirsty and tired.
Time has forced me to go on, leaving behind all that I admired.

I am alone and insecure
And I don’t know where I am headed for_
Through these silent plains and along the noisy shore.

I have passed my youthful spring
With its fragrant memory
Still lingering
Within me.

Ahead of me is a misty path.
The trickery of the waters hides cruel thorns
That have pricked me foe the umpteenth time
All through the wild runs
And solitary sojourns.

My past has been a motley array of events
The pleasures I had many,
And joys few,
The sorrow colossal
And pain too.

Many faces have I met
And friends I had few,
But none was missed by me
Like I now miss you.

The celestial beauty of your smile
Made it all worthwhile;
For I had stopped to admire you.
Those hazel eyes cleared away the haze.
Mesmerizing that they are,
All that I could do was gaze.
Affable that you are,
You melted down my defenses
And for once I was at peace.
Sanity returned and my life had a new lease.

You did allay my fears,
But only for a moment.
For I am, but a wanderer
And I have to go on
Long after dusk has fallen
And at the crack of dawn;
Far across that vast ocean
To dizzying heights_
To the zenith of life
Through those lonely nights.

You are just a mirage to me;
Promising much; giving nothing.
You came like a whiff of fresh air
And went away like the morning dew in spring.

As I repose here,
Brooding over a dried tear;
The memories come fleeting by
And I know they’ll never sap from my mind
However hard I try,
As I leave you behind.

Your words,
Like sweet bells over the silent peaks
Will resound in my life
And sing in the melancholy streaks.

Your face,
Like the moon,
Will light up my nights
When the sun lies dormant in his sleep.
My dreams of you
Will make me forget
The dread that evil nightmares keep.

I’ll remember your sweet ways,
Smiling at the recollection of the happy days;
The way you laugh
Will make me go insane
With the desire to see you laugh again.

You’ll be somewhere else,
As calm and as beautiful as ever.
Sharing joys wherever you go
Like the ever pleasant spring shower.

I’ll be left the parched earth
When you go away,
The dreams that we had planted,
Like dead flowers, will decay.

It is then that you’ll know
Our little rendezvous has come to an end.
But wherever we may go,
I’ll still remember you and forever be your friend.

Beyond the window: A retrospection

2009-06-03T14:15:00.000+05:30

He sat upon his armchair, resting his feeble wrinkled hand full of calluses upon his bare chest, looking beyond the window, ruminating on what he has left behind and what's left with him, hidden from the world outside the dingy room in which he had exiled himself a decade ago when his wife died of apoplexy of the heart; the one woman who had truly loved him and cared for him for a score and a dozen years, selflessly devoted to him and undeterred by his appalling features and habits of smoking and drinking that haunt every man in his youth and cause discomfort to those around him, of whom his wife was one.

He looked back upon what he had accomplished as a musician adept in a stringed folk instrument that was no longer produced due to its declining popularity amongst the modern crowd who danced to film songs which played hip and happening music with trendy musical instruments that were played all over the country on the radio and television and personal computers, eclipsing his work of art and labor of love.

He still remembered the song he sang to woo his beloved wife before he entranced her in his love with undying promises of a happy, comfortable future in a palace with a hundred servants at her service and beautiful healthy children who would blossom with utmost care and warmth under them and would know not what is pain and poverty, that which was the nightmarish circumstances everyone else he knew was under.

He recollected the times when his friends used to take him along to trespass upon the forbidden premises of the landlord’s mangrove during the mango season to feast upon the ripe fruits harbored by the daunting old wrinkled trees that swayed to no breeze and proudly withstood all creatures of any caste, creed or kind only to be bowled over by angry storms whose rage cared for nobody whether meek or mighty and brought forth the grave dark clouds that blotted out the gay sun warming all that lay naked to him.

He looked at the sun that was setting in the horizon marked by dark outlines of trees that were nowhere in sight when he was a young boy of twelve and had first realized which is east and which is west after he was compelled by his headmaster to write the same in his slate board and repeat it for twenty times or more in front of his whole class, standing on his bench with his knees trembling and his ears warm and face blushing red, embarrassed to the core on being the only one who was picked for this punishment to be inflicted upon.

He raised his eyes up and looked at the children playing in the park below and thought of the times when he used to play with marbles that his dying father bought for him on his seventh birthday for four annas and how he used to have fun frolicking around rolling unused cycle tires with a stick, chasing around the round fat reddish brown hen with its chicks, with innocent glee unmatched in any other period of his life.

He recalled watching his aging father sitting on his armchair with his feeble wrinkled hand full of calluses rested upon his bare chest, looking beyond the window, ruminating on his past life and waiting for the moment he would think no more of what’s gone and what’s to come.

The future had arrived.

Around the corner

2009-06-03T14:14:00.000+05:30

I turned around the corner and stopped. I wasn’t sure if I should walk on. Up ahead of me was an entire new world, the open air, the vast blue sky and umpteen opportunities. I would no longer be what I used to be. I would be a new man with a new life. There would be no more of those lonely nights after coming home from office, waiting for the phone to ring, smoking endless cigarettes, and waiting for someone to remember that I exist. She was far too carefree. I had made up my mind. This can’t carry on. I did the right thing by taking leave of her. I walked on with a false air of having finally gained something.

A yellow cab honked its horn as it went past me.

Yellow. What a beautiful color; it rises in the horizon with the sun and swarms around me in waves of nostalgia like butterflies from the past. It flows past me with the silken breeze caressing my weary thoughts.

She loves the song “Yellow” by Coldplay.

It was way past nine in the morning. I walked on past the colony park. There were not many people there. An old man was sitting on the park bench reading a newspaper. Sitting beside him was an old woman, probably his wife. They made a warm couple. They saw me and smiled. I forced myself to grin and I walked on. The image of me grinning came to my mind.

“Remember the Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland?” , she had once said. “You look exactly like him when you grin. You are my silly Cheshire cat”.

I dug my hands deeper into my coat pocket. It wasn’t cold outside. But I wasn’t warm enough on the inside. My hand clasped onto something cold. I took it out. It was a metal pendant my sister had gifted me. She is now married and happy. It had been a long time since I had last seen her. The pendant was cold and had been forgotten. Everything left alone grows cold and is eventually forgotten. And so will this memory that I have of her.

Like the peal of a thousand bells that reverberate in the perfumed air within divine halls, her laughter would ring in the distant darkness bringing warmth to every corner of my aching heart.

I had to get away. I was torn into shreds by my agony, bitterness and regret. I started running.

She is very used to getting pampered. She is like a child who would rub her eyes with both her fists clenched, early in the morning and you have to lift her off from the bed to make her get up. She likes dancing in secret to Frank Sinatra songs and cries every time she watches “An affair to remember”. She is a kid. She is my baby.

She needs me.

I stopped. I turned around and I ran.

A fresh roar of joy resounded within me. I was happy. I didn’t know why. But I was happy.

I ran and I ran till I reached the place I was before. I stopped. I was breathless and my head was blank.

I turned around the corner.

There was nobody there.

Liar!!

2009-06-03T14:07:00.001+05:30

"I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It's awful. If I'm on my way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera."

Holden Caulfield, The Catcher in the rye.

The alarm bells are ringing. But I can’t see it. Its way too dim and the spiraling path makes my head reel. The smog that engulfs me is maroon and the dead bits of flesh lie everywhere, squashed by speeding trucks on the highway. I can hear baby Newton cry as the white rabbit jumps down the well with his apple. The alarm bells keep ringing and I spiral down to an abyss that I can’t comprehend. White rabbit catches up with me and shoves the apple down my throat, choking me. I can’t breathe. Alarm bells are ringing.

“Shit!!” I wake up with a jolt. 7:40 AM. And my classes start at 8:00.

I’ll be late again. Man, I gotta learn to crash early. My prof won’t excuse me this time. It has been like this the whole semester. At this rate I won’t have enough attendance to appear for the end semester.

I hurriedly brush and wear trousers and report to the class in the same T shirt that I slept in. Breakfast is no longer a necessity. It is a luxury reserved for the weekends and Sundays when we put night outs doing nothing.

Chennai heat. It saps the essence of life out of you. Sultry, wicked heat baring its bony, yellowed fangs at you in the early morn.

I am drenched in sweat by the time I reach the department. The prof is taking attendance. Late again!!

“Ah! You never learn do you? I think you better come for the next class.”

“No sir! I started off early. But my friend met with an accident. I had to take him to the hospital and then rush to class. Please sir. I wanted to come on time.”

First lie of the day. It worked like a charm. What a great way to start.

After a helpless frown at such a plausible excuse, he continues to drone on about how to convert a particular partial differential equation into ordinary differential equation in order to solve a wave equation.

"We start off with the Helmholtz equation…. “

Heck who cares. Being the least bothered to learn, I take out my note book and scribble some of what he had written on the blackboard in an astonishingly beautiful hand. He is a good professor and has an irrefutable hold over the subject. I wish I were a tad more interested. But no matter how much I try, it just seems too impossible for me to concentrate.

A couple of monkeys play outside the window. They are just too naughty and cute when they are babies, carefree and safe within their mothers’ cautious range of vision. One of the babies gives me an indifferent look as it ambles past the window sill. It makes me wonder what it might be thinking, i.e., if it thinks at all. How much do wave equations and acoustics matter to him? He was comfortably placed with nature taking care of his needs until man encroached upon his kingdom and built the biggest institute for engineers in the land. We took away his food and his home. Education needed sacrifice I guess.

Gibberish talks of mine in a boring class room.

The class is finally over. I am hungry. I decide to run over to the nearby staff canteen and grab a bite and therefore I turn up late again for the next class. Thankfully this prof is lenient and doesn’t bother much whether the students attend his classes or not. He knows that we can manage. Besides, his assignments are made of killer stuff and take weeks to sort out without cogging. Of course, in the end of the course, junta end up copying from each other anyway. He doesn’t care. All he needs is that the students should be able to explain what each one has cogged and thereby convince him that one has gained a reasonable understanding of the course.

One by one the classes pass without much happening and lunch time arrives. We break for our hostels. Unlike last year, now we have a new common mess for all the hostels. It has been named Himalayas. Grand as it may look, the food there still is pathetic.

Mom calls up right then. I complain about the food, the weather, the wretched place, how I have to hog at some better place everyday and how exorbitant the price ranges are. She consoles me in her usual cooing voice that I have grown up hearing and tells me that money is not the issue. And I don’t hesitate to ask for more. Then I am off to the mess to have food. I don’t usually waste cash for food. There are other requirements that I need to cater to that I can’t yet reveal to my mom.

Ah!! I did it again! The second lie of the day.

“Hey Jim! Can you lend me your cycle for the afty? I have just one class at one.”

“No man, I need it. I have to go and meet my BTP guide.”

My BTP guide is abroad attending a seminar. I giggle within at the thought of going to meet him Germany on a bicycle.

RG. Relative grading. It takes first year students by the scruff of their necks and beats them into submission to the prevailing system and makes cynics of many of them. How good you are would depend on how bad the other person is. The system is such that one has to kill or be killed. We call it RG’ing. Now that I am in my fourth year, I am a formidable RG God, as the lingo would phrase it.

But then, there are many who, unlike me, do not give in to circumstances and retain their better selves. Kudos to those guys.

I am back to my tiny room. Someone knocks immediately after I enter. He begs for a fag. For once I don’t lie. Nicotine promotes common brotherhood. We discuss the heat, the food and the courses we are doing as we share the last fag I had. This guy has a high CGPA of nine point something. It makes me shrivel with shame sometimes that I am a six pointer. But then, it is just a passing phase like a wave of the breeze of realization in the sweltering madness.

Two hours pass by since the last cigarette. I start craving for another. But the scorching heat of the sun dares me to show my vulnerable face to it and it seems to know that I am too lazy and laughs away at my plight, unchallenged by the cowardly scattered clouds. It bugs me. And I decide to brave the heat and get fags.

“Hey Annie!! You got some change on you? Just five bucks. I’ll return it to you in the night.”

“Sure”

Heck, I had no intention of repaying. Whoever bothers to remember five bucks loans?

A five minute walk takes me down to “Gurusami cool bar”, a tiny shop that sells cigarettes, cool drinks and stationary.

“Anna, naalu regular kuda.” (Brother, pass me four regulars.) J

“Saar, your account already is two hundred and thirty eight. Give money saar.”

And I make him the usual promise of repaying every rupee the next week.

What a pathetic life I am leading. Jesus save me from the fires of hell. Even if He doesn’t, hope they have such gullible devils there too.

The evenings in the campus are beautiful. I love playing football. The thrill of tricking another player and taking the ball past him gives me the kicks. There are many sports one can play here. Badminton, tennis, table tennis, basketball, swimming, cricket and even ball baddy. I stick to football, because it doesn’t need a membership card for which one needs to pay. I am a freeloader to the marrow.

After a refreshing game, I am back to my room. The messenger on my comp screens messages from my sister. I reply immediately saying how I was hurt while football practice today. It wasn’t a lie. Just an exaggeration.

It feels good when people who care for you fuss over you. I am a spoilt brat. It wasn’t that the rod had ever been spared. It has had its use too frequently. I am too thick skinned for it to have had any effect. Knowledge is power. The fact that I knew that the whipping cane was just a momentary disciplinary tool made me fear it less day by day as I grew up. I learnt to bear it through as the consequences of my being foolish enough to have got caught doing something wrong. One of the most important lessons of life I have learnt so far. You are not a criminal until you get caught. So you just need to be smart enough to not get caught.

Dinner was a sordid affair. I was almost tempted to pack off to some good eatery. But it was the middle of the month and I was broke. My best friend’s girl friend calls up crying about how badly she wants him to get off his marijuana addiction. Even I do it once a while. But she knows I am not addicted and trusts me that I can help her. I reassure her the zillionth time that he is trying and has succeeded in reducing with an amazing show of will power. I add colorful stories about how he has started jogging early mornings and how he refused a fag I offered him yesterday.

God!! Just a few white lies to make her feel better. Please don’t add them up to my account book. I will repay you next week. That’s a promise!

I sit down in front of the computer, finishing up my term paper on evacuation systems in airplanes. Some work completed at the end of the day and I congratulate myself. It is eleven already and people start buzzing me to join the game server. I totally lose myself to the game and time flies. It is four by the time I quit.

“Shit!!” Classes tomorrow. Same prof. Man, I never learn. Gotta find some new excuse tomorrow.

Darkness of the dawn

2009-06-03T14:01:00.001+05:30

"I am the infant's watery eye..
I am the youthful fiery stare
I am your tired, wrinkled gaze..
And the desolate, piercing, punishing glare."

Doomed to forego the delicate, intricate, vivid visual pleasures of life, I grope about in the suffocating gray darkness in my gloomy world, looking for the messianic hand that guides us all to the divine portal of redemption, knowledge and freedom.

The soft glow of the dawn, entwined with the melody of the subtle early morning sounds, fails to enliven the deadness of the pale monochromatic air that hangs around me.

Yet another day in this damned island; isolated from the rest of the unknown dimensions.

Does anything ever matter? Skin? Skin color? Skin depth? Is that what demarcates savage, uncouth brutes from the polished, showcased, civilized, animated mannequins in the delusory market?

I leave the warmth of my bed. Six long hours spent tossing and turning in this four sided confinement, plagued by doubt and insomnia, listening to babbling radio jockeys and one dimensional hindi love songs. They don't play anything else on the fm radio.

Love is of exaggerated importance, as is evident from the profuse manifestations in the songs. Don't they have anything else to sing about? The shallow, repugnant, crass display of emotions and social values. Is that what the reel icons advocate? Don't they provide an unreasonable ground of self-justification to the less intelligent, cocky individuals who invest and place a recklessly high premium on such issues?

Maybe the merciless rolling of the years and the uncharitable winters of disappointments have taken its toll on me, turning me into a cynical, non-believer, atheist. A Nihilist. An outcast.

Its been six hours since midnight. I light a cigarette. The first fag of the day hits the most.

"My spirits rise like waves in the ocean
That wax and wane...
Making futile foams that rise in vain,
Gleefully flying for the moment...
Just to fall back again."

The morning newspaper speaks of sensex gaining ground after a certain fateful Monday of falls. We are amidst an economic boom, mid-May 2006!

The boom. The rhythmic beats of the past evening comes echoing back to my head. I was in a pub. Drinking. Alcohol brings out the best and the worst altruistic nature in man. And there I was, burning my parents' hard earned money down my throat. The surreal feel-good factor was all I wanted to drown away the daily worries in my quasi static memory.

Shit! I am a coward.

There was a boisterous bunch of Americans laughing in their intoxicated glory. I left the pub with their laughter still ringing in my ears. Money is power. Power buys happiness. I want Money. My money.

It was raining cats and dogs. Not being endowed with the luxury of a vehicle, I had to take a cab back to the railwya station. There were people in there. Indians. Poor Indians. Close to four hundred, I surmised, gathering the wits left in my drunken stupor. They were sleeping in the platform. Man, wife, children, huddled up together to escape the chill in the wind. The spirituous cheerfulness, like the rainwater trickling down my face and dropping off my chin, washed away to the dry floor into nothingness. All the posh colors of our new found grandiose is like a thin sketchy veil on the yet-to-be-corrected wrongness of social inequality.

"O Hyperborean shores,
This voyage seeks thy pleasing sight
In the benzedream of Anarchy
Where enlightened eagles alight."

No sleep yet. It is raining. The library opens at nine. My BTP (Btech project) guide wants me to read up some papers and report to him in the evening. Numerical processing of wave propagating data. My precious BTP. Three more hours to go.

The cigarette burns at a tardy pace towards its gray, cold death in the ashes. The smoke emanates from the red hot butt in a slow, perfect. streamlined flow and dies out in a hazy, turbulent confusion. Chaos. Every endeavor that starts out perfectly, somehow seems to end in chaos and confusion. Destruction.

I get up. I am hungry. Food. Someone once asked me, "What makes an army march?"
"Motivation", I said.
I was wrong. An army marches on its belly. I need to hog and start on my project work.

I sit cross-legged with my breakfast on my bean bag, watching the rain. The crystal clear droplets beat down upon the patient earth, the fluttering leaves, the flattened, disciplined grass blades, the tin roof, splashing about frantically in an incoherent collective roar, merging with each other along the slope, gathering in random pools. The unfortunate insects caught in the lilliputian deluge thrash about in desperation.

Life is beautiful. Life is precious.

Like a non-commital, heartless predator, I devour the myriad images of the morning. I am a glutton. Its almost time for me to leave. I have to start.

Yet another day.Yet another battle. The battle begins anew.

After Holden Caulfield - The Teenager rants

2009-06-03T12:24:00.000+05:30

This is such a big world; and it is filled with so many people. Every time I travel, I get sucked into a timeless whirlpool of passing images and thoughts. I see so many people of different shapes and sorts that I am dazed in awe and confusion. The sights that unravel themselves when you travel as much as I do, are simply mind-boggling.
I have just reached the end of one such journey, and at the onset, I would like to warn you that this is my journal of sorts and you might not be very much interested in reading it. If that be the case, you might as well discontinue doing it. I have always believed in doing what I am most interested in, and not doing things that fail to attract me. And I encourage you to do the same.
On the 10th of december, 2005, I had set my faithful alarm clock to wake me up at exactly 4:30 AM. The purpose was to not be late for my 7:00 AM train. But overambitious as I was, I failed to remember my initial aim when the alarm set off at the appointed time. It was only at 6 in the morning that I awoke to the persistent ringing of my cell phone. It was the taxi driver whom I had hired the previous day in order to take me to the railway station. He dutifully mentioned that he had already been there for about half an hour and I had to hurry, not so much for the possibility that I might be late as for the fact that I was being charged extra for the waiting he had to do. I packed up rapidly and reported to him within fifteen minutes. And then, the journey began.
My taxi driver was a young, jovial fellow. Most taxi drivers are jovial. I wonder why auto drivers are not the same. They always seem to hold an eternal grudge against passengers, no matter how much you pay them. Life would have been so much more pleasant if we could smile more often than frown all the time. I was glad I was with this taxi guy. I apologized profusely for my being late. He smiled at me started the ignition saying, "Young hostel people.. not getting up early... I always wake them up.. no problem saar."
From the religious artefacts in the car and the cross that was dangling from his neck, I gathered that he was a christian. Not that I cared, but I always end up noticing things that are right in front of my nose. I guess everyone does.
"Too much rain, boss.. I was worried you would not come."
Chennai, of late, has seen a lot of rain_ more than it can handle.
"Yes, saar!! Previous years, we say, 'Rain not coming, we want rain'. Now people saying, 'too much rain'."
Indeed, it was getting tiresome to begin the days under the gloomy shadow of the clouds. Everyone wanted the sun now. It is ironic, because these were the same people who used to curse the sun for being so hot. No wonder, it is said, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder."
"Traffic less saar, morning time... we get there on time"
True enough, we reached the station within twenty minutes. Of course, like most taxi drivers, he drove like a madman to accomplish that. But since I was safe and on time, I thanked him and then paid him. He went off in a hurry. I guess they always have to be going somewhere or the other and so, they have to hurry. Time is of the essence. Time is money. And money seems to be everything nowadays. Everything.
The station was quite crowded for a cold, lazy, winter morning. Everyone seemed to be going somewhere and they definitely looked like they were almost late, like me. But thanks to the my man, I was not late.
I trudged along the platform slowly, shooting a glance or two at some of the better looking faces in the crowd. Chennai is not the place where you would enjoy looking for pretty faces in common places; mainly because there aren't any in such places. But in the station where people from the other states turn up, you will definitely come across one or two nice looking northie babes. In my case, I was travelling by a train where all the best north-eastern chicks are found. So it was a kind of an early morning fiesta for my starved eyes. Chink babes have damn fair skin. They are mostly in jeans or trousers and they look hot. I haven't seen too many of them with much make-up. Maybe because they don't need any. They are born beautiful.
But, hey, don't get into thinking that I was all drooling and going bonkers over a bunch of girls. That's not my style. I seriously believe that most of these girls are beautiful, but only from a distance. The moment they open up for a conversation, the beauty disappears. I wish God had given them the brains that go to making an intelligent conversation. I am not saying that they don't have brains. They do have loads of it inside that small skull and layers of soft, fair skin and flesh. Its just that the stock is not used for entertaining guys like me with a mentally stimulating exchange. There are exceptions, but that's only a pathetic few. But then again, there are only as many dumb girls in this world as there are dopey guys.
Grabbing a coffee from a nearby stall, I boarded the train. My co-passengers were already there. I placed my luggage in a suitable corner and took my seat next to a Tam guy who was already there. I knew he was Tam because, while I was placing my luggage, I overheard him saying a few words over the phone like, "Sollu".. "Sare".."enna". From my extremely limited Tam vocabulary, I figured that he must be either a tam or a mallu. But mallus have a very accented way of speaking. They kinda, roll their tongue or something when they speak. So, I guessed that he was a tam. The guy sitting opposite to him started speaking to him as soon as he had disconnected. So the other guy must also have been a tam. As I found out later, both my guesses were correct.
There was a girl sitting opposite to me. She must not have been more than about fifteen. She was wearing dark sunglasses. I thought she must have had an operation or something. I kinda felt sorry for her. People all over the world undergo so much pain and suffering that it becomes painful for even those who are not actually in pain_ peaceful, painless, jobless bastards like me.
She was with her father or something. I never bothered to ask. I am a man who likes to be left alone. Rowdy, nosey perverts poking their heads into my room too frequently, are a pain in the ass. If I were in place of Alexander Selkirk, I would have been happy.
"I am the monarch of all I survey,
My right here is none to dispute;
From the centre all around to the sea,
I am the lord of fowl and brute."
That was by William Cowper, just in case you thought a hare-brained person like me could come up with such nice rhyming poetry. The first four lines are my favourite. The rest of it is all crap about how solitude seems charming initially, but becomes horrible in stark reality. I'd say, it is way better to be alone than to be in the company of rowdy, boorish, fake, superficial, envious, chaos loving and flesh eating hypocrites. Therefore, I don't talk much to people I don't know much about. Making new acquaintances was the last thing I had on my mind.
I did not even think of making myself known to an Assamese family that was sitting close by. I am from Assam, but I do not much like our people. Not that I hate them, but it is certainly not pleasant to be talking to most of them. Most of my people seem very sweet on the outside. But the truth is that most of them are sycophants. Knowing the truth about them, I could not let myself get into an dull exchange of fake pleasantries with them. Of course, there are good apples in every barrel, just as there are the rotten ones. So, I did not hate them at all. I just stayed aloof just in case, the apples there were rotten.
Trains bound for Assam inevitably start late. They always have inexplicable delays. Some people are pretty good in explaining the inexplicable. For instance there was this pompous guy with whom I had once travelled. He had absolute confidence in his knowledge and superiority to the others around him. If the train is delayed, it would be due to the lazy officials who sleep during their duty hours and the whole train has to wait till they wake up and let us go. Or because the rest of India blatantly neglects the North-Eastern region. Therefore, they do not give a damn for the hundreds of people suffering in the train. Reflecting back upon it, I seriously wonder if these are the kind of people who's unsought for opinions give rise to regionalism.
The train finally started off. I have already mentioned that I found nobody in my compartment, interesting enough to talk to. So, I took out the novel I had planned to read, "Prey", by Michael Crichton. Crichton is a good writer. None of his books I have read are boring. The book I was now reading was regarding some nanotechnology and computer programing stuff that sounded very much possible. I was impressed. I like books which inspire imagination_ books about the future, the past, or some weird sort of fantasy material like "The Lord of the Rings".
Travelling about sixty hours at a stretch does not sound like an easy thing to do. But in fact, I would have loved it; only, if the compartment were left all to myself. I hate human company. Human relationships are superficial and brittle, and therefore, are temporary. This kinda reminds me of funny relationships like love and marriage. At first, the lovers would be swearing eternal love, being all mushy and soft. And then later when they end up in a petty fight, they would reveal how gross and monstrous they can be. And after all the pleasantries, they break up saying they can't take anymore of each other. It sure sounds rather silly. It is like everyone has a saturation point. Until the saturation point is reached, nobody complains. But oversaturation causes crankiness_ even in the most normal person. So, I'd say, give each other some space. They should not indulge themselves too much into loving each other. The more they indulge, the faster the saturation. It is kinda paradoxical, I know. It is like saying, "Love each other less, in order to love each other more". But then most of the things we really want to know about in this world are way too complicated and paradoxical; like that God created man or man created God thing. So I guess, it can't be helped and therefore, I stick to my word.
In the south of India, the railway officials are quite strict. They are greedy, strict bastards, waiting for rule breakers in their domain so that they can extract large amounts of money from them. I did not dare smoke without someone to watch my back. After quite a few dreary hours of travelling, I could not take it anymore. I had to have a fag. So I went out.
I haven't mentioned this before, but it is quite obvious that, apart from girls, there also are guys like me on the train. Most of them are students. Guys from Bangalore are pretty cool. At least they think they are cool. My opinion about them does not matter much, as I, myself, am quite dull and I really don't know much about what kind of guys look good or cool. That's for a girl to think about. The only thing that mattered to me was that most Bangalore guys smoke and dope. There is a famous quote among us_ "Nicotine promotes common brotherhood". I don’t remember who used to say that. But its damn true in most cases. Most guys who look high and mighty initially, actually turn out to be quite docile and friendly if you talk to them and share a fag with them. It was not that I wanted to make some cool friends. I like my friends for what they are; being cool never figures in. I didn’t want to get caught smoking on the train. So, I smoked with them. That is exactly what co-existing in a society is all about. Symbiosis.
The food you get on the train is quite tasteless. But one doesn’t have too many options. You can order once a while at some stations. But even then you might not be satisfied. But still, for a change I usually make it a point to buy biryani in Vishakapatnam. In the other stations, you get the same old roti-subzee, or puree subzee or idli-vada. I’d suggest that if you want to go for some station food, go for idli-vada. It is filling and you won’t have much to complain as they are not cooked in oil. It is upto you to decide what is best for you. As for me, I have almost everything edible that comes my way. I am quite a skinny glutton.
As you go across different states you will see a distinct change in the lines of vendors that keep ambling up and down the train. The southern vendors sell fruits, raisins, nuts and sweets like "chikki". It is a mould of sugar and peanuts or groundnuts, or any nut. I don’t know if they have any more ingredients. They also sell tiny statuettes of the Gods for about ten rupees or even less, if you can bargain. It must be quite comforting for a poor, religious dopey guy to know that he can actually buy God on the train for such a small amount. "Look ma! I have God in my pocket for just ten bucks. We are blessed." Pah! gimme a break. Why are people crazy about things so immaterial? One of Moses’s ten commandments said not to worship statues representing God. But still Christians worship statues and the cross. I bet nobody alive knows how Jesus or Mary looked like. The same goes for other religions. There goes another paradox. God made man. Now man is making God. I wonder if God too used to make man and sell him for ten bucks or so.
When you come way up to the north, the hawkers carrying electronic goods start appearing. They sell those cheap toys and stuff made in China, from scrap metal or thermoplastic. I had once attended a lecture by Arun Shourie. He mentioned about the Chinese economy being stronger than the Indian, because of such minute details. What the hell, they are providing employment to hundreds of Indians too. And besides, the thing about these stuff is that if they last, they last for years. If they don’t, they break down in a few days or even hours. I never buy it. But once someone in the compartment stops a hawker to check the goods, the others, out of curiosity, also start looking and bargaining. I am sure the hawkers really enjoy it ‘coz it happens every time. Many simpletons get fooled and end up paying more than thrice as much as the thing would have actually cost him anywhere else. Unfortunate idiots.
India is mainly dependent on agriculture. The acres and acres of paddy fields beside the railway tracks almost everywhere lie as a witness to this fact. The greenery of these fields depends on the time of the year. It, being winter, the fields were covered by faded yellowish straws and heaps of reaped paddy. You will see a lot of scarecrows everywhere. They are kinda funny. They come in all shapes and sizes. Maybe it gives an opportunity to the busy farmers to give vent to their creativity. I swear I once saw a scarecrow in a tattered old suit, holding a cigar or something close to the pot that was supposed to be its head. The neighboring field had a scarecrow that resembled a lady. I wonder if they were supposed to be man and wife. I almost expected the next field I came across would have kids. But I was wrong. I guess the next plot was someone else’s. Or maybe the farmer thought that the scarecrows were not yet married. Or maybe it was just that he had not had the time to make more of them. I still wonder.
At many places close to the stations, you will come across the slums of India. It is quite a depressing sight. I do not want to dwell much on that. It is depressing.
Reading books, newspapers, magazines, I spent two days on the train. I didn’t bother to talk much to the other guys around. I did, of course talk a little bit once a while, introduction and stuff like that. I am not that big a snob. On the third day, I felt elated. It was the last day and I felt good about reaching home. That is the kind of mood in which I am best to be talked to. So, I opened up a bit to the little girl’s father who was sitting in front of me. I kinda regret I did that, ‘coz it messed up my mood big time. I learnt from him that his daughter was blind. It left me kinda miserable that I had ignored her like a proud asshole till now. I imagined what it would be like for me to be left in darkness. I always go high and mighty about how I like solitude and stuff like that. But not to be able to see what’s around you must be kinda suffocating to the mind. All the things I had experienced till then would mean nothing to her; so much for the scarecrows and slums; so much for the toys and the hot babes and cool hunks. I sometimes feel that nothing really matters in this world. Love, hate, money, success are illusions that bind us to a vast unreality called earth. I really felt miserable. That is why I really hate myself. I feel miserable for the most pathetic reasons. Anyway, that was about the last thing that happened to me before I got down.
Why do all things come to an end and leave us sad? I have never found an answer to that. And I do not think it is possible for anyone to answer me. So I let it hang. I got off the train and walked upto my parents who were waiting eagerly for their prodigal son. No matter wasteful I am, no matter how much I hurt them, they still love me. That's something about parents really out of the world and astonishingly admirable. I thank God for them; no matter how much he sold us for.
The engineering of this world is perfect. It doesn’t matter how the others are behaving or acting. Like the parts of a machinery, everyone has to play one’s part for the machine to function smoothly. There might be intolerable friction; but it has to be tolerated. One may be blind, but one is still a part of the machine and everyone must understand that and accept it. Love, hate, and other emotions are just lubricants to be used with care. This is living. Just do it.