I stepped out of office to have a cup of coffee, alone. Sitting in the coffee shop, among young boys and girls in their early mating rituals I ordered a cafe mocha and waited. It was a deliberate move - this stepping out of office; with a notebook. It was supposed to be constructive. Ultimately it was. Perhaps. In some manner. Though not the way it was supposed to be. These are the outcomes:
____________________________
After every brief eon
we come back to this space.
Facing each other,
With raised eyebrows.
One doesn't know the questions,
The other doesn't have the answers.
Thus, we circle each other,
Me and myself.
Thus we dance the dance of life.
And death?
Death seems so distant today,
Death seems so difficult.
So scary, so scary, that
It seems I have
Lost the love for life.
____________________________
It's so important to write something
with a meaning; a simple meaning.
It's so important to do something
with an objective; a clear objective.
It's so important to say something
which everyone understands; in their
own narrow language.
It's so important to...............................
..............................................................
The burden of importance is Fatal
Fatal
Fatal and boring
The burden to be meaningful
____________________________
Thursday 13 December, 2007
Wednesday 18 July, 2007
crying
I am crying a lot these days. The other day, on the way to work, I cried all the snot out of my brain. I hope my driver mistook my sniffles for a cold.
I was reading Roddy Doyle - A Star called Henry - and I was crying at the abject poverty of people of Ireland in the begining of 20th century. And I was crying thinking about all the Indian revolutionaries, who came from the masses, the poor, who gave up their livelihood and lives for a better India, without any mention in the footnotes of history. Like Henry, they had no inherent love towards any country, for they knew not what a country was, they know not what a country is. They were and still are busy surviving. I was crying for them.
I am also listening to a lot of music on my i-pod on the way to office and back.
I was listening to aabhogi by U. Aamir Khan. And I was crying - knowing that such greatness can exist, such melody can be created by man.
I was listening to saaranga tere yaad mein by Mukesh. And I was crying when he was singing "vo ambuva ka jhoolana, vo pipal ki chhaanv", my eyes moistened at the loss of the pastoral innocence that was so easily accessible in my childhood.
Baiju Bawra is singing to Gauri "tu ganga ki mauj mein". And as he sings "agar too hain saagar to mazadhaar main hoon/ tere dil kee kashtee kaa patawaar main hoon/ chalegee akele naa tum se ye naiyyaa/ milegee naa manjil tumhe been khiwayyaa", I am crying as if the Almighty is sending these words to the lost me.
And I am crying again. The Parsi Colony Bus Stop is full with smart people going to their work, schools and colleges. Good looking girls in smart and sexy dresses. And next to the bus stop, kneeling on the rosd is an intrepid boy with no legs - not a beggar - just waiting to cross the busy throughfare on his own. And I am crying at our preoccupations of our non-existent struggle for survival.
I am crying at the greatness of the universe that is human life.
And I am crying at my smallness.
I was reading Roddy Doyle - A Star called Henry - and I was crying at the abject poverty of people of Ireland in the begining of 20th century. And I was crying thinking about all the Indian revolutionaries, who came from the masses, the poor, who gave up their livelihood and lives for a better India, without any mention in the footnotes of history. Like Henry, they had no inherent love towards any country, for they knew not what a country was, they know not what a country is. They were and still are busy surviving. I was crying for them.
I am also listening to a lot of music on my i-pod on the way to office and back.
I was listening to aabhogi by U. Aamir Khan. And I was crying - knowing that such greatness can exist, such melody can be created by man.
I was listening to saaranga tere yaad mein by Mukesh. And I was crying when he was singing "vo ambuva ka jhoolana, vo pipal ki chhaanv", my eyes moistened at the loss of the pastoral innocence that was so easily accessible in my childhood.
Baiju Bawra is singing to Gauri "tu ganga ki mauj mein". And as he sings "agar too hain saagar to mazadhaar main hoon/ tere dil kee kashtee kaa patawaar main hoon/ chalegee akele naa tum se ye naiyyaa/ milegee naa manjil tumhe been khiwayyaa", I am crying as if the Almighty is sending these words to the lost me.
And I am crying again. The Parsi Colony Bus Stop is full with smart people going to their work, schools and colleges. Good looking girls in smart and sexy dresses. And next to the bus stop, kneeling on the rosd is an intrepid boy with no legs - not a beggar - just waiting to cross the busy throughfare on his own. And I am crying at our preoccupations of our non-existent struggle for survival.
I am crying at the greatness of the universe that is human life.
And I am crying at my smallness.
Rs. 500
How much does five rupee mean to me?
Nothing. Nothing at all.
Yesterday, I was in the suburbs for a meeting and on the way home, we stopped a for a roadside tea. As my companion went off in the search of some cigarettes, I got down from the car without taking off my jacket and stood out like a sore thumb in the bustling evening scene of a residential suburb. Suddenly this urchin came over from my behind, with a child in his arms, and mumbled something about food etc. I did not have any change, so I changed a tenner for two five buck coins from the tea vendor and dropped one on his open palms. He was a bit surprised and so was the tea vendor. I did not take much note of that, then.
But later, as I was going home, cutting across some of the pristine nature on the northern outskirts of the city, that is stil untouched by the 21st century Indian Greed, I wondered what does it mean to me? five rupees? or even 500 rupees?
A modest evening out with my family would cost me not less than 1200 bucks. And 500 rs. is just the price of three movie tickets plus the popcorn.
But 500 rs. means 100 such surprised faces. 100 small bits of happinesses cost just 500 rs.!!
The road was dark but there was just a hint of light left in the air. not real light - just a hint. the woods, the hills, the dark valley, the creek full to the brim - all of it togteher was an ethereal sight in that light that was not there. something which is unreal, which is lost.
and I sat stunned in the car.
Nothing. Nothing at all.
Yesterday, I was in the suburbs for a meeting and on the way home, we stopped a for a roadside tea. As my companion went off in the search of some cigarettes, I got down from the car without taking off my jacket and stood out like a sore thumb in the bustling evening scene of a residential suburb. Suddenly this urchin came over from my behind, with a child in his arms, and mumbled something about food etc. I did not have any change, so I changed a tenner for two five buck coins from the tea vendor and dropped one on his open palms. He was a bit surprised and so was the tea vendor. I did not take much note of that, then.
But later, as I was going home, cutting across some of the pristine nature on the northern outskirts of the city, that is stil untouched by the 21st century Indian Greed, I wondered what does it mean to me? five rupees? or even 500 rupees?
A modest evening out with my family would cost me not less than 1200 bucks. And 500 rs. is just the price of three movie tickets plus the popcorn.
But 500 rs. means 100 such surprised faces. 100 small bits of happinesses cost just 500 rs.!!
The road was dark but there was just a hint of light left in the air. not real light - just a hint. the woods, the hills, the dark valley, the creek full to the brim - all of it togteher was an ethereal sight in that light that was not there. something which is unreal, which is lost.
and I sat stunned in the car.
Sunday 8 July, 2007
period
Diligence and discipline eludes; continues to elude. Is this my Achilles' heel? Is that a meaningful question? Was there ever a doubt? The answers are, respectively - "very much so", "not at all" and "never".
But how does one react to this grievous frailty at 40, when half of your life, and perhaps more than that of your productive life, is gone - fait accompli? I can't even think of the viable alternatives to this question, let alone suggesting a solution.
I need to make my mind come to a standstill.
.
.
But how does one react to this grievous frailty at 40, when half of your life, and perhaps more than that of your productive life, is gone - fait accompli? I can't even think of the viable alternatives to this question, let alone suggesting a solution.
I need to make my mind come to a standstill.
.
.
Sunday 10 June, 2007
Whiff of a perfume - lost
Thoughts are fleeting. And rare thoughts are even more so. That is why it requires immense discipline and diligence to be able to write consistently with quality for a long time.
I have failed to observe my own rules and have not posted any blog for over last 41 days or so. Today is a lazy and hot Sunday, waiting for the rains to come. I stole just few moments to myself and was standing at the French window of my sitting room with an evocative song, one of my most favorites, playing on my iPod. The view from my window is as breathtaking as it can get in a mundane city like Mumbai; although with daily viewing, the wonder wears out a little bit. So here I was, with a beautiful song playing in my ears and the sun and the clouds playing out their game of catch-me-if-you-can on the hills afar, on the deep greenish blue creek running from left to right and whatever is left of the mangrove and the greenery between the creeks and concrete jungle. I was thinking about the friend of mine, who had two cardiac arrests within a week and a triple bypass surgery just the day before. I was thinking about his wife, about what she is going through now, all the anxieties about his survival, her worries about the mounting medical expenses, future of two children and a difficult mother in law. Although there was no apparent connection between what I was seeing in front of me and what my thoughts about my friend and his wife, a thought came to me which linked the two. And..
And I have lost the thought, as I did not capture it as soon as it came to me. The more I struggle to bring it back to this white page, the more precious it feels. The more I think of it, more I feel very distressed to have lost something so precious. But it is gone – like whiff of perfume in the corridor.
I have failed to observe my own rules and have not posted any blog for over last 41 days or so. Today is a lazy and hot Sunday, waiting for the rains to come. I stole just few moments to myself and was standing at the French window of my sitting room with an evocative song, one of my most favorites, playing on my iPod. The view from my window is as breathtaking as it can get in a mundane city like Mumbai; although with daily viewing, the wonder wears out a little bit. So here I was, with a beautiful song playing in my ears and the sun and the clouds playing out their game of catch-me-if-you-can on the hills afar, on the deep greenish blue creek running from left to right and whatever is left of the mangrove and the greenery between the creeks and concrete jungle. I was thinking about the friend of mine, who had two cardiac arrests within a week and a triple bypass surgery just the day before. I was thinking about his wife, about what she is going through now, all the anxieties about his survival, her worries about the mounting medical expenses, future of two children and a difficult mother in law. Although there was no apparent connection between what I was seeing in front of me and what my thoughts about my friend and his wife, a thought came to me which linked the two. And..
And I have lost the thought, as I did not capture it as soon as it came to me. The more I struggle to bring it back to this white page, the more precious it feels. The more I think of it, more I feel very distressed to have lost something so precious. But it is gone – like whiff of perfume in the corridor.
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