Meaning

She glided down the steps which had been cut into the face of the teal mountain, dancing in and out of the mist rhythmically. On her shapely hips, she carried a basket made of the finest cane money could buy. The delicate sound of thunder rung through the clouds, as globulets of rain did form. But they did not fall. They were held in the sky, magically suspended, refracting the beams of light until they formed colours humans could no longer decipher. A melancholy song pervaded the bloody sky, giving meaning to the mountains - speaking of their forgotten past. Boisterous children seemed to be running down the hill, but they were frozen - like a still picture captured from a motion film. And in the distance, a poet cried.

You don't need to understand the paragraph in its entirety to experience the story which is being told to you. In fact, the moment you start asking for explanation, you dilute the overall effect - you trivialize several immortal moments by bringing it down to your level of understanding. You cannot accept the fact that rain can be held in the air, or that children can run and laugh while still stationary. You want everything to conform to rules, and that is the problem. Everything cannot be explained. Well, perhaps it can be, but it's better that it isn't.

Art in its purest form is completely indistinguishable from music. Music in its purest form needs no lyrics. Meaning is something we create to explain experiences. Sometimes, there are just experiences, and no meaning.

The Fate Driver

My black-and-yellow Indica was parked in its usual spot under the green canopy of the trees lining the black tar road. The time was Dusk, a time when the colours of the world are rendered black, white and steely grey. It was that time of the day when your eyes, weary after another long day in the sun, delight in whatever little colour there is on offer. And that is why I remember her so vividly.

It wasn't her dress which caught my eye, for it was as black as the night which was about to fall. No: although it was very beautiful and made her look perfectly graceful, almost poignantly beautiful, it wasn't the detail which captured me. I remember her because of her skin - the most beautiful bronze in a black-and-white world. Alongside her walked a young man, modestly built, who I have driven around town a few times in my car. I'd seen them together several times in the past, as they walked up and down the same lanes with such brightness in their eyes that you'd think they discovered new places every single time. Sometimes there would be carefree laughter, possibly spurred on by nothing but the beauty of the evening itself, and at other times, there would be a quiet understanding. But this evening, they seemed different.

As he held the door open for her, she slid into the car wordlessly without the usual smile she would afford him as her body brushed against his outstretched arm. As he took his place beside her inside the car, I noticed that an immense chasm separated them, a space so wide that my car seemed to have split lengthwise into two distinct pieces! It is one of the abilities I have developed in my years as a cabbie: to judge people and the spaces between them by just looking at them in the rear-view mirror. Nothing tells a story as clearly as a rear-view mirror.

They didn't say anything as there was a deafening lull inside the car, in stark contrast to the chaos that pervaded the streets outside. I didn't ask them where they wanted me to go; I understood that they only wanted me to drive. But as soon as I put the car into motion, I felt the man's hand touch my shoulder softly. He told me where they wanted to go and I nodded quietly. I then saw him turn towards the girl, as if to say something, but then he didn't speak. He sank back into his seat and stared out at the garish windows and billboards which sped past.

The pain in his eyes was clear, and when I looked at the lady seated in the other corner of my car, I saw her small, pretty lips curve in an expression I can only term as feigned-indifference. She wanted to care less about everything around her, but quite apparently, she couldn't. I switched to the highest gear and stepped on the gas pedal until the speedometer showed one-hundred. An oncoming car, whose driver seemed visibly drunk, swerved out of my way although there would never have been a collision even if he had maintained his initial course. I know this much about driving! But the near-accident and the speed at which cars were bursting past the windows suddenly brought my passengers to life. People seldom want to start living until they are reminded about the end of their lives. I accelerated further.

I admit unashamedly today that I adjusted my mirror in order to let me follow the happenings in the back-seat, for I didn't not watch them for the voyeuristic pleasure that one often derives from the lives of others. I watched them with genuine concern; I almost felt like a protector that night! I felt like I mustn't let the two wonderful passengers endure even a single evening of melancholy.

In my mirror, I could see them steal uncomfortable glances askance at each other, but only when they were sure that the other person wasn't looking. The gentleman, who sat behind me, was clinging onto the window with his hand, as if he was unsure about what he'd do if he let it go. The girl still sat, cold and rigid, as beautiful women so often do when they are upset. I looked ahead and realized that the destination was approaching fast. I would soon be powerless to affect their lives, which were suddenly two separate worlds separated by an ocean. So, I decided to close the gap.

I banked so hard to the left that the car skidded a few feet in the process, to the horror of a few passers-by. The man who was seated behind me, already close to the door, remained in his place even as the lady was thrown towards him by inertia. There was momentary horror in their eyes for they believed that the car was careening out of control, and the girl stretched her delicate arms to brace her fall. And then came the moment for which I had attempted the reckless stunt, endangering the lives of people around me: without even turning, he caught her instinctively, almost as if it was the most natural thing he had ever done. As their fingers  intertwined, I turned my rear-view up, in order to see the road again. 'Whatever happens now is their own business,' I thought. 'My work here is done.'

As I dropped them off at her house, I was glad to see both of them leave the confines of my car. This time she smiled as he held the door open for her. I lit a cigarette and watched the two of them fade away slowly in the distance. I gloated in the new nickname I had coined for myself - The Destiny Driver.

No, that just didn't sound right! According to me, there is nothing called Destiny - nothing in the world can control where you will be. Your final position is a result of the choices you make, nothing else. However, the choices and opportunities which you are provided with are so often not in your control - like the cab-driver that night in the lives of the two young passengers. He was Fate. Even after he banked the car, they had a choice in front of them. Only decisions transform these opportunities into things which are more meaningful.

'No,' I said to myself. 'I am The Fate Driver.'

Let The Games Begin

I turn twenty-three tomorrow. You hear that?! Twenty-three! If I was a footballer, I'd be considered mature by now, even old by some, as most of my vital parameters have stabilized - with the body refusing to get any better than it is now. But I'm not a footballer, except on my PC, and I've got none of those things to worry about. I'm still that starry-eyed kid I was when I turned twenty, with most dreams which I harbored back then still remaining unfulfilled.

Despite what I've promised myself time and again, I'm seeing myself metamorphose into that very creature which I once abhorred - a creature with many goals but with no determination to follow-up on them, with many ideas all of which soon turn boring, with a powerful desire to change the world but with no ability to do so. I'm an  effervescent mass of unchannelized energy with a zero-attention span.

A few weeks ago, I convinced myself that quitting Facebook would be the end of my worries, but no. Even quitting the habit didn't change much - what if there is no Facebook? There are other things you can waste your time on! I have developed the insane need of having to check my phone every two and a half minutes and my email every half-hour. I stopped watching Cricket long ago because, let's face it, it goes on and on... but now, I cannot watch a game of Football without simultaneously staying online or chatting on WhatsApp or worse, both. Why, I can't even pen a decent blog-post without a meaningless soap running on the TV in front of me!

While work-life is whatever it promised to be - a high-pressure, hectic, interesting job with emails relentlessly attacking the inbox every fifteen minutes - I always knew it'd not be something which would be ultimately satisfying. And it remains that way. Sadly however, I always assumed that there'd be a magician out there, somewhere, who'd wave his wand and foretell my destiny. But no, I remain as lost as I used to be, with entrepreneurial ideas remaining a phantasmogoria and my trysts with writing inevitably ending in frustration.

Well, it is possible that I am not destined for such greatness and that I will become that normal-next-door uncle who spends his weeknights lounging in front of the Television watching kids falling into manholes on the evening News... yes, that uncle who tries to play Cricket on Sunday afternoons but fails miserably as he cannot bring the bat down nearly soon enough. But then, if I do become that guy, I cannot hope to be as happy as he is... because, as I hear, there is no cure for ambition.

I'm then left with one choice - to achieve. And it shouldn't be that difficult, right? Once I've set a few things straight, I mean. Changes in lifestyle are difficult only when you have a choice. When there is no choice, everything is easy - because you do or you die. That period of life where everything was in 'Take thou what course thou wilt' mode is now at an end. If I have to sleep at eleven and get up at half-past-five, so be it.

There's a whole world out there waiting to be taken. Life is calling and if I continue in the same vein, I figure that, in the great Didier's words, it'd be 'a f*cking disgrace'. Today, I shall make my peace with Football Manager and with late-night chats, tweets and Facebook. There is no need to stay awake until 1 AM wondering why news channels are as useless as they are and why the UPA isn't doing anything worthwhile. There is no point cribbing about the fact that a stupid thing some hot chick said got the attention of hundred and seventy-nine people, and then going on to like one of those things yourself. You're not going to meet anyone more interesting after 10 PM than you do during the day. So sleep, dammit! And wake up to the quiet sunshine... Live life the way it is supposed to be lived.

If there is a problem, don't crib about it - find a solution. If there is nothing you can come up with, shut up. That will be a beginning. Something tells me I will stumble upon something. Some day. Until then, I figure that I'm going to have to cut-off a number of materialistic bonds, get my head down and start working.

Most things we all do today are done to please people we don't really care about and to get their attention. And there is nothing wrong with that, as long as you're pleasing yourself in the process. But they'll gradually move away anyway, unless of course, you're of some use to them. Or if you're successful.

So, most of us will move away in the coming years, but the next time you remember me, I hope to God it'll be for the latter reason. I'm really done with this job of being useful to people... But today I promise you this - you will find the need to seek out where I am sometime in the future. Why, you ask me?

Because when I have arrived, you will know.

Centurion

Runs are hard to come by, with the ball not really coming onto the bat. With boundaries not possible in this format of the game, batsmen are made to toil for each and every single they take; an insurmountable task if dashing between the wickets didn't seem so much fun! But there's a flip-side too - all this sprinting saps you of juice and Fatigue, the slayer of giants, pays you a visit. And then, the cramps - the scavenger which feeds on the dying. The moment your guard is lowered, you die.

So it is indeed a monumental moment when a batsman reaches his century - as it is a victory of human-will, nothing less. And as I'm doing precisely that today, I raise my bat. It has been a very satisfying knock.

I can hardly believe that I have lasted four years in this world where more blogs are indiscriminately discarded than created. Only a blogger, and an avid one at that, would probably understand how much this little space on the web means - something as special than a friend you share most things with, a brother who understands you completely, standing by you through good times and hell.

Since the probability of you being here for the first time is rather low, I suppose you've already witnessed my meaningless rants, random philosophy and sullen melancholy. Usually, this blog has just been a voice of dissatisfaction trying to break the run-of-the-mill days and chase one foolish dream after another. There have been moments of bliss, but as all moments of bliss should be, they have been ephemeral.

And since Life is all about running after a mirage, there will surely be more stories to tell. There will be victories and there will be losses, but they'll all be experiences. And hence the scoreboard will keep ticking.

Thank you, dear reader, for keeping me going all these years; without you, this space would be nothing more than a personal diary... and where's the fun in that? Anyway, here's hoping for a hundred more! My fingers are crossed.

Saare Jahan Se Accha

We Indians are seldom perpetrators of racism. No; being home to such a copious heritage dating back to Mohenjadaro-Harappa and Pataliputra, we strictly adhere to the Vedic gospel –“Vasudheva Kutumbakam” – The whole world is my family.

It is the west which causes divisions among the people. Those damned Brits came to our land and tried causing rifts among the masses. Divide and Rule, they said. We didn’t give in. No! We stood tall and we stood our ground. The world is my family. I do NOT discriminate! All people are one. India is a very well governed country with great unity in diversity. But the differences in our cultures are so immense that we have had to divide the country into smaller governable regions – The states. And what better way to do this than to divide them on the basis of language? This is strictly for administrative ease. Nothing else.

After all, I resemble a Tamilian more than I resemble anyone else. Hence, it is only apt that I should be clubbed together with my people to improve bonding and social well-being. A Maharashtrian must live with a fellow Marathi and a Bihari with a likeminded person. It’s the only rational way. We are all united after all!

We Indians, from the land of the Mahatma, have been taught to turn the other cheek when slapped hard across the face. Non-violence. I am proud of this ‘Indian value’. It has lived on for over half a century now. Did not the UP worker in Mumbai turn his other cheek when Raj Thakeray’s mobs attacked him? He probably didn’t have a choice though. He died the next day, of excessive beating. His friends went with him too.
All the protests for independent Telengana are purely non-violent- Hunger strikes and peaceful all-state bandhs. Tears of joy roll down my cheeks when think of the mature stance we Indians have adopted.

When I came to north, I was ‘saved’ by my rather wheatish complexion. Other Madrasisweren’t that ‘lucky’. The ‘Oye kaale’s followed. But if this is being ‘saved’, I’d rather be on the other side, and take these ‘insults’ on my face. It’d have given me a good laugh, thinking of the lowly mindset of the United people of India. Today, we have wonderful politicians fighting for the rights of their people; fighting for more states; fighting for independent and autonomous regions alike. These people are our future. Karunanidhi would rather join the Sri Lankans than let his people speak a word of Hindi. That’s our country. Unity in Diversity.

There was a time in school, when I read about the 26 states of India. Now, it’s 28 and seven union territories. Who knows how many there will be by the time you read this post!

“All Indians are my brothers and sisters… and I am proud of its rich and varied heritage. I shall always try to be worthy of it.” Really?

Vote for me now! Blogomania 2010 sponsored by Odyssey360 | Buy online from over 5 million books

Root of all Evil...

Cognizance has tried hard. But cannot absorb me completely.

A day after I posed questions like "How many hours can you spend in the Cognizance office", "How do you propose to manage some ten things together" and associated interview-standards, I ask myself the same. January first saw the Winter viruses finally vanquished, as my body cooled to more acceptable temperatures. Ever since, it has been hell.

A month ago, I'd have laughed - had anyone told me I can make myself busy and place that strange 'red dot' against my status. I'm afraid my worst fears have been realized. While thoroughly enjoying the process of 'search-call-extort', I am finally beginning to see the other side of things. Those unending hours of velaness have all been killed in one powerful, crushing blow. No longer do I play PES endlessly. I don't listen to music for the sake of listening to music. I sleep as soon as 'work' gets done. The frequency of my trips up and down Mount Library have more than doubled. Why, I am no the longer omnipresent Green I used to be, on GTalk!

After a long time, I have managed to spend four-hundred rupees on a monthly phone rental at 50p/min, and I'm not too glad about it. While the wonderful warmth of the Cogni - radiator remains one of the few reasons which make me glad to spends nights and days there, the thought of negotiating that cold kilometer more than makes up for it. I still enjoy the task of Sponsorship - which, according to me, is the next best thing to Writing. Nevertheless, I have been severely chastising myself for ignoring my beloved blog for so long. Incidentally, it turns two, today! Happy birthday blog! May you stay healthy and live long.

I've got a phone call to make. Over and out.

It All Began Here...

Another week has passed, although with a better conclusion this time - as the recruitments, being as interesting as they always are, didn't fail to satisfy. Half a score girls walk through the same tunnel we traversed two summers ago. The repeated sensations of dejavu were only justified then, even though it was my first time as an interviewer inside KB. Having missed out on the major chunk of the recruitment procedure last time around, I can unequivocally state that this is the first time I formally sat at the other end of a Watch Out interview.

7th August 2009: What one looks for in an interview cannot clearly be put into words. An abstract quantity albeit intangible, can be felt, though not explained. That being stated, its funny then to see a pattern in the way people retort. You place the same question to a number of persons separated spatially or by time, you will inevitably elicit the same responses! One such question turned the hour glass back two complete circles to my very own final interview in the RJB TV room.

Mid August 2007: I entered the room amidst a grim atmosphere, trying hard not to flash all thirty-two. I didn't want to portray myself as a very serious person also. All the same, I can openly admit today that calling the ambience a little unnerving would be a gross understatement. Some fifteen pairs of eyes stared at me intently as I composed myself. I identified but a few then, mainly from the intro-talk, among the many people I would come to know in the years to come. I remember vividly Lefty with a diary in hand (I'm pretty sure) and Khandu, who sported the kind of a look I would have called 'dashing' back then. Banga looked as innocent as he would ever. SriPri, Middah, Sarthak, GoGo, Bonda, Young-Sahith - everyone was there.

I believe it was Khandu who remarked about the disapparition of my spectacles. The questions which followed where not exactly what I'd have called banal; nevertheless I would be lying if I said that they were unexpected altogether! But then came a final question, after which I was asked to leave the room... It was a question which took me back three years, to the days when the mind cared not about anything significant and a time when thoughts meandered so randomly.

Sometime in 2004-05: Standard 9: The day was bright; the guys in their usual boisterous mood and the girls huddled away in their private discussions filled with frequent giggles. The spatial confines of a room which restricted their activities would never be able to incarcerate the human mind. As things stood, on many desks were already carved ambigrams of our names - such was the creativity and joblessness of those days of yore.

It was a free period, and afraid of letting any time go waste devoid of creativity, our minds drifted onto poesy. That was the day, in that very classroom, a friend - my namesake and I sat down to pen a poem; definitely not my first and perhaps not my best, but one which would inspire me to write more. Many more.

The brightness dissolved into the shadows... and there I was, again in KB, asking the same question I had been asked in in 2007. The answer - one which ought to have been my first blog post. One which I had started typing out way back in December 2007, only to give up time and again in favour of a more pressing topic. However, this interview interrogative, one of the less expected ones, finally brings forth the long overdue and heretofore unrecognized. "What is the most creative thing you have penned?"

At that time only one rhyme brimmed my head.

He will come to every being,
Yet he instils fear
With eyes glazed, unseeing;
An expression calm and clear.

He will come when the time is right
Like the grey clouds bringing rain;
Like the darkness swallowing light
The essence of being, he will drain.

When he’s here, we’ll know for sure
By his chilly, rattling breath;
He is Fear, yet so pure

He is here, here is Death…

The interview was then declared complete.

A New Hope

A damp dreary chill filled the sky

A shroud of mist covered the Earth

All the warmth was destined to die

With it would go all joy and mirth.

Even the Sun had shirked away

Feeling the brunt of mortal Cold

31st December didn't see one ray!

We waited eager, for the year to fold.

To 1st of Jan, the Calendar turned

On cue rose Helios on the East

Cold on his very knees was spurned

2009 brings hope at least.

Even if not much, it promises more

Than the fallen year in more ways than one

The world has fallen humble to the floor

The only way now is 'up' - towards the sun.

So may the new year make reality of goals

May again, the world stand tall

May the world fill up with 'lol's

A very happy new year to one and all.

The Incarcerated Mind

Ahhh... The long expected and longed-for sem-break is here... Wonder why I don't care about it any longer. I've never agreed with - 'Good things come in small packages'; I've always thought, to quote a friend - 'Better things come in bigger ones'... But as the seconds crawl by to form big minutes and the minutes gradually develop into hours, I wish my holidays were shorter!

Yesterday, college reopened for some of my friends after a 6 day summer vacation! Well thats torture for sure, but this is too... Two and a half months to kill and I wonder why the year was made with 12 months... Well, Ludlum can keep me busy for a few days, but not even the best libraries of the world can save me from the inevitable- I've been sentenced - Death By Boredom!

For long, I've been fighting to maintain my agility - not physical, I've ruled out that possibility (Jogging in the mornings is too strenuous and playing football in the evening is unimportant when compared to lazying around at the beach); it's mental agility that I'm concerned about! Long has gone the time when Yudhishtra said - 'The human mind is the fastest thing in the Universe', I proudly boast of having the slowest mind... So much so that I'm worried that when asked my name, I'll begin with - 'Du...uh...'... Of course, 'it' is bloody brilliant at times, often gushing with ideas, its full of poems and stories and ways of solving the oil crisis! And so, with a pen and paper, I sit down to write down these brilliant fabrications of mine and >>>>
BLANK... The creativity is gone and I'm dumber than ever... This has happened twice so far and I was determined never to let it repeat. Desperate times call for desperate measures

- I'll never feel dumb again - I'll never touch that pen and paper again!

Later that week, I was watching the NDTV interview of Jeffrey Archer. He was apparently telling us what it takes to be a writer - I always imagined writing to be spontaeneous and instinctive art. Instead, he says that he's got it all sketched out - 2 hours in the morning, then a break before another two hours. Then two hours in the evening and 2 at night! Well, if it takes all that, I resign!! The damn man has the whole thing planned. But who blames him, writing is his job. I ain't gonna do that the whole day!

But I've not lost hope, in fact I've hoped for so much that I ended writing a poem on 'Hope'... Guess I'm not as bad as I thought. Perhaps, there is a chance to realize these dreams and develop a greater vision. But for that, I've got some serious 'mind-freeing' to do...
Anyone, see Neo??