Eyes Speak Lies ...

TAGging along

2008-06-18T03:54:00.001-07:00

This is my last post on this blog. College is over, life's changed quite a bit recently, and I've felt for quite sometime that I've outgrown this blog. I started it three and a half years ago, it has borne through quite a lot of bad things that I've written, some good ones too (hopefully), and most importantly, it has given me so many great friends that I wouldn't have found otherwise.

As a last post here, I'll do a tag by Sayandi, the person I respect and admire the most among all the friends this blog has given me. I have a new blog where I intend to be a lot more regular, at least till I'm at home. It'll have a different flavour to it, and hopefully give the impression that I've grown in this duration. :) The new blog can be found here.

Name three most valuable assets.
Books (no surprises there), laptop (with internet), and friends.

One truth in your life that haunts you every day?
The fact that, at one point or another in my life, I’ve hurt all the people that I love the most and that I’m likely to do it again in moments of thoughtlessness..

If you were to be stranded on a deserted island, who are the three blog buddies you would take alongside with you?
I can’t pick three. Has to be all of them. They would be (in no particular order) - Akanksha for her dreams, Amiya for being so talkative and funny, Rohit for his ‘chillax’ attitude, Sayandi for her sarcasm, Jayant simply because he exists (:P), Richa for photography (sorry Rohit!), Ishani for talking about books (Amiya, you're for just talking! :P), and Sinjini for her zest for life and for being so completely adorable.

Where is the place that you want to go the most?
Greece tops the list, but mainly it is ALL of Europe, from its westernmost corner to the Asian border, and I want to not just visit everything but also know about the history of each place, learn each language, understand the architectural differences between countries, be able to critically appreciate works of Van Gogh, Dali, Picasso, Monet etc, and the most difficult of them all, listen and be in awe of the music of Mozart and Beethoven and other greats.

If you can have one dream to come true, what would it be?
Find an eternal love and a true friend (hopefully in one person).

What are you afraid to lose the most in yourself?
Innocence and/or sincerity.

What would you do if you found a briefcase full of money?
Would be very tempted to use the money for myself. If I feel that the police will be able to restore it to its rightful owner, I’ll go to the police. If I feel otherwise, I’ll use it for what I would think a noble cause, and maybe a little bit for myself as well (after justifying to myself that I’ve used a major portion on something meaningful).

If you meet someone that you love, would you confess to him/her?
Yes. What’s the point of not doing so?

Which type of person do you dislike the most?
Hypocritical, those who have double-standards, and the ones that go back on their word.

What is your ambition?
To help my mother (that is, if she ever needs it) to reach such a level (financially, emotionally, socially, career-wise, and any other you can think of) in life that no one, absolutely no one in life can touch her.

If you were given the chance to have one super power, what would it be and why?
To be able to suck out all negative feelings from any person I come in contact with. Hence or otherwise, make everyone smile.

For you life is?
For actions on your convictions.

If you could do one thing different in life, what would it be?
Use my potential to the fullest at places where I have put in half-hearted efforts (and that is almost at every major juncture in my short life).

Are you a shopaholic?
Sometimes.

Which actor/actress would you like to be?
I’ve never really wanted to be anyone else, but if I had to answer this question, I’d say Hugh Grant. I have a huge crush on the guy. He’s irresistible!

One song that gives you goosebumps?
Three of them – Tumse milke, aisa laga tumse milke, armaan hue poore dil ke (Parinda)
Ek din aap yun humko mil jayenge, maine socha na tha (Yes Boss)
Ae ajnabi, tu bhi kabhi, aawaz de kahin se (Dil Se)

Do you have any plans for tomorrow?
To write..

I tag?
Guess I’m the last one to do it anyway. I tag whoever’s left.

See you all at my new blog.

2007-11-17T16:40:00.000-08:00

After nearly three and a half months of returning from Arcelor, I finally wrote to one of the guys who interned there with me, Matthias. He was really friendly to me and one of the few people who spoke English. I got an immediate and enthusiastic reply from him. My mail had been pretty general, a hi, a how are you, a where are you and a what are you doing. He was also a metallurgy student and a much more sincere one than I ever was as far as metallurgy is concerned. I saw him working hard, like most other interns over there, who worked for the love of the subject, for better understanding, for an earnestness of effort. They were concerned about their results, and would come back early the next morning if something went wrong with their experiments.

Matthias, too, was sincere about his experiments, his work. He would also come and help me out and provide reasons and alternatives when things didn’t go right with me, along with Malika, the two real friends I made there. I had long talks with him about his career and he finally wanted to get into some job that I really didn’t understand, maybe because his limited English made it difficult for me to understand or maybe because I’m unaware of that job profile. Yet he wanted to do it slowly, over a period of time. He had said that he would go back to Brittany, his home, a small island to the northwest of France, take up a job and live with his parents for a while.

When I mailed him today and asked what he was currently doing, he said that he had taken up a six month job in Brittany with a company that deals in military boats and submarines. And he says that it satisfies his scientific needs. This answer, and the mail in general, reminded me of what I had felt when I was in Europe those three months – that we, in India, are madly running after things, desires, which I like to call the capitalist or the American effect, rather inappropriately, since I’ve never been to the US and speak purely on the basis of impressions. Whatever be the reason, whatever be the driving force, we just seem to never be satisfied. It is not as if the Europeans did not work or aim high, but that they had a work ethic, the corporate culture was not the back-stabbing kind, the people gave as much importance to themselves, their own needs, their body, their mind, as to money. They worked in the field that gave them joy, because it gave them joy.

Why do we, here, just run and run and run. Without an end. We seek success. We seek progress. What is the upper limit? What do we aspire to become? Where will this progress lead us? There is no end, neither scientifically, nor financially. We will always be able to print more money or conjure up more ideas. Why do we do what we do? What is the benchmark of progress? As for success, how do we measure it? Why is success measured, in the present case, by the amount of money one earns, by the names we affiliated with, by the marks we receive or the praises that are showered on us? Why is success so external, so flimsy, so temporary? Why can’t we make it something that belongs to us, why don’t we decide whether we are successful or not? Why would I be successful only if I get into a job that pays me Rs. 10 lakhs an annum but a failure if I take up a Rs. 4 lakh and live in Gurgaon with my parents, have peace of mind and a proper home? Why is learning Creative Writing because I want to not a success but doing it from the best possible college is?

Why do we never stop to think where we are headed, why we are doing what we are doing? It pains me to see the kind of stuff taught to kids today in classes 7^th and 8^th, the kind of books they use, colorful, expensive and worthless. There is nothing tangible, nothing useful between the fancy covers that rob parents of money in the name of education. It pains me to see education becoming the biggest business around with no accountability, the reason being that education brings success. The private tuitions by school teachers after school, the IIT-JEE coachings, the Medical coachings, the MBA coachings, the private schools, the so-called engineering colleges that impart education on God knows what. Kids in class 8^th and 9^th today ask questions like “What’s the harm in a timepass fling,” or make statements like “She’s a flirt, it doesn’t matter if we talk like this about her,” or “It’s okay. It’s just physical attraction. We’ll go around for a while, that’s it.” Children hold parents accountable for their failures as early as high school, the adolescent period has become a nice over-hyped way of throwing tantrums and getting away with it. Not that parents are not to blame for this kind of upbringing, it is their misguided faith, their unreasonable hopes and their desire to show off their child as a success that spurs it all on.

We in IITK think that being in IITK should be testimony enough of our intelligence, our brilliance, our worth etc. etc. for universities to offer us admissions, for companies to beg us to work with them and pay us shitloads of money, for professors to let us be and not implore us to come to classes, for anyone in general to not expect us to behave, be disciplined or work hard for what we want because we are the best, the cream of the country. We shall go to chat rooms and Orkut profiles and declare that we are IITians and the guys should revere us and the girls drool over us. We shall sit here for four years and only complain about the lack of facilities, which gives us the freedom to suck out every last possible benefit from what is available and not contribute one whit back to the institute, we shall grow desperate about the highly skewed boys to girls ratio which gives us the license to dissect every one of the girls present on campus, say the most demeaning things about them and suck up to them as soon as they even look at us, our thoughts shall only revolve around how to get a girl’s attention, what would impress her the most, or dreams that shall be about a job that’ll pay us enough to go out with real girls outside IITK. When they come here to our campus, we shall take pictures and make videos from all possible angles, be the worst possible voyeurs and what more, be proud of it. We shall only jeer, yell, scorn and despise everything that we are given and never covet what we have. It is our right. We are the best.

Epics tell tales of times past, of struggles of men, of lives intertwined, of sorrows, of wisdom. Yet they always talk of turbulent times, of wars, of a rich heritage, of a golden era that was and that shall be, but the present, in every story, in every tale is saga of crime, or injustice, of torture, of tragedy. A just society, a happy society is boring. There is nothing to tell. Ramayana ends with the establishment of Ram Rajya, Atlas Shrugged ends when John Galt gets his way, The Lord of the Rings ends as Sauron is defeated, yet, it is these tales that we remember, the minutest details of the agony these people went through, their desperate attempts to salvage what they valued, their inherent belief, their mettle, their courage, and victory. Victory may not come to us, for this is not a story. But we can fight too. We can try and protect what is dear to us, what is pure and sublime that we cannot bear to see tarnished and violated. Misquoting from the Bhagwad Geeta, “Phal ki ichha mat kar, karm kiye jaa” is the one living mantra that has always made the most sense to me. In a world that I see as falling apart, conveniently oblivious to its doom, I see flashes of hope in some people, of brilliance that I wish to cradle and preserve but we must all fend for ourselves, with the knowledge that we will receive no support but we shall be pulled back at every possible opportunity. That is how it was meant to be. This is our present. Only if we could do our bit and make a difference to our own lives, it would be worth it. Everything would be worth it.

Friends have been the inspiration that has egged me on, and hopefully I will be lucky enough to run into people that make you want to make life worth living. It is because of them, because of what they have given me, because of what they are that I have hope. Prabhleen, for making me a part of his world, a world once so removed from mine, I could not have imagined our paths will converge one day. Mohit, for his grit and determination, and for standing up for me. Anuj, for really giving me the first taste of true friendship as I wanted it to be. Anant, for being sensible and sincere. Karnika, for being hyper, for being happy, for being vulnerable. Shohini, for being stable, for being hard-working, for being subtle. Mayank, for being guileless, for making me feel wanted. Abhinav (Jain) for being a friend in need. Manisha, for being so like myself. Vinod, for looking so harassed all the time, for being cynical, for being analytical. Pritha, for being so innocent. Prabha, for the sheer joy she finds in her work. Rohit, for turning out to be such a good friend, for being so real, so human, so honest. Amiya, who I never knew why I fell in love with. Prashant (Gautam) for the infinite store of creativity and intelligence that he is, for the fact that he’ll probably never find a place that is right for him. Suchitra ma’am, for her convictions, her beliefs, her commitments. Colin, for the best work ethic I’ve ever seen and the maturity that I’ll probably never match up to. Sayandi, for who she is, for her strength, her righteousness, her attitude, her whole being. And my mom. Thank you. All of you. I am what I am because of you and for you. I will be better person every single day because one or more of you have inspired me to be. I live for you, all of you and there’s no point living if not for you.

The Ramayana Series by Ashok K. Banker - A Review

2007-09-02T15:17:00.000-07:00

The Ramayana series by Ashok Banker is a brave attempt at rewriting the entire Ramayana in the fantasy genre. It is as brave an effort for the sheer scale of the attempt as for doing something, which if gone slightly wrong, could incite religious groups all over the country. Yet he successfully manages to thwart both problems and gives us the story in a very palatable form. The defining part of all the six books is that, though varying from the actual plot at places, the retelling remains true to the spirit of the original story. The intention of the author comes across as genuine, and his stand is always humble, never claiming to best any of the previous versions that have existed over the millennia.

Banker has an eye for detail and that serves him well during the narration. It helps him bring out the finer shades in the characters and gives credibility to the incidents. From the transformation of Ravana to ‘The Dark Lord’ to Rama as ‘The Chosen One’, all the characters are neatly defined, and there never comes a point in the story where the narration is slack. For the average fantasy reader, there are enough thrills in each book to satisfy the simple need of the joy of reading, while for the more serious reader, the philosophy of the Ramayana is kept intact and in fact, at most times, the reader tends to get absorbed in the story and forget that he’s not reading one of the versions that have been doing rounds forever.

The books trace the journey of Rama’s life from the ‘Prince of Ayodhya’ to ‘King of Ayodhya’, his life as he grows from a prince to an exiled king-in-waiting to Maryada Purushottam Rama to a demi-god for all those around him. It is a great portrayal of the kind of monumental decisions that he had to take from a very tender age, the dilemmas he had to face in the name of dharma, his stoic resistance of the demons of his own will and a nagging self-doubt in the wake of all the praises showered upon him at large. Halfway through the story, even the reader starts to feel sympathetic to his cries of “I am a mortal, a normal human being with all the regular flaws and desires. Please treat me as such and not as a deva.” Yet, as the story progresses, it so happens that all his attempts seem futile and by the end, his pleas seem perfunctory, even forced as he kept amassing more and more followers from Lakshmana to Hanuman, Sugreeva to Jamabavan and Vibhisena to the reader.

Inspite of the focus being on Rama throughout, Banker does well to bring out the characters of Dasaratha, Kausalya, Kaikeyi, Sumitra, Manthara, Bharat, Vashishta and Vishwamitra. The earlier fame of Dasaratha, his just rule, his later transgressions, Kausalya’s resilience for the sake of Rama, Kaikeyi’s character from her youth to the queen of pleasures, Bharat’s overnight change to a man on learning of the exile forced upon Rama are all beautifully portrayed.

The relationships between Rama & Lakshman, Rama & Hanuman and Rama & Sita form the highlight of the series. Lakshman’s love for Rama, his devotion for his elder brother is unmatched. From the very beginning, he is shown as a naughty, happy-go-lucky teenager with immense faith in Rama and as time progresses and events unfold, the same nonchalance to life manifests itself in the form of unrestrained anger and frustration arising from the helplessness he feels in the situation, from his inability to act in any way. His only solace is in following Rama to wherever he goes, whatever he does. His character reaches a peak in book three, where, as they are about to reach Chitrakut, Rama asks him one final time to follow his own dharma, to go back to Ayodhya and serve his people. Lakshman, angered by his requests, gives Rama his own version of dharma and ends by saying, “My dharma is Rama.” That is the high point of Lakshman’s character and it doesn’t really grow a lot after this, and there is a definite disintegration of his character in the last two books.

Similarly, Sita’s character is never fully developed. Even she has her high points, but is largely overshadowed by Rama, and Ravana, for that matter. Once one is through reading the book, she doesn’t come across as the epitome of purity and chastity as we are accustomed to see her. Banker is found wanting on that account. His portrayal of Hanuman, though, is worth commending, for the absolute devotion that he’s been able to bring out, if nothing else. Rama’s each word is like a blood-oath for him. What is good to see is that we get an insight into the inner turmoil of Hanuman, what he had to face, and sacrifice to remain true and loyal to Rama. This is something that we generally tend to overlook when talking of him. It is a sensitive description of him and his feelings.

All said and done, Banker saves the best of Ravana. It clearly is the high point of the series and the best developed character that continues to grow and amaze at each step in the story. Banker deftly brings out the ambiguity in his character, the ‘Lord of Asuras’ as he is now and the penitent Brahman lost in meditation that he was at one time. Every time we see Ravana at his worst, there is some redeeming factor, some act of his that seems good, even noble, which casts a seed of doubt in the minds of the reader. By the end, one is more intrigued by him than anything else. Though Banker leaves a lot of questions unanswered, it comes across as if it was Ravana who actually planned his own murder through the hands of Rama. He remarks to Mandodhari at one point that he and Rama were friends in an age past, will be friends again in ages to come, but in this particular age, they are the worst of foes. He knows that Rama won’t kill without reason, so by abducting Sita, and other deeds, he gives him a reason to come and kill him. As we approach the end, the only thing we want to know is who really is Ravana, what is his purpose, is he really evil, or even, can Rama be wrong?

The simple reason that Banker succeeds for me in recreating that entire universe is because, though overtly, the story is clearly Rama’s, he is the protagonist and the warrior of dharma, as he himself puts it, subtly, he gives us enough clues and incidents, even direct reasons through Rama’s own self doubts and the apparent lies propagated by Ravana which make us reconsider if Rama was actually the hero. Not necessarily that he was in the wrong, but that Ravana was the sole hero and the villain of the whole story, and Rama, like a thousand others, was only a minion in his grand schemes, whether they be to spread evil or to decimate it through his own slaughter at the hands of Rama. It does raise that question, however lightly and with that, the story ends. In the end, this too, is a story of love, of life, of faith, of devotion, of dharma. In essence, this too, is Ramayana.

Well...

2007-04-09T08:33:00.000-07:00

Originally uploaded by Swetank.

Well.....

2007-04-09T08:31:00.000-07:00

, originally uploaded by Swetank.

Clicked from a train to Jamshedpur from Kanpur this December. Loved the colours.

Living it for her...

2007-03-27T01:44:00.000-07:00

24th Jan, 10 pm onwards

It’s the fifth day. I just got a call. She died. My mother was crying – expected yet unexpected. I am leaving for Delhi immediately. Classes are not a concern. I do not know how to react. I feel my stomach churning but there are no tears. My friends show concern but I’m okay. I can think straight. I think I can think straight. I know I wouldn’t make it to her place before the guests for the occasion. It doesn’t make a difference, yet it’ll never be the same again. I wish I’d had a few moments with her alone, before, or even after her death. I want to feel the interminable silence that spread between us.

I get in the train. I missed my dinner, so I buy a packet of Kurkure and a Pepsi. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be eating junk after this news, but I’m hungry. I still am not crying. I don’t know whether it’s just the lack of emotions in me or a resignation to the fact that it was just a formality, that she’d already been brain dead for five days and that probably she’d died years ago. Or maybe it’s that I see some good coming out of this happening and so I feel that it’s a good riddance. I only know that I feel like loathing myself at the moment. In any case, I lie down and take out a book. I’m already sleepy. The day had been hectic. Am I not supposed to be sleepless? That’s how they show it in the movies. Regardless, I fall asleep.

I am in the auto-rickshaw which is nearing her place. I gather my wits to face not her, but the barrage of relatives and visitors that I’ll encounter and think hard how I’m supposed to behave. I get off, pay the driver very matter-of-factly and step inside. The house is buzzing with activity. The first thing I see is mamma. I jolt out of all my thoughts. After 21 years of reading the phrase countless number of times, I now know what it means to go pale, white rather and how blood can drain out of one’s face. This is probably the first time I’m seeing mamma show her vulnerability. I’m sure it’s real but then it’s necessary too. The society demands one to be so.

They’ve just brought the body (not her) from the hospital. The door is full of people. I try to peep in and steal a look. I’m see someone, shriveled up, nose stuffed with cotton plugs. Is it her? I hear wailings. Someone beside me runs off to an inner room to cry. I remove myself from that area. I don’t like the look of it all. I don’t want to cry. I’m nearly about to but I manage to keep it to moist eyes. I hold my 9 year old cousin and lead him inside. He’s more curious than sad. I don’t know how he is supposed to feel. He never really had a relationship with her. All he heard about her were demonic things. True, but demonic. I have better memories. I’ve been loved. I still don’t know what to do.

It is time to take the body away. It’s (the her becomes an it in a flash) been bathed, tied to the wooden planks, draped with shawls from all relatives. There’s wailing, the loudest from acquaintances who haven’t met her in the past few months. I hear a comment – “Arre yeh to paanch din mein hi swaha ho gayi. Kisi se kuchh bol to jati. Aise hi chali gayi.” My mom loses her composure again, starts crying. I want to tell that lady to fuck off and mind her own fucking business. How dare she count the number of days she took to die. She’s been keeping a record, making calculations.

I’m in the ambulance with her. Her head is in my lap. It’s giving out a weird smell. I’m feeling uncomfortable. The body’s heavy, the place is too small and I don’t know how I’m supposed to react. We reach the cremation grounds. We are waiting for the busload of relatives to reach. In the meanwhile, the payment for wood has to be made. They’ve booked a VIP cremation ground for her through some MLA they know, but it’s not free right now. We get the semi-VIP one. We go there and a dog is sleeping in the area. The priest (who does not look like a priest at all) shoos him away in a very un-priestly manner. I do not understand how it would make a difference if she’s burned in the commoner’s area or the VIP or the semi-VIP area. I know that it’s not a way of paying tribute to her. Nobody’s doing that. So, are they still thinking of the social status at this moment? How am I supposed to behave?

The priest chants and rants. She burns. I can still remember her alive. I can still hear her voice in my ears, in my head. I see her burning but I also see her laughing, talking in her own mean, conniving way. Why does it seem more acceptable that burning the body? Is she dead? What’s death? No, that’s metaphysical. I won’t go there. Sahil, my nine year old cousin, is still throwing the remaining wood sticks on the smoldering body. It’s not my idea of fun. I was never called for putting flame to the body. I don’t think I’d have gone even if I was. Some people from our crowd are standing in a corner, socializing. I also see two of them laughing. They have come to the crematorium in a very self-assured way. They seem to know the difference in rates of all the cremation grounds around. Some of them have free parking. This one has. The one in Shahdara doesn’t.

We move in a file. The body still burns. The priest demands his fees. He wants the price fixed earlier and double that amount on some other pretexts. The elders haggle but he’s adamant. He’s shouting now. He’s saying something about her, about death. He’s well practiced. He won’t give in. He knows the tricks of the trade. No one’s in the mood to bargain. He gets his way. We move out. The guard at parking demands money. We refuse. We hear a lot of filth. If I were alone, I might’ve kicked him in the groin. We come back. Every visitor has to be fed. They don’t want to eat in the home where a death has occurred. We want to feed them since it is the tradition. Both are right. We win some, lose some. It’s all okay.

It’s morning now. We go to the crematorium again. We have to pick up flowers. I didn’t know what that meant. I took it literally. It turned out that all the bones do not burn to ashes, contrary to my expectations. I don’t think I did my science properly. We are supposed to collect them after a ritual involving milk, sweets and flowers which I had to procure from a few nearby shops. Even now, people are thinking who gives me the money to buy it. I’m not to do it of my parent’s money. They have egos, they have plans. They don’t have change. Things, like always, work out somehow. Now we get to the actual job of collecting the bones. I can’t. I think it is unhygienic. I don’t ant to touch them. All of them tell me to. I evade the issue. I manage to get past it all. After a lot of other things, unacceptable to me, we get back home. Tomorrow, we have to take the ashes to Garhganga for asthi-visarjan.

Family politics reaches a high. Nevertheless, the group I’m a part of, has its way. Early morning, we start for Gangaji. Mamaji is driving. The ashes are in a red cloth. “Red cloth for women, white for men”, the priest had said. I fail to see why. He’d also ordered not to place the ashes down on the floor or the seat of the car. I have to carry it in my lap for two hours till the time we reach the place. I’m not sure how I’m feeling. The red bag I’m holding used to be a person. That whole thing used to be my nani, now it’s just an inanimate thing that I’ve got to held till we can do the needful with it/her. I hold her, and I’m feeling nothing. I’m blank, I feel so hollow. Damn, don’t I have any emotions in me? Why the stone-heartedness? What if I shed a tear or two? Why can’t I? I should try harder.

Gangaji is a very commercialized place. Everybody has rates. We get crowded as soon as we get off. We took a bath in the holy river full of ashes and muck. The water was worse than ice-cold. The priest embezzled more than we intended but less than his expectations. We left at the earliest. Back home, garuda-purana has been organized for ten days. I’m forced to sit. After a while of rambling in Sanskrit and Hindi, the pandit starts describing how those who’ve sinned in this world are going to go to hell, how they bear pains like the sting of a hundred scorpions and a lot of other things that I don’t care to listen. I’ve had enough. I refuse to be a part of the circus procession anymore. I walk out.

It was her I went for, and I found everything except her. Nobody seemed to remember her. They talked of what was socially and politically correct to say. They said good things, they said superficial things. They reflected themselves, not her. She was missing. Maybe she has actually died. Maybe it was time. Maybe…

Addicted

2007-02-03T21:36:00.000-08:00

I have two exams tomorrow and I haven't yet begun studying. So you know why you just continue scrolling down to see the 60 tests I took!

You Are a Frappacino

At your best, you are: fun loving, sweet, and modern

At your worst, you are: childish and over indulgent

You drink coffee when: you're craving something sweet

Your caffeine addiction level: low

What Kind of Coffee Are You?

You Should Get a PhD in Science (like chemistry, math, or engineering)

You're both smart and innovative when it comes to ideas.
Maybe you'll find a cure for cancer - or develop the latest underground drug.

What Advanced Degree Should You Get?

Your Birth Month is December

You love life and exude an outgoing, cheerful vibe.
Blessed with a great sense of humor, you can laugh at adversity.

Your soul reflects: Celebration, success, and wealth

Your gemstone: Blue Topaz

Your flower: Narcissus

Your colors: Indigo, green, and blue-green

What Does Your Birth Month Mean?

Your Heart Is Red

You're a passionate lover - you always have a huge fire in your heart.
Too bad it's hard for you to be passionate about just one person!

Your flirting style: Outgoing and sexy

Your lucky first date: Drinks and dancing

Your dream lover: Is both stable and intense

What you bring to relationships: Honesty

What Color Heart Do You Have?

What Your Bathroom Habits Say About You

You are very independent and self-centered. You don't solve other people's problems - and you don't expect them to solve yours.

Your idea of fashion is jeans and a t-shirt. Clean, if you're lucky.

You are a little shy and easily embarrassed. You often wonder if you are normal.

In relationships, you tend to take care of your needs first. You can only be with someone who's as independent as you are.

What Do Your Bathroom Habits Say About You?

Your Personality Is

Rational (NT)

You are both logical and creative. You are full of ideas.
You are so rational that you analyze everything. This drives people a little crazy!

Intelligence is important to you. You always like to be around smart people.
In fact, you're often a little short with people who don't impress you mentally.

You seem distant to some - but it's usually because you're deep in thought.
Those who understand you best are fellow Rationals.

In love, you tend to approach things with logic. You seek a compatible mate - who is also very intelligent.

At work, you tend to gravitate toward idea building careers - like programming, medicine, or academia.

With others, you are very honest and direct. People often can't take your criticism well.

As far as your looks go, you're coasting on what you were born with. You think fashion is silly.

On weekends, you spend most of your time thinking, experimenting with new ideas, or learning new things.

The Three Question Personality Test

You Should Learn French

C'est super! You appreciate the finer things in life... wine, art, cheese, love affairs.
You are definitely a Parisian at heart. You just need your tongue to catch up...

What Language Should You Learn?

Your Vocabulary Score: A-

Congratulations on your multifarious vocabulary!
You must be quite an erudite person.

How's Your Vocabulary?

Your Deadly Sins

Sloth: 60%

Gluttony: 20%

Greed: 20%

Envy: 0%

Lust: 0%

Pride: 0%

Wrath: 0%

Chance You'll Go to Hell: 14%

You will get bugs, because you're too lazy to shoo them off. And then you'll die.

How Sinful Are You?

Your Blog Should Be Purple

You're an expressive, offbeat blogger who tends to write about anything and everything.
You tend to set blogging trends, and you're the most likely to write your own meme or survey.
You are a bit distant though. Your blog is all about you - not what anyone else has to say.

What Color Should Your Blog or Journal Be?

You Are 19 Years Old

Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe.

13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world.

20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences.

30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more!

40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

What Age Do You Act?

You Are The Group Gossip

You love your friends...
And you love to talk smack about them
And frankly, you just love to talk in general
You're definitely the one to go to for the dirt!

What Kind of Friend Are You?

Your Mood Ring is Dark Green

Friendly

Outgoing

Cheerful

Mood Ring Generator

You Belong in 1965

If you scored...

1950 - 1959: You're fun loving, romantic, and more than a little innocent. See you at the drive in!

1960 - 1969: You are a free spirit with a huge heart. Love, peace, and happiness rule - oh, and drugs too.

1970 - 1979: Bold and brash, you take life by the horns. Whether you're partying or protesting, you give it your all!

1980 - 1989: Wild, over the top, and just a little bit cheesy. You're colorful at night - and successful during the day.

1990 - 1999: With you anything goes! You're grunge one day, ghetto fabulous the next. It's all good!

What Year Do You Belong In?

You Have Your Sarcastic Moments

While you're not sarcastic at all times, you definitely have a cynical edge.
In your opinion, not all people are annoying. Some are dead!
And although you do have your genuine moments, you can't help getting your zingers in.
Some people might be a little hurt by your sarcasm, but it's more likely they think you're hilarious.

How Sarcastic Are You?

You Are 67% Ready for Marriage

You are almost ready for marriage, and you could be ready to be engaged.
You're still figuring out the details of your ideal relationship!

Are You Ready for Marriage?

Your Pride Quotient: 89%

You're proud, arrogant, vain - and most likely stuck up.
And face it: you probably think you're too good for this quiz.

How Much Pride Do You Have?

Your Mind is PG-13 Rated

Your mind is definitely a little dirty. You're naughty, but not trashy.
You don't shy away from a dirty joke, and you're clearly not a prude.

Do You Have a Dirty Mind?

You Are Cyclops

Dedicated and responsible, you will always remain loyal to your cause.
You are a commanding leader - after all, you can kill someone just by looking at them.

Power: force beams from your eyes

Which of the X-Men Are You?

The True You

You want your girlfriend or boyfriend to do more for you.

With respect to money, you spend as little as possible.

You think good luck doesn't exist - reality is built on practicalities.

The hidden side of your personality tends to be methodical in your ways - with trouble adapting to the rules of society.

You are tend to think about others' feelings a lot, perhaps because you are so eager to be liked.

When it comes to finding a romantic partner, you base your search on information from your friends.

Who's The True You?

How You Are In Love

You take a while to fall in love with someone. Trust takes time.

You tend to take more than give in relationships.

You tend to get very attached when you're with someone. You want to see your love all the time.

You love your partner unconditionally and don't try to make them change.

You stay in love for a long time, even if you aren't loved back. When you fall, you fall hard.

How Are You In Love?

You Are 30% Boyish and 70% Girlish

Even if you're not a girl, you're very feminine.
You're in touch with your feelings, and your heart rules you.
A bit of a emotional roller coaster, one moment you're up and the next you're down.
But no matter what, you try to be as cute and perky as possible.

How Boyish or Girlish Are You?

Your Outrageous Name is:

Craven Morehead

Outrageous Name Generator

Slow and Steady

Your friends see you as painstaking and fussy.

They see you as very cautious, extremely careful, a slow and steady plodder.

It'd really surprise them if you ever did something impulsively or on the spur of the moment.

They expect you to examine everything carefully from every angle and then usually decide against it.

How Do People See You?

Your True Love Is a Taurus

Why you'll love a Taurus:

Romantic and sentimental, a Taurus can provide you with the security you need.
And you both share a fondness for the finest things, from great food to luxury vacations.

Why a Taurus will love you:

You have the honesty and direct approach that down to earth Taurus desires.
And enough elegance to show a Taurus a few new decadent delights!

What Sign Is Your True Love?

Your Aura is Violet

Idealistic and thoughtful, you have the mind and ideas to change the world.
And you have the charisma of a great leader, even if you don't always use it!

The purpose of your life: saying truths that other people dare not say

Famous purples include: Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr., Susan B. Anthony

Careers for you to try: Political Activist, Inventor, Life Coach

What Color Is Your Aura?

You Are Olive Green

You are the most real of all the green shades. You're always true to yourself.
For you, authenticity and honesty are very important... both in others and yourself.
You are grounded and secure. It takes a lot to shake you.
People see you as dependable, probably the most dependable person they know.

What Color Green Are You?

People Envy Your Compassion

You have a kind heart and an unusual empathy for all living creatures. You tend to absorb others' happiness and pain.
People envy your compassion, and more importantly, the connections it helps you build. And compassionate as you are, you feel for them.

What Do People Envy About You?

You Are a Fun Flirt

You just can't help yourself... you flirt with everyone you know.
Guys, girls, crushes, and friends. They're all victims to your charm.
You're into silly innuendos, sexy jokes, and playful touches.
You are a huge flirt, yet you never make anyone (too) uncomfortable!

What Kind of Flirt Are You?

You Are Cameo

You are understanding and very empathetic.
You don't tend to have acquaintances. Everyone is your friend.
And all of your friends tend to be friends. You have a knack for bringing very different people together.

What Color Orange Are You?

You Failed 8th Grade Spanish

Sorry, you only got 2/8 correct!

Could You Pass 8th Grade Spanish?

You Are Somewhat Honest

You do tend to tell the truth a lot
But you also stretch the truth on occasion
You figure a little lie isn't a big deal
As long as it doesn't hurt anyone too much!

How Honest Are You?

You Are 58% Feminine, 42% Masculine

You are in touch with both your feminine and masculine sides.
You're sensitive at the right times, but you don't let your emotions overwhelm you.
You're not a eunuch, just the best of both genders.

Are You Masculine or Feminine?

Your Driving Is is: 82% Male, 18% Female

According to studies, you drive like a typical male.
You're reckless, aggressive, and see driving as a game.
And while you like to live on the edge a little, you still know how to drive safely.

Do You Drive Like a Guy or a Girl?

If You Were Born in 2893...

Your Name Would Be: Pant Umori

And You Would Be: Half Alien

If You Were Born in 2893

In 1985 (the year you were born)

Ronald Reagan is president of the US

Live Aid, a 17 hour rock concert broadcasts worldwide from London and Philadelphia, raising $70 million for starving Africans

An 8.1 magnitude earthquake hits Mexico City and results in about 25,000 deaths

Vocano "Nevada del Ruiz" erupts near Bogota, Columbia causing mud slides that bury two towns

American Jew Jonathan Pollard is arrested for giving military secrets to Israel

Mikhail Gorbachev becomes Soviet leader

New Coke is released on the 99th anniversary of Coca-Cola

The GNU Manifesto first written by Richard Stallman

Kansas City Royals win the World series

San Francisco 49ers win Superbowl XIX

Edmonton Oilers win the Stanley Cup

Back to the Future is the top grossing film

Less Than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis is published

David Lee Roth leaves Van Halen to begin a solo career

"Careless Whisper" by Wham! spends the most time at the top of the US charts

Elmo is introduced on Sesame Street

The Golden Girls and Growing Pains premiere

What Happened the Year You Were Born?

Your Dominant Thinking Style: Exploring

You thrive on the unknown and unpredictable. Novelty is your middle name.
You are a challenger. You tend to challenge common assumptions and beliefs.

An expert inventor and problem solver, you approach everything from new angles.
You show people how to question their models of the world.

What's Your Thinking Style?

You Are 25% Redneck

The wheels still turning, but the hamster's dead.
You're just fakin' bein' a redneck.

How Redneck Are You?

You Are 80% Open Minded

You are so open minded that your brain may have fallen out!
Well, not really. But you may be confused on where you stand.
You don't have a judgemental bone in your body, and you're very accepting.
You enjoy the best of every life philosophy, even if you sometimes contradict yourself.

How Open Minded Are You?

You Belong in the USA

Sweet!
People either love you or hate you
And you really don't care what anyone thinks
Big and bold, you do things your way

What English Speaking Country Are You?

You Passed 8th Grade Math

Congratulations, you got 10/10 correct!

Could You Pass 8th Grade Math?

Your Slanguage Profile

Aussie Slang: 75%

British Slang: 75%

Prison Slang: 50%

Canadian Slang: 25%

New England Slang: 25%

Victorian Slang: 25%

What Slanguage Do You Speak?

Your Lust Quotient: 56%

You are definitely a lustful person, but you do a good job of hiding it.
Your friends would be surprised to know that your secretly very wild!

How Much Lust Do You Have?

Your Brain is 87% Female, 13% Male

You have the brain of a girly girl
Which isn't a bad thing at all
You're emphatetic, caring, and in tune with emotions.
You're a good friend and give great advice.

What Gender Is Your Brain?

Your Passion is Gray

Your sexual attitude is best described as apathetic.
Often joking that you're asexual, you can go months without getting any.
For you, great sex does not make or break a relationship.
If it happens, it's just the icing on the cake.

What Color Is Your Passion?

You Are Expressionism

Moody, emotional, and even a bit angsty... you certainly know how to express your emotions.
At times, you tend to lack perspective on your life, probably as a result of looking inward too much.
This introspection does give you a flair for the dramatic. And it's even maybe made you cultivate some artistic talents!
You have a true artist's temperament... which is a blessing and a curse.

What Art Movement Are You?

Your Pickup Line Is

You have been very naughty! Go to my room!

The Magical Pick Up Line Generator

You Should Maybe Go to Grad School

Grad school may be the right choice for you, but you need to investigate further.
So put those studying skill to use, and pick a program that's perfect for you.
And make sure you're going for the right reasons - not just to avoid getting a job.

Should You Go To Grad School?

What Your Dreams Mean...

Your dreams seem to show that you're a bit disturbed... but nothing serious.

You may have a problem you're trying to work out in your sleep.

You tend to be a very productive thinker.

You have a very vivid imagination and a rich creative mind.

What Do Your Dreams Mean?

Your Dominant Intelligence is Linguistic Intelligence

You are excellent with words and language. You explain yourself well.
An elegant speaker, you can converse well with anyone on the fly.
You are also good at remembering information and convicing someone of your point of view.
A master of creative phrasing and unique words, you enjoy expanding your vocabulary.

You would make a fantastic poet, journalist, writer, teacher, lawyer, politician, or translator.

What Kind of Intelligence Do You Have?

You Are 86% Grown Up, 14% Kid

Your emotional maturity is fully developed, and you have an excellent grasp on your emotions.
In fact, you are so emotionally mature - you should consider being a therapist!

How Emotionally Mature Are You?

You Are Best Described By...

Meditative Rose
By Salvadore Dali

What Famous Work of Art Are You?

You Are 5: The Investigator

You're independent - and a logical analytical thinker.

You love learning and ideas... and know things no one else does.

Bored by small talk, you refuse to participate in boring conversations.

You are open minded. A visionary. You understand the world and may change it.

What Number Are You?

You are 80% Sagittarius

How Sagittarius Are You?

You Will Die at Age 82

Congratulations! You take good care of yourself.
You're poised to live a long, healthy life.

What Age Will You Die?

You Should Weigh 175

If you weigh less than this, you either have a fast metabolism or are about to gain weight.
If you weigh more than this, you may be losing a few pounds soon!

How Much Do You Weigh?

Your Hidden Talent

You have the power to persuade and influence others.
You're the type of person who can turn a whole room around.
The potential for great leadership is there, as long as you don't abuse it.
Always remember, you have a lot more power over people than you might think!

What's Your Hidden Talent?

You are an Atheist

When it comes to religion, you're a non-believer (simple as that).
You prefer to think about what's known and proven.
You don't need religion to solve life's problems.
Instead, you tend to work things out with logic and philosophy.

What's Your Religious Philosophy?

You Are An ISFJ

The Nurturer

You have a strong need to belong, and you very loyal.
A good listener, you excell at helping others in practical ways.
In your spare time, you enjoy engaging your senses through art, cooking, and music.
You find it easy to be devoted to one person, who you do special things for.

You would make a good interior designer, chef, or child psychologist.

What's Your Personality Type?

Your Birthdate: December 14

You work well with others. That is, you're good at getting them to do work for you.
It's true that you get by on your charm. But so what? You make people happy!
You're dynamic, clever, and funny. And people like to have you around.
But you're so restless, they better not expect you to stay around for long.

Your strength: Your superstar charisma

Your weakness: Commitment means nothing to you

Your power color: Fuchsia

Your power symbol: Diamond

Your power month: May

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

2007-01-19T14:07:00.000-08:00

This is my first personal post ever. I think I need it today.

When I thought I'll write something today, it wasn't supposed to be this. Fifteen minutes ago, I got a phone call from mom, at 3 in the night and her feeble voice told me that something was wrong. Turned out that my nani (I call her badi-mamma) had a severe heart attack earlier tonight. She's in the hopsital. The doctors say that her heart is 80% damaged, that it cannot pump blood to the brain, that she is probably brain dead, and if she does make it through, she'll be bed-ridden for the rest of her life, a condition they say is worse than death, both for the family and the patient. Some blood vessels have come undone and instead of being transported to the brain, the blood is all coming out of her mouth. She is on a life support system and heavy medication.

My mom couldn't sleep. Neither can I. She'll go to her first thing in the morning. I can't.

Though never ever faced with such a situation in my life, I always thought that I could look at death objectively. I thought that if old people over the age of 70 die a natural death, it was perfectly okay. That is how it should be. You feel sad, that is true, but it's not such a big deal. Turns out I was wrong, not surprisingly. I happen to be wrong far too often, especially about myself. Anyways, that's not the issue.

I am no divinity and I have absolutely no authority to pass judgements on anyone, but my nani wasn't a good person. I know of no one, no one who does not detest her for what she has been and what she has done. Even today, her departure, to put it euphemistically, would improve few lives, and lives of people who've got to live for a long time, age-wise. I agree with that judgement. This would sound grotesque, but I'd be happy if she died. At least the others would get to live a decent life. If she survives and is bed-ridden, I guess that'll be her punishment too, to suffer for her deeds in such a pitiless way. That is God's justice. She will also suffer because, every moment, she will receive the best possible care from all those people whom she hurt. If there is an iota of conscience left in her, and if she can still feel and understand, yet be able to do nothing about it, that will also be God's justice. Will it absolve her of her sins? I do not know. I do not care.

You see, I myself hate her. I hate her for what she's done to people I love. Yet I can't sleep. I hate her for what she's done to my nani. My nani, who used to be good when I was a kid, who always kept a packet of cornflakes handy whenever I was to visit her, who's love I could feel permeating through me. I guess that was an illusion too, but even if it was, it was a good one. It didn't live long, though. The things were in place till I was 6, or maybe 7. It's been fourteen years hence. I haven't seen her again. I've seen the 70 year old woman who today is relegated to the mercy of those she tortured. I know it sounds thus, but I have absolutely no sympathy for her.

I cry not for her, but for the woman who was a symbol of what my nani should have been. I cry for that relation. I cry not because I am losing it, but because I realize I never had it. It feels so empty. At times I feel retarded. Some of te pivotal positions in one's life, the people you love the most, the people you get all the love from, the people whom you learn from, have all been missing. Not physically. I feel so incomplete, so insecure. It's a big void within me. Sometimes I just so crave for love. Pure, uninhibited, unconditional love. When I take people seriously, when I help them out, when I do things for them, everyone takes me for a nice guy. I'm not. I'm just plain needy. I'd go to any extent to get a smile from someone, to share a special moment, a special bond with a person just because it alleviates that hollowness a little.

When I write this post, I'm not even thinking of her, of what she's going through, of the physical pain she might be feeling or any other difficulty she might be experiencing. I am thinking of all the people who are out there, standing, dozing, running through the night for her sake. I am thinking of those who should have been there but are not and those who will not be even when they are told. I am thinking of my mother, of her stifled, cracking voice, of the desperation in her voice when she asked me, "Swetank, main so kyun nahi pa rahi? Mujhe kyun fark pad raha hai?" I am thinking of the loss she will face. Her mother, yes, but more than that, it was a constancy in her life that will be no more. For forty-three years, she has seen her, talked to her, loved her, hated her, fought with her, but there was a her. There still is, but it'll never be the same again. I hope it never is. It is better this way. I can't bear to think what my mother is going through and will go through if it does come to pass.

My stomach is doing somersaults now. I wish I knew what I should do. Everyone will tell me that everything will be alright. For once, they'll be right. Everything will be alright if she isn't. That's the irony of it. Why couldn't everything have been alright?

Gender At Work In IIT Kanpur

2006-12-25T08:52:00.000-08:00

This is a project report for a research project that Anurag Bhatt (3rd year Mechanical Engineering, IIT Kanpur) and I did for a course on Feminist Theory and Literature last semester, under Dr. Suchitra Mathur. We've tried not to make it boring. So please continue reading. We promise it'll not read like a normal report does.

Coming into our third year of stay at IIT Kanpur, we felt really removed from a section of the campus community - the faculty. We felt that coming to IIT Kanpur was not only about getting grades, jobs and degrees. The purpose of our stay was to learn, without limiting the scope of the word, and to leave this place as wiser and better-informed individuals. In this respect, we felt, we were failing. Although we were learning about the technical aspects of our own fields, we hardly got to share anything about life with our professors, and learn from their experiences. All we knew about our faculty members was what they would show us during classes. We wanted to get a more complete picture, look into a facet of their lives that goes relatively unnoticed, without, of course, prying into their personal lives. There are certain assumptions regarding the institute, its faculty and how they conduct themselves. For instance, our parents perceive the members of the faculty as being extremely rational people, and there are notions that they so act in their personal life as well. We wanted to see if the reality maps on to that image or not.

We wanted to talk to the faculty about their professional lives, their career choices, the impact of the move to IIT Kanpur on their lives, and also how their spouses cope with this change and the subsequent campus life, both personally and professionally. In recent times, there has been a lot of hue and cry about the role of gender stereotyping at workplaces and in private lives, of predefined gender roles and internalization of identities constructed socially. We wanted to observe if gender played a defining role in the kind of choices that people on campus made and to what extent, or if certain factors like job satisfaction, social life etc. transcended the boundaries of gender altogether.

Once decided, the next problem was to close in on certain faculty members based on specific criteria and to convince them to talk to us. We had to have a certain uniformity in the sample that we interviewed, both with respect to faculty-spouse and male-female ratios. We defined categories of faculty members, both male and female, based on what their spouses were doing after coming to IITK. Simply put, the categories were – spouses who were working fulltime earlier and now worked either fulltime, part-time or did not work at all.

The definition of work that we began with, as our starting point, was a capitalist one, where work is what one is paid for, or even if one is self-employed, the work is accompanied with some sort of remuneration. We had thought of more contemporary definitions as well, that would have incorporated the recent claims about household work being work, where work is something that is productive rather than something that induces income in terms of cash. With that definition of work, it would have been difficult to define categories, and hence we stuck to the capitalist definition and expected to face some flak for submitting to age old norms. Contrary to our expectations, this definition was hardly contested by those we interviewed.

All said, the interviews came with relative ease. We got to see an entirely different viewpoint of faculty members and their spouses on life in general and campus life in particular. They stepped off the pedestal on which we put them, which makes them appear inaccessible, and spoke with élan. In a lot of ways, it was one of the most humbling experiences of our short lives and left us amazed, awestruck. Our respect for them multiplied manifold.

Once we finished with all our interviews, there were certain things that were very apparent in all of them. Some were expected, others, shocking. One fact that was repeated over and over again was that faculty spouses were not at all satisfied with their professional lives here. The move to IITK had not been rewarding for them in any way, either in terms of monetary/financial gains, or as a source of job satisfaction. The job opportunities on campus, as well as in the city, can be termed as virtually non-existent. Most people gravitate towards school-teaching jobs in the city due to the ease of getting them, or some get absorbed as Project Assistants/Research Engineers on campus, but that is far from fulfilling professionally, in view of the academic qualifications they hold, in the opinion of those we interviewed.

Another issue that manifested itself in rather obvious gender-specific terms was the practice of a break in professional life. Almost every woman we interviewed had had a six- month to twenty-four month break in her career, for reasons other than motherhood. In most cases, their career wasn’t deemed as important since they did not ‘need’ to work as such. Such examples were not found with their male counterparts. In quite a few cases, the women had to sit and wait for a job opportunity, simply because none was available at the place where the husband worked, or because they were at least ready to wait, if other needs intervened.

When we began this project, we had not expected this. It would, rather, be more appropriate to say that we had ‘hoped’ not to encounter this. IIT Kanpur, as was also emphasized in all the interviews, is the premier engineering institute of the nation. The work-force of the institute, the students and the faculty, are hailed as the best minds in the country. In such a scenario, it pained us to see that the social dogmas that breed outside the campus, also propagate inside it. Women are still the ones who are expected to make the compromises. All men and women agreed on that, women matter-of-factly, men, patronizingly. One of the ideas that is propagated by liberal feminism is of equal opportunities and education. The belief is that once everyone is educated, the uncalled-for social differences would be eliminated. Issues regarding gender conflicts would be solved more rationally as education helps us understand that every individual is equally important.

The way the interviews went, they seemed not to subscribe to this ideology. Although people here are very educated, the discriminating factors that exist elsewhere in society, also exist here. So, does education actually help us bring about a change? The discussion veered to a point where, while arguing in favor of education, we came up with an argument saying that education at least helps us know that differentiating on the basis of gender is wrong. An illiterate person would not even know that it is wrong, so it does help us bring about awareness. At the same time, a counter-argument struck us, which we felt was extremely telling. If education helps us to know that this is wrong, then to practice it even after knowing this is a bigger mistake than that of the same illiterate person who doesn’t even know that he is committing a mistake.

The actions of women are referred to by their male counterparts as ‘sacrifice’, which serves a two-fold purpose. One, it supposedly gives the women a noble persona, entrusts them with a halo of courage and fortitude, and makes them enduring. Two, it relieves the spouse of any responsibility altogether, giving that element of choice by the use of the particular word, ‘sacrifice’. One wonders how much choice is actually there in that decision. How long will the façade of equality hold if one were to really exercise that choice. Also, the positive reaction of the society that goes with such ‘sacrifice’, in a way, puts pressure on women to conform to this idea. One wonders then, that is it, to that extent, a deliberate construct to make women feel that they too are important? One does wonder.

The concept of woman making the compromise also brought to fore, the idea of internalization of gender roles. We observed that almost all males, working or non-working, spoke predominantly of their work. Anything related to personal life was a fleeting comment rather than a discussion as in the case of professional issues. At the same time, women, even though employed, working and economically-independent they might have been, still focused a lot on domestic issues and how they struck a balance between their professional and personal lives. Do men relate more to public life and their work than women, who even when working, have to bear the responsibility of the home and hence, relate to it? Also, the interviews taken at home were generally much longer than the ones taken in office. It is said that, stereotypically, women tend to speak more, that is to say that it is a feminine trait. So again, to that extent, are workplaces also gendered? At home, the feminine traits would me more dominant while in the office, one tends to be more objective in one’s answers.

One also wonders why a question regarding faculty spouses invariably elicited responses regarding faculty wives. Although the male-female ratio in the faculty is extremely skewed (as is the case in the student community), female faculty members do exist, so why that brushing off of that small number, whether consciously or unconsciously? This also leads us to another issue, of couples living separately and working at different places. Though we do not have statistical proof to substantiate our claim here, but while we were looking for prospective interviewees, it was our perception that there is a relatively large percentage of female faculty members whose husbands work elsewhere. The number of male faculty members in a similar situation, are paltry in comparison, which again brings us to the question of sacrifice. Do husbands refuse to move in with their wives while the reverse is commonplace? If yes, does this have to do more with ego hassles, or societal implications of being termed dependent on your wife, irrespective of the truth?

The skewed male faculty to female faculty ratio would imply a corresponding skewed ratio of female spouses to male spouses on campus, assuming that most of the faculty members are married. It has already been established that faculty spouses are not satisfied with the kind of professional lives that they get to lead over here. Combining the two leaves us with a lot of professionally dissatisfied women on campus. Where does that lead us? Do we still take an unblemished pride in being, or having been, a part of this institute? Aren’t there dark corners waiting to be looked into which might diminish the invincible glory that the institute basks in?Another much talked about issue, which was evident from the interviews, is the crisis regarding insufficient faculty members in various departments. Of late, there has been a lot of talk about the lack of a proper infrastructure to handle the increased inflow of students every year, and one of the major concerns has been lack of faculty. In the wake of this scenario, the solution seemed rather obvious to us. When we have repeated mention of highly qualified but disgruntled faculty spouses roaming around on campus, why not dig into that talent pool and commence a symbiotic relationship that lets the two feed on each other? That would also, probably, eliminate the need for spouses to live separately and work in two different places. By overlooking this possibility, aren’t we losing out on certain good prospective faculty members? Also, with both spouses living and working together, isn’t it probable that the efficiency and productivity of both will increase accordingly?

Though we began with a lot of enthusiasm, we have ended up with a lot of questions that we did not foresee. It is not as happy an ending as we would have liked it to be, but we are still hopeful. IIT Kanpur, traditionally, has been a pioneer in taking radical decisions. For instance, as far as our limited knowledge goes, it is the only institute in India that allows the entry of boys in the girls’ hostel and vice-versa without any restrictions. This has to be one of the most radical gender related decisions that the institute has taken. We feel that if there is one tradition that it needs to keep up, it is this, to come up with changes where it matters the most.

Have You Ever...

2006-12-25T08:43:00.001-08:00

I tag myself here from Amiya's blog. Loved reading this on her blog, and my answers don’t even match up to hers. Mine look vapid compared to her wit, her humour, but an effort has been made to at least be honest. So, read on…

HAVE YOU EVER...

Smoked a cigarette?: Not yet. I don’t know if I’ll ever try it.

Crashed a friend's car?: Nope.

Stolen a car?: Umm… as of now, no. Might, actually, if my promising career doesn’t take off.
Been in love?: YES.

Been dumped?: Technically, no. But who cares about technicalities in love. Yes. :|

Shoplifted?: Oh yeah. That was fun. This was, I think, three years back. If I remember correctly, it was around Christmas or New Year itself. There was this bakery shop my mom and I went to, to buy some stuff for a few guests. The guy had hiked the prices of virtually everything on account of new year, and that too, to exorbitant levels. We had to buy stuff because we didn’t have the time to go to some other shop. The final bill came out to be twice what it should have been. I was angry and slipped in a jar of mayonnaise with all the other stuff that we’d bought. When my mom discovered, she gave me a real scolding but then, that guy had to pay for what he was doing. It was fun and gives you a feeling a achievement when you pull it off and I would do it again if it weren’t morally and legally wrong. :|

Been in a fist fight?: Oh yeah. Definitely. They’re fun. Pillow fights as well. With cousins. And friends. Guys and gals.

Snuck out of your parent's house?: Never really needed to. Guess it takes the fun out of life if you have understanding parents.

Had feelings for someone who didn't have them back?: Yeah.

Been arrested?: Not yet.

Gone on a blind date?: Nope. I’d rather not.

Skipped school?: Nah!

Been on a plane?: Yeah.

Seen someone die?: No. Been very lucky about that.

Been to Canada?: Nope. Not even to Australia. Or France.

Purposely set a part of yourself on fire?: Why, in the name of God, would I do that? And why just a part of me? :O

Been jet-skiing?: Nope. I so want to, though.

Met someone in person from the Internet?: Rohit. Twice. Both times, I had so much luggage on me, and he was so nice to share my load.

Taken pain killers?: Yeah. At times, after a spur of unplanned strenuous physical activity.

Flown a kite?: Yes. I used to. Till class 5 or so. Mom never really liked it. She once took me to the roof, showed me around, pointed to a few kite-runners rummaging through the debris for kites and asked me if that is what I wanted to become. After the glossy life I’d seen through television, I couldn’t dream of that. And that was the end of it all.

Built a sand castle?: No. One day, I will.

Gone puddle jumping?: I’m too stuck with cleanliness to try that more often, but yes, I have done it.

Cheated while playing a game?: Never. Honesty is one of my virtues I can boast of. I’d rather lose than cheat. Such a win will leave me feeling hollow.

Been lonely?: Yes. There are times in the hostel when I’m feeling down and lonely. Those are the times when I want to just cuddle up to someone, hug someone tightly, lie in a lap and just cry.

Fallen asleep at work or school/college?: That has been the secret to passing three years at college. I couldn’t possibly have survived otherwise.

Used a fake ID?: Yeah, have issued books from friends’ i-cards lots of times. Even got entry into shows through them.

Felt an earthquake?: Yup, I did. The first time was when I was in class 7. We were watching Dil Se at night when we felt the bed shaking. My mum was sleeping and she’d just rolled over on bed. We thought she was the reason of the rumbling. Turned out it was far more dangerous than that.

Touched a snake?: Thankfully no!!

Slept beneath the stars?: YES! Yes! Yes! Lots of times. It feels so... out of the world. I love to dream with open eyes and what better time than that. Also, the white light from the stars is awesome. White, the color of serenity, purity, grace.

Been robbed?: By God’s grace, no.

Been misunderstood?: Far too many times for my liking. I wish I could have that ability of letting others know exactly what I feel in exactly the right words.

Won a contest?: Yippeee! Class 3. It was a Britannia Handwriting competition. Didn’t win anything in that. In the end, they gave us some toffees, and we were to reproduce the wrappers in colour on paper. I managed to win that. I still don’t know how. I so suck at drawing and other such arts.

Run a red light/stop sign?: Yeah, at times, when it apparently seems safe.

Been suspended from school?: No way. Teachers used to love me, though I never knew that before the end of the year because I thought they were oblivious of my existence.

Been in a car accident?: Nope. The closest I’ve come to it, though, is while coming back from Chandigarh to Delhi, when at a speed of around 115 kmph, I dozed off, and nearly ran into a truck. Everyone screamed and I just braked centimeters away from killing my whole family.

Eaten a whole pint of ice cream in one night?: No.

Walked the streets drunk?: Never been drunk.

Had déjà vu?: My whole life seems like that. More than half the things I do feel like I’ve done them before.

Danced in the moonlight?: Dance? ME?

Witnessed a crime?: YES. I can’t speak of it over here. I need to trust you to divulge details.

Been obsessed with post-it notes?: Never used them. Seem too much of a hassle.

Squished barefoot through the mud?: Sand, yes. Mud, no.

Been lost?: I

Been on the opposite side of the country?: Yes sir.

Swum in the ocean?: Yes, at Kanyakumari, in the Andamans and at Chennai.

Cried yourself to sleep?: Yes. :|

Played cops and robbers?: Yes.

Recently colored with crayons?: Last time I touched crayons was in class 8 for my last compulsory drawing course.

Sung karaoke?: No way. I am not made for singing and dancing.

Paid for a meal with only coins?: Yes. Having Rs.5 coins helps.

Done something you told yourself you wouldn't?: Too many times to elaborate on any of them.

Made prank phone calls?: Nope.

Caught a snow flake on your tongue?: No. :(

Written a letter to Santa Claus?: Never. I’ve always been smarter than that. *smirk*

Blown bubbles?: No.

Bonfire on the beach?: Not yet, but I will. One day.

Cheated on a test?: Never ever. As I said, honesty’s been my staple virtue.

Gone skinny-dipping in a pool?: No.

Emily D.

2006-10-16T23:28:00.000-07:00

POEM 1

I had been hungry all the years-
My noon had come, to dine-
I, trembling, drew the table near
And touched the curious wine.

'T was this on tables I had seen
When turning, hungry, lone,
I looked in windows, for the wealth
I could not hope to own.

I did not know the ample bread,
'T was so unlike the crumb
The birds and I had often shared
In Nature's dining-room.

The plenty hurt me, 't was so new,--
Myself felt ill and odd,
As berry of a mountain bush
Transplanted to the road.

Nor was I hungry; so I found
That hunger was a way
Of persons outside windows,
The entering takes away.

POEM 2

God gave a loaf to every bird,
But just a crumb to me;
I dare not eat it, though I starve,--
My poignant luxury
To own it, touch it, prove the feat
That made the pellet mine,--
Too happy in my sparrow chance
For ampler coveting.

It might be famine all around,
I could not miss an ear,
Such plenty smiles upon my board,
My garner shows so fair.
I wonder how the rich may feel,--
An Indiaman--an Earl?
I deem that I with but a crumb
Am sovereign of them all.

POEM 3

I meant to have but modest needs,
Such as content, and heaven;
Within my income these could lie,
And life and I keep even.

But since the last included both,
It would suffice my prayer
But just for one to stipulate,
And grace would grant the pair.

And so, upon this wise I prayed,—
Great Spirit, give to me
A heaven not so large as yours,
But large enough for me.

A smile suffused Jehovah’s face;
The cherubim withdrew;
Grave saints stole out to look at me,
And showed their dimples, too.

I left the place with all my might,—
My prayer away I threw;
The quiet ages picked it up,
And Judgment twinkled, too,

That one so honest be extant
As take the tale for true
That “Whatsoever you shall ask,
Itself be given you.”

But I, grown shrewder, scan the skies
With a suspicious air,—
As children, swindled for the first,
All swindlers be, infer.

Feminists have long contested over the issues of gender and economics (or economic control) and how these determine or are determined by the patriarchial setup. The three poems by Emily Dickinson that I shall consider over here, pretty much state what the feminists have been trying to fight for, for the past century and a half. The major image she invokes in all the three poems is of lack in the socio-economic context (through hunger). Freud formulated the concept of imaginary body where a woman’s body is given meaning, according to him, by the absence of the phallus in the pre-Oedipal stages or a lack, rather than in autonomous terms. So, in a way, the image of lack that Freud proposed in the earlier stages of development of the female body, propagates itself in the social and economic context in the patriarchial setup, although the system existed long before Freud first voiced his opinions. Freud’s idea of lack is necessarily essentialist, but it can be extended in the current context to the socio-economic realm.

In the following analysis of the poems, I shall consider the ‘I’ to be a female, given that a first person narrative by a poetess would in all probability involve a female narrator. Also, it is interesting to note that Dickinson uses hunger to denote the lack of something, since hunger in itself can represent need (essentialist element of human survival), desire and the satiation of hunger, a metaphorical, and to an extent, literal representation of economic power.

In Poem 1, a long, perpetuating hunger was all that the narrator had witnessed, accompanied by a knowledge of what lay on the other side of the windows, before she got access to the wealth she’d never had. Does the narrator see the windows as an opening to economic control and a larger access to what is valued in society, or is it simply a desire for what is denied or restricted to herself? She says that she had no hopes of owning the wealth (whether we look at it in materialistic terms, or in term of power relations, with wealth being associated with the wielder of power) that she had seen through the windows. Again, in Poem 2, she talks of the scant availability of bread to her, just a crumb as compared to others who get a loaf, and of starving, a condition that remains unchanged (though her perspective of the situation changes) in her case even as famine strikes and others go from ample supply to nothing. In the changed circumstances, she is deemed as, or at least sees herself as the “sovereign of them all.” The insufficiency again relegates the narrator to a situation of lack, and her act of preserving the sole crumb of bread she had, reminds me of the arguments given in favour of the poor, lower class women who are tagged as efficient managers for persevering through poverty in want of a better solution for their deplorable condition.

In all the three poems, the narrator does not possess power in the socio-economic context. She is the one asking for what she desires or needs, rather than being in a position to be able to give something, or in the very least, get what she wants for herself. The sense that we get, is of her being excluded from a certain society and her endeavour to get within that circle of the important, the valuable, whether it be the windows that demarcate the boundaries of the wealthy and the hungry, or the heaven that only Gods can bestow, that is reserved for the very elite who are privileged to enjoy its comforts and contentment. This again can be seen as a parallel to the quest of women to make inroads into the public sphere, to prove themselves equal in all respects, yet do it within a patriarchial setup where men still call the shots and have the power to decide the outcome. In the first poem, the narrator feels out of place, in the second, she feels privileged, in the third, she’s hurt, various emotions that one will go through depending on the context and the circumstances, but she has no control over what brings about those circumstances. She can only react according to what others decide.

In Poem 1, she feels hungry no more, once she gets to have the plenty she desired. Even in the second poem, there is a sense of glee in her possession of the crumb that she only wished to touch and was happy as long as she owned it.

“Too happy in my sparrow chance
For ampler coveting.”

In socio-economic terms, Dickinson portrays the narrator as wanting, as being economically weaker, who finds it hard to grapple with new found resources and access to the bountiful, maybe because it has become a part of her identity to be so, or maybe because she decides to shun what is valued in patriarchy.

Is this happiness in being hungry and this inability to satiate her hunger, a result of being hungry for extended durations of time? Has she been hungry for so long that her identity has come to be based on being hungry? If so, then access to resources aplenty would be a threat to her identity or psychological survival. The internalization of hunger has probably become a psychological barrier to its fulfillment rather than a condition imposed by the outer world. Or could it be that the cost at which plenty is achieved is what is unacceptable to the narrator?

If such be the case, does that change how we perceive the non-participation of women in the public sphere in equal numbers and at equal status in substantive terms? With laws in place to ensure formal equality, their actual implementation in substance is hindered by a variety of factors. The patriarchial setup in itself poses a lot of restrictions on women and their active participation in what is considered to be the public political sphere. Moreover, having been denied access to the public sphere for ages, does formulation of certain laws ensure that there shall be no more exclusion from the same? It might be ingrained in a lot of women that the private sphere is their domain, and though they technically have an option of moving to the public, but then having never done so, or having been deprived of the same for such a long time, it forms a psychological impediment to be a part of the unknown.

Another reason for her not feeling hungry anymore once she is on the other side of the windows is that what looked so alluring from the outside is not worth the effort or the hue and the cry. Her hunger is no more sustained, or in other words, she rejects what the patriarchy has to offer to her in terms of power or wealth. Thus, even in Poem 2, she is happy with the little she has, and that can be understood more easily if we realize that having power as a source of happiness is a concept of the patriarchy.

In Poem 1, she remarks that she was hungry and lonely as she looked through the windows. Later, when she is on the other side of the windows, she says that she feels like a berry of the wild transplanted to a roadside. If we consider that her initial loneliness is a result of her being excluded from certain aspects of life, her access to those very aspects later on and her disillusionment even then, probably speaks volumes about the true nature of wealth that entices from afar. Her comparison to the berry is again telling of the fact that enjoyment and satisfaction are not related to material wealth, and that even though she finally had them at her will, she still felt out of place, maybe because she was the only one of her kind in there, in the larger patriarchial setup. Her compatriots, friends of the ‘wild’ were not with her, and that is when she realizes that

“That hunger was a way
Of persons outside windows,
The entering takes away.”

Nature and its components appear again and again in the narrator’s description of her state. This would link up with the separatist notions already apparent in the poems, since ecofeminism too advocates a bifurcation of paths. The narrator feels more comfortable in the company of nature rather than culture, and when displaced, sorely misses her companions. The theme and content of the poems, thus, seem to be in harmony with each other.

Need, desire and the socio-economic power, and how they function in relation with gender, have been and still are issues of major discussion amongst feminists world over. Although herself a recluse and pretty removed from the outside world, Dickinson writes at a time when feminism as a movement and an ideology was beginning to come up in a more structured fashion. Her writings, in a feminist light, might throw open more obscure avenues for discussion than authors who wrote with the constraints of acceptance of their works, and hence went through stages of censorship (self or otherwise).

Having looked at the content, let’s have a look at the poetics. In all the three poems being considered, Dickinson follows a very strict and rigorous structure, with four, eight and four lines stanzas respectively. The lines consist of eight and six syllables alternately. In an area dominated by men, Dickinson’s presence and mastering of the structure that evolved through men’s writing, is a statement that women being a part of the same society can do anything as well as men can, and restricting their access to different spheres is not justified. It is saying that they are capable of being a part of those things that patriarchy has historically prevented them from doing. She proves that women can do and be better at what the men have conventionally done. Through this, she would subscribe more to the liberal feminist approach, where separatism is shunned in favor of substantive equality. Even though she perfects the art of sticking to a standard structure for her poems, at the same time, not using the standard rhyme scheme, she also tries to subvert the norms, leaving her own stamp. Her lines, at best, are very loosely rhyming (e.g. Earl/all, air/infer etc.)

All the poems have end-stopped lines barring a few which have a caesura (or an in-line break) that hinders the flow of the poem and makes one think. The caesuras in Poem 1 occur when she talks of the availability of food in plenty to the narrator, the laid table and the recession of hunger. In Poem 2, the caesuras occur when she talks of the crumb of bread and its importance to her. She probably wants the readers to stop and think about those issues. Why is the availability of plenty for a woman worth a second thought? Or is it that this is such a rare scenario (like her having a crumb of bread) that she wants us to stop and think it over, the reasons and the consequences for the same. In Poem 3, the caesuras occur when she asks for ‘content’ and ‘heaven’ for herself, and later when she realizes her folly after being laughed at, at her naïveté. This again raises questions about the right to and the amount of happiness that women are allowed, and whether a certain kind of policing and control over them amounts to oppression, and of what sort. Here again, through style, she reiterates the content of the poems and succeeds in creating a text that can be seen as subscribing to a definite theme and ideology.

2006-08-15T10:21:00.000-07:00

It was a party he had been loathe to attend. He did not like late night parties. Not that he did not enjoy them, but he could never relate to them as others did. He always felt out of place, detached. Even when he was at his most active, he was having a semi-serious sort of discussion in a group of two or three people. Being a teetotaller, he’d always be outside the inner circle of friends who had the ‘real fun’. He was on the periphery, smiling, brooding, undecided in whether to stay on or leave. Then the music began to play. First lightly, then a little louder, louder and louder till it reached a crescendo.

It wasn’t a blaring kind of music that made you feel that your ears were some sort of a gong being hit by hammers. He took an instant disliking to that. This had a rhythmic quality to it which made him tap his feet when no one was looking. He never had danced. A few attempts that he’d made had been enough for him to decide that it wasn’t his cup of tea. He’d rather stand and watch the swaying, gyrating bodies than be on the floor. Yet, he connected to dance very deeply. Every time he saw someone dancing, oblivious to the surroundings, he lost himself and he was the one who was dancing. He regarded dance as the highest and noblest form of sensuality. It always transported him back to that time, that day when he’d seen her dance.

It was a few years back and they were in a room, sitting together. It was an office room where they were supposed to spend the night. It barely had a table and a few chairs, but the room was large and comfortable. They were squatting in a corner, chatting away. She’d been his friend for well over an year and they connected well. With nothing to do, it started getting boring after sometime. He moved to another corner of the room and lay down quietly, thinking over the events of the past few days. He hardly had time to revisit his actions, and with nothing to do presently, he decided to make the most of the time he had. He lay quietly on his side, thinking, when she suddenly got up and began practicing a few steps. She was humming slowly, a tune he neither liked nor disliked.

He started observing her closely as he’d never done before. Every movement of her body seemed to be magnified manifold. She was wearing a shining black men’s shirt that accentuated the pure white color of her skin. She’d unbuttoned the first two buttons of the shirt. The frayed edges of the jeans peeped out from the single fold she’d given them. She was barefoot, her shoes lying just beside where she was dancing, dodging them as she moved from side to side, getting into a frenzy of steps, segued into a continuous feline motion. Her short, cropped hair looked like ripples in the sea waves at night, dark and beautiful.

He had always liked her in a dull, retrospective sort of a way. But now, as he saw her, agile, fiery, her face red with the strain of maintaining the rhythm, her eyes focusing on the blank wall, sheer joy radiating from her whole being, he felt as if drums were beating within his own body. There was silence all around, but he could feel the rhythm of her steps within him. He’d always known that music made people feel like dancing. He felt otherwise. It was as if her dance had generated some sort of a music in him, that was all joy, hers, and all melancholy, his. His mind was spinning furiously as the surroundings all melted away and his vision was confined to her feet in a blur of motion, repeating step after step, landing on the concrete, kissing the tiles, the arms swishing and cutting through the air, as the synthetic material of the shirt rustled, rubbing against her body. Her earlobes were the color of plums and the lips were pursed together in concentration.

As time slowly passed, her passion increased but her body started to tire away, the feet moved as elegantly as before but the ferocity lessened. Slowly, after a particularly strenuous step, she stretched her arms hugging the knees as she bent, stretching one leg far out and spun around using the heel of the other as a pivot and suddenly came to a stop as she faced him. Seeing that he had been watching her all along, she gave him a friendly, matter-of-fact smile, got up and moved under the fan, rolling the sleeves of her shirt to dry her sweating self.

That was an experience that he’d carried with himself for all these years and a memory he could never relinquish. It had been his closest encounter to what dancing could do to a person. And he’d only been watching. As to the effects on someone who was dancing, he could not even comprehend the thrills that must be experienced by them. As he saw the multitudes of faces, heads bobbing up and down on the dance floor, he could only see her face, her attire, her feet and there was no music around but what she’d given him.

2006-07-31T21:59:00.000-07:00

I thought it was written on bricks
And had crumbled to saffron dust
It was, but, etched on rock, grey
And simply smeared with mud

Memento Mori : Death - A Literary Theme

2006-07-18T06:55:00.000-07:00

Through valleys dark and deep, over mountains proud and rigid, beside meadows lush and green, past time gone and towards ensuing moments, beneath the azure firmament and the eternal Sun, flows life. Life that courses its way around the anomalies that it encounters, ever moving, ever fighting, tirelessly, discounting all obstacles barring one. Death. Death the inevitable. Death the adorable. Death the abominable. When life runs into death, occurs a transfusion like none other, a surrender so complete, so dignified that silence alone dares speak. The journey beyond is a hazy picture of ambivalence, invisible to our restricted vision.

“Give me a prejudice and I will move the world”, writes Gabriel Garcia Marquez in his novel, Chronicle Of A Death Foretold.

Never did a statement hold more truth than this does for the ingrained prejudice against death that we nurture. Across cultures and languages, over different periods of time and in every era, authors have dealt with the sensitive issue of death, its consequences and the inferences they derive from this side of the brook. Thematically speaking, death or one of its manifestations becomes the fulcrum of every text from the neo classic to the romantic to the modern and post modern era. Even when the author intends to portray a different theme, death, or a desire to attain victory over this untamed adversary forms the underlying basis of almost all the works. Most authors, both poets and prose writers, treat death as something despicable, to be averted with one’s utmost efforts. Death, to its credit, finds solace in the works of certain authors like ‘Emily Dickinson’ who treat it with reverence, not conforming to popular social and religious beliefs.

Giving in to the will of death means permanent loss of the self as we see it. The soul and life beyond death form good bedtime stories but are yet to be substantiated with indubitable proof. From this feeling of helplessness against death, emanates a desire to subdue it, to bend its will according to one’s own, to thwart its efforts of sending one rolling down the abyss of obscurity. The eminent Elizabethan age poet and playwright, William Shakespeare, in his Sonnet 18, describes the beauty and tenderness of the person he is dedicating the poem to. Yet he speaks of fading glory with the passage of time and the undeniable end of everything. He seeks to immortalize the beauty of his subject by capturing it in his lines so that it remains unfazed by death. He tries to render eternal glory to something as transient and superficial as physical beauty. The following lines from the same sonnet are extremely revealing of the prevalent prejudices against death at that time.

“Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st”

The obsession with death has its roots in the invincibility that death possesses. No one has ever been able to exert his or her authority over the shackles of death.

“Death, my lord, are your realms pristine”, pleaded the mortal. “All that’s left is the unseen, the sky's bloody blue, my blood's sky-serene”, replied death.

Death as a symbol of redemption is portrayed in the poems of Emily Dickinson. The mystifying appeal of death is not something unique. Thinkers have dwelled over the question of what lies on the other side since times immemorial. Dickinson feels that once one touches the shores of death, one is liberated from the bounds of this irrational world. Death to her is eternity. Her imagination stretches far and on the other side of the sealed door of death, she perceives majestic secrets never seen or heard by the people of this world.

“Just lost when I was saved!

Just felt the world go by!

Just girt me for the onset with eternity,

When breath blew back,

And on the other side

I heard recede the disappointed tide!”

In her poems, she uses the standard imagery of life and death being separated by a brook or river, with all mortals stranded on one side of the river. She, unlike myriads of humans around her, craves to embrace death as it is the ultimate form of deliverance from worldly and material ties. Her arcane language is indicative of her attraction to mysticism, the life after death and the lands beyond borders of mortal life. Death is the transcendence of the self, a confluence with the higher being. The following lines would probably describe best, her fascination with death.

I find it kind of funny,

I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I'm dying,

Are the best I've ever had

The most popular of romantic poets, John Keats in his beautifully crafted poem Ode To Autumn, is in a melancholic mood. In his dying days, he identifies with Autumn as the season of death when all that bloomed during Spring is in the final stages of its life. Life before its end, is at its peak, overflowing, excessive, misleading. He is trying to come to terms with the knowledge of his own death at the time he conceived this poem and sees it as a form of deliverance. This is when he tells Autumn that it need not worry, since it had it’s own music, albeit gloomy in nature. Without being didactic, the poems borders on the issues of pantheism and the misery associated with the last stages of life.

“O! Death, the invincible, sympathy I plead. Heal not my scars”, bellowed the mortal, braving death. “You see horizons and beyond, of the lack of walls, you grow fond. Alas! you can't see the bars, unless you try to reach the stars”, offered death.

The highly controversial author of popular books like ‘Midnight’s Children’ and ‘The Satanic Verses’, Salman Rushdie, in his story The Prophet’s Hair from the collection ‘East, West’ mocks at the fallacy of religion, ridiculous beliefs associated with it, and absurd practices that go with fanaticism. The story meanders through these issues and culminates with the death of all of Hashim’s family and the thief, who meet their unfortunate end as a result of their association with the relic that was the prophet’s hair. Though Rushdie is predominantly concerned with the matter of hollow rituals of religiosity, and the misfortune it brings about to unsuspecting individuals, the misfortune manifests itself in the form of the death of innocent people. It is portrayed as a misfortune of the highest order and Rushdie, very evidently considers death as an unpleasant experience.

The issue of death as a misfortunate occurrence arises again in The Story Of An Hour by Kate Chopin. The death of her husband in an accident was supposed to evoke feelings of despair and agony in Mrs. Mallard but Louise takes over, who rather relishes her new found freedom than grieve her loss. The resurgence of life in the spirit of Louise, that was her self, at the death of her spouse, is antithetical. Even the thought that a death could give one happiness is repulsive, to say the least. The death of Louise on the return of her husband is comical, unfortunate and revealing. This strand of thought of death being an unpleasant, unfortunate incident that runs across all texts shows the fear of the unknown and jibes at the fickle nature of human mind and life.

“Y una manana todo estaba ardiendo

y una manana las hogueras salfan de

la tierra devorando seres”

One of the best Spanish poets, Chile born Pablo Neruda, through his poems which bespoke of his communist sympathies, has become a symbol of resistance to tyranny. In the above lines from his poem Explico Algunas Cosas (I’m Explaining A Few Things), which translate to devouring of human beings by bonfires leaping out of the earth, he condemns Franco and his allies for the massacre that is a consequence of their greed for power. Innocent individuals, children and women, are killed in the quest of certain people with convoluted mindset for exerting their supremacy over the others. He describes a heart-rending scene of blood flowing in the streets, a very powerful image of death that seeps into your very existence and shakes you out of your complacency. Neruda too, describes death as unfortunate for those who were needless victims and as a grotesque act of unabated hunger for its perpetrators. It is the destruction, the death of humans, of children, of morals and values, of humanity, of sanity, that coaxes him to give up his love poetry and write for a cause, the cause of mankind. Again, death it is that triggers him.

All around me are familiar faces
Worn out places, worn out faces

In The Dead, James Joyce, the Irish author reiterates the death of feelings and inspiration in the middle class of Ireland in particular and throughout the world in general. The two lines above succinctly express the state of people who go about their daily chores oblivious to their immediate surroundings and the happenings that mark them. The story is woven around the issues of inanity in the life of people, of the relinquishing of one’s roots while adopting foreign culture, of the farce that is marriage, where two apparently wedded individuals are appendages in each others lives, unaware of the needs and desires of their partner. He talks of the death of the relationship that goes by the name of marriage, of the death of the vapid in an individual when it is that today defines lives of all. Again, in this story as well, the death of Michael Furey, antithetically, enlivened something in Gretta, albeit in an entirely different manner as compared to Mrs. Mallard of Chopin’s story. If we were to consider that Furey, in truth, laid down his life for Gretta, this becomes the highest form of sacrifice that one could make for one’s love. Here, too, death assumes gigantic proportions. Whether we see death as redemption, misfortune, or punishment, we observe it is always the extreme, the biggest form of expression, of sacrifice, of freedom, of reprieve.

“O! cruel master of fate, O! death, shall thee not forgive my mistake”, cried the mortal. “In my arms, refuge you must take. Justice is at stake”, observed death.

Death at the zenith of the punishment tree is another image that can be evidently witnessed in a whole lot of works by various authors. In The Second Coming, William Butler Yeats writes about the second coming of Christ, an event that will mark the end of mankind since it must pay for its sinful deeds. Ethics lying askew, morals gone astray, the spirit of humanism in search of an abode, this age of the beast or Satan must end. The second coming marks the reining of the beast, which would also imply the death of mankind as we all have sinned during the course of our lives. The punishment that we must face for our sins is death, nothing less.

John Steinbeck, the Nobel prize winning American author of books like ‘Grapes Of Wrath’, in his novella Of Mice And Men, narrates the story of two friends whose circumstances take them to a ranch where one of them, Lennie, must meet his end. The story pauses at each character, to ensconce the essence of the plight of the working class in the U.S. of A. during 1930s. One such character is Candy who is a misfit in the capitalist society due to his handicap and was soon to be thrown off when he could reap for his employers no further benefits. Even his dog was not borne with and shot dead for it did not fulfill any purpose whatsoever. George kills his closest friend, Lennie, in the moment of Lennie's ecstasy because he too, was not supposed to be a part of them. His naivete posed problems for him at every step and the only way to release him from the clutches of this unrelenting world. George knew that this was Lennie’s moment of salvation while the others were content at him being aptly punished for killing Curley’s wife. Steinbeck, as well, does not see death in a positive light in his work but it is a sure way to escape from the profanities of this world, as death, very definitely demarcates the boundaries that one can cross and hope to come back from those that shut their doors on you forever.

The Tell-tale Heart by Edgar Allen Poe is another example where the story revolves around the frayed edges of death. I say frayed since the old man who was murdered in cold blood must have been nearing his death anyway, and also since death has ever since the inception of mankind, embraced so many of our kind, that its boundaries must be painstakingly old and worn out. Poe takes us on a journey through the mind of a character which appears to be insane at the very least and wants to kill a person just because he wants to get rid of the eye of that person. The only way he could think of to relieve himself of this predicament was to send the old man into a deep slumber for eternity.

Marquez accuses a whole town for being responsible for the death of Santiago Nasar in his Chronicle Of A Death Foretold. The Vicario brothers, according to the customs that prevailed, were supposed to avenge the loss of virginity of their sister by robbing Santiago of his life. His punishment was to be of such a magnitude. Every soul in town affirmed that the nature and measure of punishment was appropriate, given that he was responsible for the crime. Death, which the bravest resist, has to be dished out to satisfy hollow morals and double standards.

The shores of death beckon some but more are pushed over to the other side by mere chance or indiscretion. Life hands over the baton of fate of an individual to death when they chance to meet and from then on, obscurity or serenity, whichever way one looks at it, is the destiny of the subject. This innate knowledge and even fear of death is brought out in every work of authors despite their differences in cultures, age and languages. Life finds beauty inherently in the fact that it has to end some day. The profligacy of life is enhanced when one encounters death.

One very famous literary meditation on death would be Hamlet's classic "To be or not to be..."

2006-06-21T15:46:00.000-07:00

Having made innumerable efforts to have me write a new post, Akanksha wrote this for me to put up on my blog. It's a BEAUTIFUL piece and I offer my heartfelt thanks to her for writing this. Love every word of it.

What's this feeling…

When I look in to your eyes, I see a silent assurance

But when you look at me unexpectedly, I wish to know none..

A glance or two by coincidence, a word or two by initiation,

A relationship by association is bonded..

A coincidence fated by our lord creates relations..Not love alone, but faith and a happy heart shall thread these bonds stronger..

To mention love always, might not be love, it moves on like the clouds of the sky, who are different in colors with flying aims in life and yet many a times during the day, even when the sun gives out hard rays of moments, they would dissolve their individual colors to present a serene, rose colored unity of their beliefs.. they are together..

those jutting lips of the sky would never speak, they will only display the truth..

for the sky has seen ages.. of men..

silently..

Does the silence of certain days takes us away from the person we love? Silence always gives.. It never takes anything away.. Silence, soon after meeting the person you care about gives immense happiness,

Silence when you are actually with that person, actually makes u speak up .. Silence of isolation is meant for the realization by the heard, mind and soul.. lets us actualize the spoken words of our loved ones..

Silence of togetherness gives out life.. silent, mirthful, bonded..

When we are happy, at peace, caring and going strong, is it important to bring about love in between.. ?

what does it mean..?

Would it add up to the happiness that you felt? Does it mean bonding? And caring?? It means none of the above.. it means a strong feeling of affection.. is affection all we need in a relationship? And what about tolerance, acceptance, and an effort to be always there for each other? Am confused..

For now, love is something that stays.. rest, skyline of time shall tell..

Pretense brings great fun.. specially when we pretend with the ones we care for.. every word you say while conversing would always mean the exact opposite of the spoken word.. its confusing, its fun.. its complicated, its simple..

Pretense is fun when both the partners know that it is one.. and even the thought of it makes us smile.. Like how many times, we tend to say… 'I don't care..', 'Oh, it doesn't matter..' I mean REALLY? Is it really this?

I don't know but immediate silence after such a pretense makes you laugh like anything.. It actually brings us closer.. yes, laughing out, pretending joyfully, living up the small moments of glances, yes, this is perhaps love.. the laughter and that feeling of 'smiling loudly..' haha…

Now this is funny, right some minutes back I was damn confused and was fighting with the words and feelings, about how to understand what love is, and now, I just concluded it myself.. cant believe.. realization comes to you when you least expect it to..

>>love is the laughter, that feeling of smiling loudly, the silence, acceptance, tolerance, yes those secret glances,

it all comes as you stay happy and content..

laughing out with your heart is one such feeling that can make you forget everything in the world that worries you.. and it shall then gradually show the way .. >>

no concluding quotation

no suggesting words,

just a smile that wishes to stay for now..

Akanksha..

How I Loved

2006-06-02T17:10:00.000-07:00

Love was when the wait was a misery, when waiting was the biggest pleasure. Love was when company was all you desired, when company was all that mattered. Love was when things smiled at you and you smiled back at them. Love was when dreams had no place in life, when it was a dream that you were living. Love was when the heartbeat quickened at the mention of a name, when the heart skipped a beat at the sight of a face. Love was when a voice was music, when a voice could soothe you, when it could break all barriers and remove all shackles. Love was when a touch touched your heart, when a touch was as good as the meeting of your souls. Love was the holding of hands and furtive glances to see if anyone was watching. Love was a wink in public. Love was an unexpected gift. Love was when you stopped yourself from saying those words, when you said something you didn’t intend to, when both of you blushed. Love was when you stooped low, when ego mattered not, when self-respect was not a consideration. Love was what you carried with you. Love was when you were with your love. Love was the gifting of a rose. Love was your happiness.

Love was the tinge of green in the white expanse of snow. Love was the aroma of the rain-wetted ground. Love was the chirping of a bird. Love was the setting of the sun, the splashes of color on the canvas they call the sky. Love was the game of hide and seek that moon played at night. Love was the birth of a sapling, the blooming of a flower. Love was screaming of the wind. Love was the distant elusive view. Love was the twinkling of the stars. Love was the peak of the tallest mountain. Love was the tear in your eye. Love was the breaking of your voice. Love was the shaking of your arms. Love was when you went weak in the knees. Love was when you could think of no one else. Love was when you wanted to think of no one else. Love was when no one else mattered. Love was when you mattered, when love mattered.

I thought this was love.

Then I fell in love.

I had a responsibility towards her. I came to know that was love. I so wanted to tell her but could not hurt her. That, I knew was love. I spent all my time with her, but it was never enough. Every moment of mine was smeared in love. The more I thought of her, the more she dominated my thoughts. That became of love. I forgot my aims and her aims were mine. That became of love. I felt she wanted me around. That became of love. I thought she needed me. Thus changed the definition of love. I thought I was being selfless and she could not even comprehend my depths. Thus warped my thoughts, love. I thought I showed strength when I made her cry. It gave me satisfaction. Thus I loved. I wanted her to do as I wished. Love guided me to it. I let her speak and never let my thoughts out, afraid I might lose her. Thus love had me bound. I spewed poison behind her back as love would not let me reprimand her. Thus love it was, that turned me into a monster.

Love was but my perception of her. Love was what I wanted of her. Love was my happiness under a façade of her happiness. Love was my desires fulfilled but at her cost. Love was mine, but it was her responsibility to bear the pains of it. Love is blind, but she was supposed to stumble in my stead. Love inspires you. I tried my best to inspire her from my love. Love is supposed to be beautiful. I wanted her to acknowledge that I was beautiful and so were my feelings. Love knows no limits. My limits always stretched a little farther than the space she allowed. Love is the happiness of the one you love. I rejoiced when I gave her that happiness. If that happiness came from someplace else, I squirmed at my failure to be the cause of it every single time. Her happiness did not give me pleasure. I wanted her to be happy at my success. I wanted her success to depend on me.

I succeeded in all of the above.

I realized, I had started with love.

I remained.

Love ended.

So much for the king of all virtues, being selfless in love. So much for the paragon of emotions, LOVE.

The Masters Of Their Craft

2006-06-01T15:39:00.000-07:00

The following extract is the end of the story, 'The Dead' by James Joyce. Considered to be one of the most beautiful and poetic prose of all times, the three paragraphs leave a lasting effect on your senses, specially in retrospect. Just LOVE it for what it is.

After this, is a poem by Emily Dickinson. It is one of my personal favourites, as again, it plays on the senses. The setting is ethereal, other worldly and there is a softness to the whole scene, that is essentially indescribable. Feel it for yourself.

My respects to the two of them.

JAMES JOYCE

"The air of the room chilled his shoulders. He stretched himself cautiously along under the sheets and lay down beside his wife. One by one, they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. He thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in her heart for so many years that image of her lover's eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live.

Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. He had never felt like that himself towards any woman, but he knew that such a feeling must be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself, which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and dwindling.

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead. "

EMILY DICKINSON

I taste a liquor never brewed,
From tankards scooped in pearl;
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an alcohol!

Inebriate of air am I,
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,
From inns of molten blue.

When landlords turn the drunken bee
Out of the foxglove's door,
When butterflies renounce their drams,
I shall but drink the more!

Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,
And saints to windows run,
To see the little tippler
Leaning against the sun!

A Lingering Thought

2006-06-01T15:18:00.000-07:00

Pain has an element of blank;

It cannot recollect

When it began, or if there were

A day when it was not.

It has no future but itself,

Its infinite realms contain

Its past, enlightened to perceive

New periods of pain.

--Emily Dickinson

"He picked himself up, staggered to his feet and trudged forward into the wounded
sunset. The dull crimson, fading into blackness, seemed to be a reflection of his
innermost self. He had always prided himself at being impervious to pain, of all
sorts. He felt pain but brushed it off easily. He did not need to evade it, to dodge
facts, to look away, in order to shield himself from pain. He faced them as they
came. Brutally. And he won. This time, the fight with himself had gone on longer
than he had anticipated. He knew that he would come out on top but he had conceded
far too much ground to his adversary. Pain had never seeped so deep into his
existence before this day. He was numb from shock. Even the realization of shock was
absent. He had known shock to be violent, screaming, jolting. This shock worked its
way slowly into his whole being, overpowering him from within. He still felt a dull
throbbing in his temples. When the wound was fresh, it seemed that his head would
explode, as if there were drums beating inside his skull, as if someone was tearing
him apart from within. It had since subsided into a dull throbbing.

At the moment of revelation, he had had to shut out the reality, to be his normal
self. It took his utmost efforts to keep his body from shaking. The amount of
control he exercised was admirable. Later, he sat in his bed fighting convulsions.
Some six hours passed before he realized that he had to get up and go through the
daily motions of life, or they would know. That was a slip he could not afford. He
dragged himself out of his bed and went about his actions in a mechanical way,
feeling nothing, seeing nothing, acting through reflexes developed during the course
of his life. He felt a void within himself, a big empty space, dark, as if a chunk
of his existence had been cut out of him and all he could allow himself to do was
help it along. He could let it take no other course. He felt a chasm all around him
but no will to get out of it. It was as if all his energy had been drained out to
the last drop. He loathed himself for this weakness that had not existed before. The
more he loathed himself, the weaker he wanted to become.

He could not share his pain with anyone. He could not let any other soul know of it
even being present, let alone acknowledge it in its complete, devastating agony. He
had to bear it alone because if he didn’t, then she would have to. It could not go
unnoticed. It was past that stage. She, who could probably bear this as well, but it would leave her shattered. To pick up those broken pieces and make them wholesome would be nearly impossible. No, he could not let that happen even in his thoughts, let alone reality. So what if she was the cause of it. She did it for self preservation and for his benefit. He could not let her fail at this point of time. He would be the sole bearer of this flag of their relationship. It was a beautiful relationship,even if this was what gave it beauty.

All things beautiful, do not have to be rosy and all things painful, do not have to be tragic. Beauty lies in pain as well. The beauty of endurance, the beauty of perseverance, the beauty of tolerance, the beauty of silence, at times, the beauty of insolence and the heightened beauty of solitude. That beauty, that love is apparent only to the one who suffers, suffers every moment, every day, a day on the pyre but when he walks out of the ordeal, his is the true victory. A victory over pain, over desires, a paragon of purity, with every shred of immodesty burnt to ashes in the fire that burnt him. He thought of all this and he knew it to be true but it did not appease him or lessen his suffering. The only way he could keep his sanity intact was to concentrate on the task immediately at hand and that was to put one step after another to keep walking steadily. He did not know where he was going or why but he had to keep walking till he knew how to deal with his new found pain. He had to go back to her, for her sake, for his own. He embraced the cause and he hugged the pain, and retraced his steps. "

F.I.R. – Forum of Indians against Reservation

2006-05-27T15:14:00.000-07:00

May 23, 2006

The Prime Minister of India
through
The District Magistrate
Kanpur City
Uttar Pradesh
India

Subject: Students Demands against proposed reservation Bill.

The IITs, IIMs and other premier educational institutes are the "centers of excellence" and have greatly benefited the Indian society and economy. The kernel of the high standards of these institutes is based on merit.

The proposed extension of reservation in these institutes would adversely affect the standard of merit. The students of IIT Kanpur along with other premier educational institutes, therefore, wish to raise our concern against the proposed extension of reservation. Simultaneously, we also wish to present these institutes as models of an egalitarian society where merit is not affected by caste based differences. To establish an Indian society which fosters social justice and equality, these institutes could act as plausible prototypes.

We students would also like to make it clear that the concerns shown are not directed against any reserved categories. We, irrespective of which category we belong to, are fully committed to social upliftment of these unprivileged classes and request the Government of India to lay emphasison more desired sectors of social upliftment. Promoting education at the primary and the secondary level, providing basic health facilities, implementing land reforms and labor reforms at the grass root level are the areas to which we request the Government to pay more attention to. Neglecting these basic reforms and merely reserving more number of seats at these premier institutes would not serve the purpose of social betterment but instead, would adversely affect the standard of these institutes and social harmony as well.

We are also apprehensive of the fact that mere reservations without actual reforms would increase the urge of several sections of society to get included in the list of reserved categories for vested interests. This, in turn, will create social unrest.

Hence, we put forth the following demands for your earnest and immediate consideration;

(a) We are strongly against any reservation in general and recently proposed hikes in reservation in particular.

(b) We want immediate withdrawal of proposed reservation Bill.

(c) We are against any increase in number of seats without proportional increase in infrastructure.

(d) We want our representation in proposed committee on reviewing the reservation Policy.

(e) We demand immediate stoppage of humiliation and repressions of protestors.

Our demands are symbolic representation of our solidarity with the cause and the protestors all over the Nation. If our demands are not heard seriously, we would make a combined nation wide protest in all major cities of India on a declared date.

It's our earnest request to you to intervene in to the matter and do the needful.

Thanking you

Sincerely

Students of IIT Kanpur

IITK Students also go on hunger strike

This letter was handed over to the district magistrate of Kanpur on 23rd of May, 2006, to be forwarded to Dr. Manmohan Singh, honorable Prime Minister of India, after the students of IIT Kanpur, along with other Engineering and Medical colleges of Kanpur, organised a peaceful, non-violent, non-disruptive cycle rally in protest of the reservation Bill that has been passed without showing any concern to the ones who've raised their voices and tried to make the deaf listen.

One of the most noticeable (I was about to say ‘outstanding’ but it is not in the least that) things about the rally was that we were joined by students of various schools, kids in classes ninth and tenth, who should’ve been enjoying their summer holidays, but instead prefer to walk and cycle in sweltering heat, in a rally of 500, accompanied by police jeeps. Imagine what they would go through, having to bear all this at a tender age, when the world is still a good place to live in, when it is the age of security, of comfort, of staying away from the cares of the world. Imagine the mental trauma of their parents who let their children out on the streets when anything could go wrong with a rally, it might turn violent, when there might be a lathi-charge by the so-damn-concerned-about-the-welfare-of-the-people police force, and yet they send them out to fend for themselves for a better future. That is their only hope, and these blood-sucking politicians wouldn’t budge from their parliamentary servitude, the unanimity of the decision and other utterly useless and foolish reasons they come up with to justify themselves.

The apathy of the government towards the condition of students on hunger strike, and their mule-like rigidity at so baseless an issue is abominable. Anybody who had the ‘privilege’ of watching Arjun Singh’s interview on CNN-IBN with Karan Thapar would see how uncomfortable it became for Arjun Singh to face direct questions thrown at him. The questions did not go in a roundabout fashion, steering clear of the main issue and meandering away but were direct, straightforward and hit hard, and Arjun Singh had no proper answers. He could just blabber something about it being a unanimous decision and the parliament taking the decision. I’m not hitting at Arjun Singh here, nor am I in any ‘Hate Arjun Singh Fan Club’ because it’s not him who introduced it, it wasn’t his brainchild but just that the task of presenting it fell on him. Any person in his place would have faltered just the same because the bill itself, when confronted with facts, has no foundations. It does not stand. On watching that interview, I did not get angry at Arjun Singh, but pitied him rather.

Some statements said that day, that penetrated my conscience and that I know will go unheeded, that were extensively covered by both print and television media were :

* We need progress, not reservation.

* Ever since our childhood, we've been taught to study and succeed. Never were we told that after 20 years of hard work, we'll be asked to spell out our caste, not our achievements.

* It was never made clear to us that just because the next person happens to be from a lower caste, he'd be the one telling you what to do, inspite of the fact that he is highly incapable for that task.

* We never knew that among us, we were students from different castes. We'd always thought that we belonged to IIT and that was the only tag that we were happy to carry unless you came and tagged us in an entirely different fashion.

* We have, in this rally, students from every caste. Before embarking for this, when we ent to them to join us, we did not ask them their caste and then invite them accordingly.

* If you will ask us our caste, we are sorry, we do not know. We thought we were Indians and we thought that 'Divide and Rule' was the policy of the Britishers. Maybe we were wrong.

* We, engineers and doctors, when we should be stuying and operating on patients, are forced onto the streets by your vested political decisions. We demand an explanation for this waste of time, energy and manpower that could have been used in far more fruitful endeavours.

* While coming over here, we did not disrupt the normal traffic/lives of innocent people in the city. We do not seek to harm anybody for our interests. We only seek justice.

* During the rally, we did not burn any buses or beat up people on the streets because we do not have a problem with them. In fact, the people we have problems with, probably do not even know what it is like to travel in a bus, what one goes through in a short bus journey, what the state of travels is.

* There was a time when lawyers of India gave up their practices to run the country and free it from the British raj. Today, maybe the time has come for engineers and doctors to sidestep their profession and take the reins of the nation in their hands.

* If we can repair machines and heal patients, we are sure, we can weed out the poisonous seeds that you have sown in this country, and we will do it far more efficiently.

* Maybe that will be the time when we will call the shots and you will be out on the streets in our stead, protesting for your seats of power.

* We know that it is not your mistake but ours that we chose you to represent us, but unlike you, we know how to correct our mistakes and set them right. Do not forget that we can throw you out of power the minute we want. We are not ruled by you.

* Maybe you'd better heed to us.

As I am writing, it is becoming more and more difficult not to use profanities but then, if I do, that’ll take away from the sincerity of this post and more importantly, will betray a feeling of helplessness. I am not helpless. We are not helpless. We have taken a stand and it’ll succeed. We’ll fight it out to the end, even if it's going to be a long fight.

http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1192/673/1600/amitabh.jpg

Does any one of you find this funny?

Flowers

2006-05-21T11:12:00.000-07:00

Flowers I gleaned from the dust
Flowers that fell, flowers crushed
As I touched them, I sensed distrust
I grieved for them, in anguish flushed

I knew not beauty as they possessed
Fate had them lying helpless
I picked them up and caressed
They were bliss and used to bless

My heart wrung with sympathy much
Compassion overtook, I addressed them thus

“The august light you emit here
Might even light up a star
If ever, it starts fading, I’ll be there
With every candle from the altar”

Twinkled with joy, their tiny eyes
Glowed their skin all the more
Thus were sealed eternal ties
Unto this day, flowers I adore

I Feel No Pain

2006-05-20T13:03:00.000-07:00

Pain I give, I feel no pain
Pain I cause, again and again
Throw me a rock, don’t try pain
Love is painful, I don’t go that lane
’Cause, I feel no pain

Joy comes to me, but I can’t sustain
For it comes, after immense pain
It does not linger, it doesn’t remain
I’ve never cried in pouring rain
’Cause, I feel no pain

Never been bound by a chain
Always been, the first to complain
No matter what I do, I only give pain
I’ve never had feelings to refrain
’Cause, I feel no pain

It’s me, myself and I, that I entertain
I don’t fuss over emotions inane
I see the world as it is, it’s mundane
I’ve never torn letters to throw in the drain
’Cause, I feel no pain

I divest myself of all that is humane
I worship only the most profane
Unfulfilled desires cause a lot of pain
No desire of mine has ever been slain
’Cause, I feel no pain

Sleepless nights, I’ve kept away in disdain
Teary eyed, in my bed, I’ve never lain
My throat’s never choked, pain did not reign
Fists never clenched, that to self loathing pertain
’Cause, I feel no pain

I feel no pain

Pain I give, I feel no pain
Pain I cause, again and again
Throw me a rock, don’t try pain
Love is painful, I don’t go that lane
’Cause, I feel no pain

2006-05-17T11:58:00.000-07:00

Soft night, let the fog descend
Ethereal your traits
Let me not comprehend
The breeze kisses the bare arms
The flushed cheeks
Swell, the lips cannot resist a smile
The tresses dance in elation
Long, let loose, freedom awhile
Rain, on the journey
From heavens above to ours,
Ponders-
Snow pure and white, a benediction
To bless a soul pristine
Or, lucid a stream of liquid crystal
For unblemished a life
Mitigated not by transience
The hues impart a rare divinity
Such is the countenance
Music emanates from deep within
Velvet, formless
Music dissolves in the silken breeze
Flows, flies, floats
The earthy fragrance of the wet sand
The gliding delirium of bliss
Inebriate of the joy that is self
The glowing skin
A tinge of bronze in the shade
The dim light
Silently trickling from its abode
Tiptoes past,
Caressing the quivering eyelashes
As the brows droop
In happy slumber
To drink
From the pools of beatitude
The draughts of gaiety

Let Aphrodite be thy guide
Let the Lord
Take thy hand and walk
As far as
Thy will shall take thine imagination
Soar high
Tread the fleecy clouds
The home of all desires
That thy tender heart sires

Wandering In The Morning

2006-04-29T08:18:00.000-07:00

Strains of music
Straining to reach the ear
Larks I see
Larks I hear
Standing
Under an old tree
Lonesome
Twigs bent and withering branches
Standing
Under a lamp post
Extinguished
A stranger cycles past
As dew settles on my eye
Standing
Outside
Peeping in through the window
Glassy
In the morning light
Standing
On the middle of the road
As vehicles rush past
Psychedelic visions
Noises
In a swirling motion
A haze
Of countenances
Boring eyes
Pleading eyes
Daring eyes
Of voices
Commanding
Shouting
Requesting
Of smiles
In joy
In pain
In sarcasm
Asking
Demanding
To let go
Yet hold on
To forget
Yet remember
Apathy
Yet
Concern
Walking
A tight rope
In hope
Of a hope
Fragile
Brittle
Yet a hope
To revive
A lost cause
The flowers
Unaware
Bloom
As dawn descends
A ray kisses
The golden skin
Skin on skin
One of a kin
Smile
Yellow and red
White and blue
Carnations
Sprouting on stems
Brown and green
Leaning against
A shoulder
A boulder
Rigid
Adamant
Stolid
Unrelenting
The deepening cracks
Unseen
Unnoticed
The cries
Unheard

Book-Tagged

2006-04-24T13:42:00.000-07:00

Okay, it's been a long time since I wrote about books and ever since Amiya tagged herself, I cannot wait any longer to scribble something. So I tag myself from my own blog to write about my biggest passion. Books, what else.

Number of books I own
About 30, I guess.

Number of books lent out to others that never came back
I'm too smart about that (well, actually that's the only thing I'm smart at). I never lend books to people when there's a chance that I might not get them back. The person has to be within my reach at all times during the period he/she has my book(s).

Number of e-books I have
Over 200

Last book I bought
I've been on a book buying spree recently. Last time I went into Om Book Shop at MGF Gurgaon, I came back with:
Ulysses - James Joyce
Dubliners - James Joyce
The Iliad - Homer (translated by Chapman)
Odyssey - Homer (translated by Chapman)
(Had to leave out Divine Comedy by Dante since those people did not have all the three books)

The World Book Fair gave me:
Anna Karenina and Other Short Stories - Leo Tolstoy
Lectures on Psychoanalysis - Sigmund Freud

Last book I was gifted
God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy on my birthday by a friend. He's gifted it to me but is yet to courier it since he's been out of money at college for over 5 months. I'm still hoping to get it before my next birthday so that I get another gift on the next one :D

Last book I read
East, West - Salman Rushdie
Chronicle of A Death Foretold - Gabriel Garcia Marquez

I'm currently reading...
Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie
Ben Hur - Lew Wallace
Glass Palace - Amitav Ghosh
Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
(I can read a lot more, simultaneously)

Five books that mean a lot to me

- 'Of Mice and Men' - John Steinbeck
Wonderful, wonderful picturisation of the plight of workers in a capitalist society and the portrayal of emotions of two friends who stick to each other. One of those rare books that talk of male bonding. The end was simply superb. Amazing book.

- 'The Fountainhead' and 'Atlas Shrugged' - Ayn Rand
One only wishes that she had written a bit less. Still, she managed to hold me till the end (not a very big achievement since I generally do finish all books), but at times she comes up with this brilliant philosophy of hers that entirely reverses your notions of this world. I still distinctly remember her definition of 'selfish' in The Fountainhead and 'the kind of woman a man desires' in Atlas Shrugged. Her characterisation of Ellsworth Toohey, Peter Keating, Dominique and Guy Francon and Henry Rearden is awesome.

- 'Great Expectations' and 'David Copperfield' - Charles Dickens
A classic storyteller who so beautifully brings out the characters and their innermost conflicts that you don't want to drop the book. The identification with the weaknesses of the characters are too intense. Its nostalgic. My respects to that great, great author.

- 'The Diary of A Young Girl' - Anne Frank
True story of a family that hides in a secret attic during the Nazi attack on Netherland at the time of the Second World War. The girl, Anne Frank, who kept a diary from the age of 13 to 15, when she was taken to a prisoner camp and killed, speaks of the plight of people in the time of war, the hardships they faced as a result of being locke dup in a small place with her childhood going waste. She talks of adolescence and the sexual revelations she goes through, the emotional turmoils, the family fights and a whole lot of other issues. A really touching collection of notes from her diary.

- 'The Third World War' - Humphrey Hawksley
Not many have heard of this book and still less have read it. Huge book. Left me feeling insecure. A gripping sequence of events that lead to the third world war when every country nukes every other country, including our dear own India. The guy made me feel that it could happen the next day.

I CANNOT pass on to the next question without mentioning 'The Lord of The Rings'. A book, a journey, an experience, I fall short of words. The only thing I can say is that it seriously leaves you craving for more. I want to read it over and over again. I'm trying to get my hands on 'The Silmarillion' for some respite but till then, this book will be special. Too special.

Three books I started reading, but never completed

- 'Ignited Minds' - A P J Abdul Kalam
Too instructive/philosophical/ambitious. What the heck. Too boring. Couldn't get beyond the first 10 pages.

- 'Barry Trotter and The Shameless Parody' - Michael Gerber
One word. Gross.

- 'Toxin' - Robin Cook
Not my kind of book.

- 'The monk Who Sold His Ferrari' - Robin S Sharma
Again, books that teach me something, desperately fail to do so.

- 'You Can Win' - Shiv Khera
Simply cannot tolerate these books.

Books that made zero sense to me
- 'Memories Of My Melancholy Whores' - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
The intention was good. The desires of an old man of ninety, but could not execute it properly. Ended up with an insipid book.

- 'Veronica Decides To Die' - Paulo Coelho
This book is supposed to be encouraging and is to give you hope to live life. It didn't. Not to me. Coelho doesn't strike chord with me. Reading 'The Alchemist' was a pain. 'Eleven Minutes' was better in that sense.

- 'Who Moved My Cheese' - Spencer Johnson
Good but not so good. Too preachy. I've got an ideological problem with books that preach directly, or tell you how to act.

My most treasured books
Every book I own, though 'Great Expectations' would have to be mentioned separately. I am in love with that book.

People I Tag
Akanksha, are you listening? I think you'll love it.

Rain, O! Rain

2006-04-22T09:43:00.000-07:00

Spatters on the soft earth
Fragments of fumes intoxicate
Pouring out its enraged drops
Stinging the naked street, petting the tired feet
The pungent hues in the sky
Scream
Yell
Cry
The clouds blush in agony
Turn crimson in shame
The floodgates hold not any longer
The pain promises to remain
Erodes away the heat
The grass cranes it neck to seek
Drop after drop, to wash its blues
Pale leaves float carelessly
In puddles of despair
A mongrel splashes in the drain
Zenith of ecstasy
Dry remain the parched lips
The rain averted
Dry is the eye
The rainbow opens it serpentine fangs
Delusions of colors galore
Wholesome light
Shattered into seven threads
Precariously hung on each other
The world always finds beauty
In pain that is not theirs
Through tin roofs squeeze
Some drops of hope
Before the hope died
Died the sinews

A solitary drop
That ventures into the dungeons
To satiate the thirst
Of the bubbling anger that boils
Silently
Swells to accommodate more than it is worth
More than it can
For all those that should
Sit back and lean
With scalded hands but masks clean
The drop rises
With burdens of unreaped actions
Of unfulfilled desires
Drunk on sarcasms
Of tears frozen
On dreary music and pelted stones
Snatching away the dearest
The only rule
There are no rules
The puddles dry, leaves are trampled
The pale grass shivers again
The mongrel’s bleary eyes
Persuade
The spineless clouds
The heartless sun
The mirthless wind
To let it rain

To let

The rain

Rain;

Rain
To camouflage his own drops

Sticking on a dirt-smeared face
Melting in the downpour
That released

The shackles
Within.

Swetank

............

I Want

2006-04-17T11:16:00.000-07:00

I feel like cryin’ today
Something’s dyin’ today
I wish I could lie in your lap
I wish I could snatch a nap
I feel like a lost kid
In a huge world that hid
Some pleasures that I need
My heart and I plead
Let me have a little fun
My life has just begun
I want a hand to hold
A voice to cajole and scold
A cheek to plant a kiss
Younger days I sorely miss
I want to go back in time
To life of melody and rhyme
I desire a silent noon with mum
A meaningless song to sing and hum
I want those tiresome days
When work filled every place
I want my friend back
Somewhere I lost track
I want to be a kid again
And splash mud in the rain
I want to play those silly games
And give my friends silly names
I want to study hard
I do not seek to be a bard
Lost are the pleasures I want
Plenty of memories come to haunt
Scant are such moments now
I want them back, tell me how?

Night

2006-04-05T01:04:00.000-07:00

Ah! there goes a delectable day
Drunken trees howl and sway
The sun withdraws its fiery threads
A melancholy blanket stealthily spreads

The flowers droop, the wind sighs
The wounded darkness silently cries
Solitude writ on every countenance
Misty eyes glaring, shoot a look askance

The moon saunters to the fore
Silver rain, eager to pour
The night resists, darker it is
The shadows dim, death they kiss

Every effort to thwart the light
Brought forth the night’s plight
The moon smiled, shone evermore
Soft, stinging arrows, darkness they tore

It sought to salvage a vestige of esteem
But dawn muted the anguished scream
Tattered robes and tattered pride
Tottering night found no place to hide

A Day To Remember

2006-03-22T21:51:00.000-08:00

She lives a life, her own
Her radiance reaches far
Naïve to the core, unknown
Twinkles a sparkling star

Begetting a triumphant smile
Lovely eyes searching in vain
Ah! she lacks tact and guile
Ah! how she loves the rain

Basking in her own glory
Bewitching you with disarming charm
I call her a dreaming fairy
A fairy in heaven, tender and warm

Her arms raised in prayer
Her head, in humility bowed
If ever, caught in despair
Return, all love endowed

“Of reasons to worry
There is no dearth
Life lived to make merry
To heaven, transcends this earth

When live you must
Let life be full of mirth
Let joys, upon you be thrust
Tarry not for next birth

This day shall remain with you
You shall cherish it forever
Moisten your eyes with a tears few
This day, live, as you have never”

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

First Love

2006-03-19T21:45:00.000-08:00

I felt her breath, tender
As she caressed my soul
She fought not to render
Hers, as my heart she stole

Burning in the light of her eyes
Reveling in the blinding fire
Deep, hidden, a corner lies
Where receded every desire

Love was passion, love was zeal
She led, I let her lead
Wounds entice when they don’t heal
They bled, I let them bleed

My heart apart I tore
Love oozed from every creek
I desire her no more
Her love I do not seek

Being Indian

2006-03-04T16:26:00.000-08:00

Ever since I have gained consciousness, the one thing that I have constantly come across is the allegation that the Indian society is being influenced by the western culture to the extent of losing its own identity. People claim that the rich Indian culture and heritage, that has been a symbol of progress, of ethnicity, of superior intellect, of spiritualism, of simply being Indian, is being usurped by the vain and superficial western culture, or the American culture to be more precise. The youth of today are seen as the biggest culprits in this regard, spoiling the decorum of the society, indulging in things that are inherently not Indian, disregarding their own roots in their search of transient pleasures. They blame the media for spreading all sorts of wrong notions and promoting vulgarity, siding with the foreigners. They accuse the westerners of propagandizing their social culture so as to be able to demean our existence and to exert their superiority.

These so-called protectors of society have formed their own groups and parties and carry out abominable activities in the name of safeguarding the Indian culture. They beat and drive out youngsters from cafes and restaurants on St. Valentines Day as this is supposed to be injurious to our culture. They carry out strikes to close down discotheques and pubs as this is seen as a gross anomaly in the oh! so pure Indian culture. They rally in the name of religion and fulfill their political motives by climbing up this convoluted culture tree. If I were to ask them to come up with a precise definition of the Indian culture, would they step forward and have the courage to do so. Would they be able to say anything else except the fact that it is very diverse and has always embraced whatever has come its way. If they say so, do we not have the right to slap them as hard as possible for their blatant hypocrisy. If they don’t, then why have they not come up with their version of the Indian culture. Why is the Indian culture not Indian but anti-western?

If we were to go by their assertions that the Indian culture is much superior as compared to the other cultures around the world, then why are they feeling insecure? Why should the best culture in the world be able to sustain itself? Why does it need a handful of activists with vested interests or misguided aims to stand on its feet? If still, after all their stands, the western culture is taking over and spreading its roots, then maybe we should acknowledge the fact that there is some inherent weakness, some flaw in our culture that has allowed it to wither away with time. Moreover, if the Indian culture does not allow you to go out on the St. Valentine’s Day and confess your love, then does it give you the right to beat up innocent people, of going on strikes, of disrupting normal life, of unleashing violence when none is required. Also, how do you plan to safeguard the culture by stopping the youth on a single day, when hundreds and thousands of youngsters go out every single day to innumerable outlets with their friends? Does the Indian culture teach you that if you see a boy and a girl together, they must be courting each other and even if they are, that it is because they are influenced by western culture? Isn’t love supposed to be the highest and noblest of all emotions in the Indian culture? Isn’t the Indian culture supposed to be tolerant? Doesn’t it give you the freedom to choose? It does not bind you in shackles and force upon you the will of its own. It lets you course your own destiny.

If I were to question the basis of their arguments, where would they stand then? Their issue is not that we must follow our culture and not theirs because of a sense of ownership, of belongingness, of being ourselves, but because it is superior to other cultures. Now, how do you decide which culture is superior? What criterion do you follow to judge that? For us, our culture is the best. For the Americans, their culture is indomitable. They do not find any fault with it, and why should they. Their culture evolved as a result of their actions, their surroundings, their requirements and it suits them fine. Who are we to criticize them for what they do? The farthest we can go is acknowledge its presence and move on, rather than haggling on irrelevant issues. Every person’s mother is the best mother in the world for that one person. Similarly, every country’s culture is the best for that country. Their cannot be any comparison as to which culture is better.

If it is a case of our own culture being followed in our country and an indifferent attitude to the practices being followed in the world, then why are we the first to jump and swell with pride when anything Indian is adopted and considered good. Why do we then smirk and behave as if we always knew it to be true? Why not leave them with their culture and live with our own? Aren’t we possessed by the same zeal to spread our culture throughout the world, to impose our own thoughts to unassuming masses who believe anything we tell them? Aren’t we in the same league as those whom we criticize? Aren’t we one of them? Then how could our cultures be different when all of us are driven by the same sense of purpose and work towards the same goal? How could we indict and accuse them, when we stand beside then, committing the same crime? What right do we have to call ourselves superior? What justice are we doing to our culture? Do we even know what it is like to be an Indian, to be a part of the soul of India, to flow with its rivers, to rise with its mountains, to grow with its plants, to run with its wildlife, to kiss the wind, to kick the sea, to nurture love, to persevere with life, to live, silently, peacefully, happily. To feel it within you, to ensconce it in your consciousness, to let go and see it fly as it soars high above the clouds, reaching for the elusive. The elusive that one gains, being an Indian.

Beige and Black

2006-02-26T11:32:00.000-08:00

I sat musing in my own world, when a beige colored dog, that had been my focus of interest for the past half an hour, ran away to a more nourishing surrounding, richly laden, enough to let him wag his tail. I had been ready to pounce back upon him had he shown any intentions of doing the same to me. I am wary of dogs, having been bitten twice and clawed at, on my chest, once. This dog, a stray one, fortunately, seemed to have had a rather decent upbringing since he showed no inclination of attacking my modesty with his canines. He did not even consider me worthy enough to come up for a pat, as it did with most other passers-by. That suited me fine. I am paranoid about dogs attacking me. Him safely out of the way, I found a corner of my own an made an effort to clean it with my hands. With hands serving as a dustpan, capable of bearing no more, I shifted my faculties to cleaning the place by blowing tiny puffs of air, having sadly been devoid of a tail to do the same, by some higher power, who somehow failed to foresee the utmost importance of a tail when men sat in company of dogs.

Finally, I did settle down into a not so cosy, but rather comfortable position, not much unlike dogs again. I generally tend to behave in the manner of the entity that is in my vicinity and has also encroached, to some extent, on my mind. As a matter of fact, I identify the most with a sunflower, the sun in my case being any ethnically pretty female human species. Anyways, coming back to our beige colored dog, who still does not have a name, sauntered away, possibly to a more congenial environment, since the vibes between us could not be possibly called friendly. Ever since my encounters with those two blood thirsty hounds who had the audacity to vent their frustrations on me of all people, I have held a deep sense of regard and esteem for the doggy community and treat them with reverence. The reverence surfaces only as long as there is a dog within a mile of my present location. Once out of its way, my deep rooted hatred takes complete control over me and in my fury, I swear to kill, or at least, bite a dog the very next time I see one. All that arrogance translates itself into undying fervent love for the dog, when actually faced with one the next instant.

Breaking out of my reverie, I chanced to see that very beige colored dog, haughtily marching towards me, with a piece of bread hanging precariously between its clenched teeth, as if determined to rip me apart. I think it would have given the dog a huge ego boost, had he been able to listen to the voices of my conscience. So, he comes up to me, looks directly into my frightened little orbs with his big, bright, beady eyes, as if trying to prove a point of his own, and settles down next to me. I presume he presumed that we were on some sort of a date in which he was playing the role of the man, being the breadwinner, literally. I, even after being driven mad by curiosity, dared not ask him his gender or endeavor to do the same myself. I have used ‘him’ throughout to describe the dog till now. Readers will please take note that the him over here is used in a generic sense and does not necessarily imply the male sex. This distinction is specifically for the dogs and does not apply to myself.

Even as I was trying to make myself believe the incredulity of the situation, my first date, with a dog, completely nude, with uninhibited carnal instincts, a second dog, this one black in color, comes running in slow motion, as if directly out of a motion picture. I guess he (naughty you, I know you are thinking whether this one is a male or a female) must have been a struggler in the film fraternity and came over to our side, the stray people, once he knew that he did not have the talent to match the top dogs of the industry. At this moment, our beige colored dog is sprawling on the ground, driven by the illusion that he was at his own farmhouse, on a long holiday from the cares of the world. The piece of bread was lying beside him, an open invitation to me to join him. Well, I had the decency to say no, as my mother had always taught me not to accept any eatables from strangers, and moreover, the bread might have contained a bomb, but the black colored dog was not so worldly wise. I think his mother must have forgotten to tell him about food poisoning or else, he must have come from an extremely undernourished family, where even poison is food. So, whatever his reasons might be, this black dog seriously did not have the manners that befit such a solemn occasion, and he grabbed the piece of bread and walked away to a clearing a little farther away. My dumb luck, to be a ‘bone’ of contention of two dogs, the genders of whom, I am not sure of, even now.

Now the beige colored dog showed such supreme indifference at his piece of bread being taken away, that I was taken by surprise. I do not express this concern because I was to share that bread, but purely from an impersonal, to the extent of being ascetic, point of view. When you look at the dogs of today (yesterday, I was not born), they invariably end up fighting over everything they have to share. So, the first reaction that I had expected was the beige colored dog to jump up, bark incessantly, go round and round in circles, glare and snarl at me, and march on to protect his rights, to clutch the throat of the black dog and snatch the piece of bread, even if that fight left the piece unfit for eating for anyone. And here I was, witnessing a near miracle. Probably, he was a spiritually superior dog, and knew life as it was, its intricacies and the futility of avoidable skirmishes, and the joy of sharing and giving. It seemed pretty self satisfied and content. The black dog, in the meanwhile, had gulped the whole bread in one humungous effort. Maybe he too was anticipating a fight and wanted to savor his victory before that. Seeing peace and calm all around, my nerves soothed and I released the pole I had been clinging to and had been ready to climb, had the need arisen.

It was all nice and homely for sometime. The three of us took turns at looking into each others eyes, trying to gauge the depth of emotions that were rising from deep within, enabling us to fathom that thing that binds a man to a dog, a dog to a man and a beige colored dog to a black colored dog. It was one of the most enlightening moments of my life, when I felt that life held a bigger, deeper meaning than ruing missing tails or fighting for bread or going on dates with dogs. I could see it in their eyes that they felt the same. I felt a strong sense of bonding for them at that moment. We were all crusaders, moving, slowly but surely, towards the same goal. Just as that elusive truth was within our cumulative grasp, a dumb witted lesser mortal came along with amorous ways to lure the dogs away. Seeing him, the beige colored dog shot forward and nuzzled his nose against his knees, an expression of fervent love. The mortal stroked him gently, and patted him on his as good as moth-eaten back.

Being a witness to this act of kindness, I felt jealous at my incapability at having failed to evoke the same response from either of the dogs but found solace in the fact that at least I had the black dog my side in this moment of loneliness. What I did not find, when I looked around was the black dog. My grief knew no bounds at such a shocking loss to that mortal, who was but my reflection. He could not have dared match me but for this day, when I was out of sorts. In the meanwhile, the black dog had encroached upon the love of the mortal, and again the beige colored dog had retreated, silently bearing the anguish at the loss of new found love. The black dog, on the contrary, took full advantage of the sacrificing nature of his counterpart and stood on his hind paws. Embracing the mortal with his front paws and licking him all over, he lingered on as moments passed, wagging his tail in sheer delight. It was pure joy to see him in ecstasy.

As I sat there after the dogs had betrayed me for that mortal, who did not even have the courtesy to thank me, the events got me thinking. Why did that beige colored dog let go of his rightful things so easily? Why did he not fight for it? Why was he not dejected at his loss, or was he? I could only come up with a few standard explanations for this occurrence. One could be that he was one of those meek, subdues dogs, who take it for granted that they have to submit to the atrocities of the bullies and not retaliate as it is against the norms. They have learnt to bear with every humiliation, every infringement of their rights and move on, without desires, without happiness, dragging along, as life has them on a leash.

Another reason could be that the black dog had, at an earlier time, been wronged by our dear friend, the beige colored dog, and he was now compensating for it by giving his own by right to the black dog, so that he gets his due. It could be that the beige dog was repentant and shamefaced and that is why it did not attack its counterpart at having been literally robbed of both food and love within a space of a few minutes. He probably lived a life of constant guilt and wanted to redeem himself in the doggy community of which he was an outcast and he saw this as an opportunity to make his ends meet. That would imply that the beige colored dog was either really regretful or extremely clever and pounced on opportunities as and when they came.

The third reason could be that he was in love with the black colored dog and was trying to hit upon him or impress him with his vows of eternal love by being all sacrificing and nice. He probably wanted to show the black dog what a good spouse he’d make, given a chance and would let the black dog be the ‘DOG’ of the family. His actions might have emanated from a desire to either impress his love interest or as a direct consequence of his genuine feelings towards that dog. Frankly speaking, I am not good at reading the expressions and emotions that dogs express, so I would not know for sure what the exact reason might be, but it sure got me thinking, seeing such animals exercise so much self-constraint when the supposedly civilized people are all the time reliving a conflict or another over food and love that they do not even deserve, let alone, own. Who, then, should be called civilized? Who is the higher being? What commands more respect?

I have been unable to unearth the answers to these questions as yet. Can you?

Just A Moment

2006-02-20T05:25:00.000-08:00

He had worked. Uncomplainingly. He had toiled. Noiselessly. He had borne. Convincingly. He had cried. Silently. He had cared. Lovingly. He had slept. Peacefully. He had been a paragon of silent endurance, of undemanding friendship, of thoughtful actions, of unassuming charm. His composure had been immaculate. He betrayed nothing. No reward, no recognition that had been due had been endowed on him, nor would it be, but it had never stopped him from carrying out his duties. He had persisted with them untiringly. During his ordeal, away from the eyes of everyone, he snatched a moment for himself and allowed himself to slump, to hold his aching back. The next instant, he was smiling innocently and entertaining, as he was expected to. No one knew what had passed in that one moment.

Conviction

2006-02-18T13:25:00.000-08:00

Why hold on to slipping sand
Why must you take a stand
Why give yourself away to them
Why must you stoop to condemn

Why expect them to rise
Why should you despise
Why see the best in all
Why be surprised at your fall

Why let them touch you
Why expect what’s fair and due
Why think it over again
Why go through that lane

Why be a slave to your strengths
Why fight for them at any lengths
Why should you put them on sale
Why allow others to prevail

Why should conviction help you along
When living with conviction is wrong
When conviction serves no purpose
When all it means is inane fuss

Why find fault with their actions
When actions betray their attractions
When an act is not held sacred
When an act of conviction is all they dread

Why look within and refuse
When it won’t go away, nor diffuse
When you are standing alone
When you want none to atone

Why not just cry out loud
When sunshine struggles with a cloud
When waves can’t touch the sky
When they are never tired to try

When it is that binds your soul
When it is that makes you whole
When it shall guide you through
When it will ever be true

Do you feel like throwing a stone
When dogs fight over a bone
Do you ever kill the dead
When all their life they just bled

Turn around to have a look
There never is a heavenly brook
You must wade through muck and slime
And embellish your dignity sublime

March on to the summit
And lighten up the unlit
Look up higher and higher still
Persevere until you fulfill

Keep smiling just the same
Put them all to happy shame
Let them tear you apart
Love them more, soul and heart

I Seek Thee, O! Light

2006-01-26T07:36:00.000-08:00

There was light, there was vigor, there was passion. It was all there, but there was light. Not blinding, hurting, flashing, erratic light, but the soothing, guiding, leading, enlightening light. A light that carried you forward in her arms, tender, caring, smiling, benevolent, patronizing, illuminating. A light that egged you on, that gave you strength, the strength to carry on when you were tired, when your feet were sore, your eyes drooping, your head falling. A light that promised never to fade, to persevere, to accompany you, to fight with you, to burn for you, to burn with you, to make way for you, to clear away every trace, every carcass of burden that you carried, to singe away the corpse of dead hopes, to incinerate the lead in your heart. A light, a fire that vowed to ignite a passion in you, to emblazon a flicker of hope, to kindle a soft ray of trail, to be the flame of your aspirations, your hopes, your concerns, your desires, your stance, your virtues, your love, your principles, an everlasting flame.

That light came from within, from within your soul, my soul, our soul. That light is fading. That light is receding.

I seek thee, O! Light. I call upon thee. Do not betray when you are most needed. I plead your attention to your own voice. Do you not hear your own words in the still of the air, the dead of the night, the flutter of wings, the trembling of leaves? Do you not see your need when I kick that stone in despair? Do you not hear me when I cry hoarse? Are you not compelled to come to your own abode when darkness threatens to take over? Is it not incentive enough that lest you turn back and make haste, all shall be lost? All for which we conspired. All that has come to pass, all that has transpired was your will as much as it was mine. O! Light, come. Come, and shine from my eyes, from the sparkle of a tear, in jubilance of a life lived. Lived on our own terms. Come. I shall wait till you relent. Come. I shall wait and not resent. Come. As in the past, to the present. Come. A part of you resides in me. I summon thee for thy own sake. Come.

2005-12-31T08:13:00.000-08:00

As withers away the night
With the advent of shimmering light
Thus scamper away all shards of gloom
Once again a flower shall bloom
For the new spring, it shall blossom again
And abound in joy, through autumn and rain

2005-12-31T08:09:00.000-08:00

Ek phool, ik tamanna se ek yaad ban gaya
Mera har lafz ibadat se fariyaad ban gaya
Teri parchhaayi yeh ehsaas karati hai
Tera astitva hi meri kaynaat ban gaya

The Summit - I

2005-12-30T21:09:00.000-08:00

It appeared to be a very high peak, higher than the ones he had ever seen before, and at such a close distance at that. It aroused him, gave him a sense of challenge. It was an uphill task, well, literally, for he was standing at the base of a small hill on the countryside. He had been there earlier, at that time, gauging the extent and expanse of the hillock that he intended to conquer. He had vowed to come back and prove his point. It wasn’t one of his toughest expeditions in the conventional sense but still the most challenging one. Every other endeavor of his had been made easier by others, his path definitely carved out, his destination defined. This time it was different. He had to make his own way through the wilderness, the rocks, the cliffs and against the sweltering heat, against time, before it was dark and time to disembark.

Holding his breath, he put his first step forward in what was going to be a long journey, and solitary. With a deep sigh, he set out to make that day his own. After such along time, the glory would be his. Glory that had been his ally all through these years, that was his for he deserved it. Yet it had eluded him for quite some time now, with no apparent reason. This day, as the Sun would move into the horizon, it’s last sparks of brilliance lighting up the sky, it would befit the glorious smile on his face, a smile of victory, of perseverance, of belief, he promised to himself. Setting aside all these thoughts, for thoughts like this hinder one’s progress, he began to tread his way through the scant growth of plants, dry and pale. It gave him a sure-footed ground to walk on compared to the treacherous slope of the hill. He would have to be very careful in choosing his way up. One wrong decision and he would end up wasting a whole lot of energy and time. In these dire circumstances, he could afford none.

It was nearing noon and he had covered quite a lot of distance, more than he had planned initially, but then, the terrain had been easier than his expectations and the breeze, pleasant. Also, his initial burst of enthusiasm had spurred him to go on. He had left the last traces of civilization behind him and except for a stray cow now and then, there was no sign of life around him. Even the shrubs had disappeared. Now it was only him and his goal, the summit. There was no one between them, he, his sole adversary in achieving his goal. If he could get a hold on himself, suppress his cravings and focus on the top, it would be his. He jumped from a rock to the next, looking for a place to sit and have lunch. His feet were becoming leaden. The heat was taking its toll. A few years back all this would have been but mere inconsequentialities, but now they came across as major problems. He had to give them due respect and take them into consideration. He had lost his touch and he had to get it back.

After a short nap, quite insufficient, he carried on. Twisting between rocks, climbing, jumping and scampering, even crawling at times, he slowly made progress towards his goal. It was still way ahead and he was running out of time. He was perspiring. He was still being driven by his determination, but as it became clearer to him that he might not reach the end, his motivation started withering away. His breathing became labored. His whole body started falling apart. It seemed futile for him to carry on if there was not going to be a fruitful result. Still, he could not just turn and go back. His ego would not allow him. He had no choice but to go on. It was the toughest decision he had taken that day. Against all his instincts, against disillusionment, against the fear of failure, against his weaknesses, he decided to carry on. If he turned back now, it would be the end of him. To preserve a vestige of self-respect, he had to keep going. When he had decided on his path, a glimmer of hope started showing as well. He felt that he might still make it if he were to give his all.

This phase of climb was the steepest, twilight approaching and he fighting his way up to the elusive peak, where he could rest and bask in his glory. He continued unwavering in the wavering light, at last determined to make it through. His hands were numb, knees bleeding and the face was a mesh of scars. Every step forward drew upon all his powers to keep up the demand of the odyssey, or the end of it. After what seemed like eternity, he could finally make out his destination. It was a joy unparalleled, at least in comparison to his experiences over the past few expeditions. He loved stone, its rugged surface, its sheer brutality, its strength as well s the heights but somewhere along the line he had come to developing a dislike for them. He had blamed them for his failures. He realized his folly. Too late but amendments could still be made. A last spurt of energy and he would be through.

He sat on the tallest peak of the highest hill looking around him, a smirk on his face, conqueror in his own right. So he was not that bad. He still had it in him to be where he wanted. All it needed was conscientious effort on his part. Sitting over there, squinting in the darkness, he pondered over his state of unhappiness. Why was he still unhappy? It was a victory, a self effacing win, nothing to say of all the critics who would be rendered dumb form this feat. Yet, his hunger was not sated. There was a void somewhere. He was alone but he had always known that at the top, you are alone. No one is and can be with you. It is your high and your chasm after that. You must endure both all by yourself. That could not be the reason of his anxiety. He wanted answers. He would not move until he had them.

The Other Self

2005-12-27T05:46:00.000-08:00

He sat gazing blankly at a tulip in full bloom on the edge of the pool. It was just one of the numerous flowers growing on the poolside, ornamenting it in a wreath, a beautifully woven wreath that might have signified the sense of purity and calm that the place had. It was as if nothing could penetrate the invisible barrier that stood between the cares of the world and the peace of the self. The wind blew gently, almost too gently, as if it were scared of interrupting the serenity of the place, the ostentatious simplicity of the occasion. He felt at home, lost in his thoughts, in the surroundings that seemed to emerge from his own self, unaware of his presence or that of her.

He was woken out of his reverie by the slight nudge that she gave him. It took him a while to get back to reality. He felt slightly irritated for being disturbed from his stupor. It was so intoxicating. It was a painful experience, the transition from fantasy to the mundane world. He shifted his head to adjust to the new state, realizing that he was glad to be out of his dreams. This was a dream, a dream come true. No fantasy could be better than what he experienced at the moment. He was half-sitting, half-lying on a patch of dried grass and leaves, propped up against her left arm, her palm in his, fingers clasped. Her right hand held on to his arm lightly, her head on his shoulder. She sat with her feet folded in an awkward fashion

The two of them together, sitting thus, were more content and happy than they had ever been. It was nearing dusk. They had arrived at the spot at daybreak and had not moved from their current position since lunch. No word had been exchanged between them for well over two hours. They hardly needed to speak. Words seemed to undermine the power and sanctity of their relationship. Words were plebeian, commonplace. Every person on the street had loads of them, without any meaning, though. Their touch said it all. It was all they needed to communicate in the most intimate manner possible. The assurance of the other’s presence was enough for both. It was as if love permeated from the body of one and seeped into the other’s. If it was love.

It had never appeared to them that they needed to define their relationship. They enjoyed being together. Even that was for others. Others who do not understand the subtleties of life. What they felt was very private, chaste and essentially indescribable. They did not claim immortal love or togetherness for this life or lives beyond. They simply did not discuss it with others. It was between them and it would go with them. No one else had any right on them. He was an extension of her and she, his. They talked, they laughed, they loved but they did not say it. They had never said it. It had been understood. They had never made an effort to be together. They simply drew closer. It was natural, as if a way had been carved for them and they had to tread that path, embracing each other.

They stood naked before each other. Naked in thought. Naked in need. Naked in desire. Naked in soul. They could see right through each other. There was no deception, no desire to deceive. No effort ever, was needed to comprehend the other. There were no discussions between them on any issue. A silent approval of thought or a slight nod of the head was all they needed to convey or express their opinion. This place was their perfect refuge. Solitude, silence and scenery was what they got. They needed none. They had each other. This place was a perfect refuge, but so was every other place where they could conceive each other. Physical presence was not imperative, not even desired. They had melted into each other as the Sun was melting away in the sky, burning with all its glory, setting the sky on fire. They were as much a part of each other as the darkness that was engulfing them, a part of every night that stood between dusk and dawn. They were as aware of each other as darkness was of light, even though one must perish for the survival of the other. They were one, receding into each other, away from the self.

Impressions

2005-11-27T23:54:00.000-08:00

A semblance veiled, carved in mahogany
A demeanor elusive, with entailed agony
A playful ambience, on covert display
Yet an exterior apparently stoney

The confluence of a reclusive attitude
Mingled with exuberance and vicissitude
A cognition of emerging desires subdued
The denudation of a vulnerability accrued

Delusions chaperoned by persistent denial
A mannequin of impressions’ portrayal
Embellished by the apparent’s volitional betrayal
Illusions nurtured evading that compunctious yell

Countenance, a mirage, pursued to glimpse
Footprints trailed incessantly from trudges to limps
Besieged with doubts, condemned to a will of wimps
A rendezvous sought with a fantasy innocent as imps

The impressions that dwelt shall remain
A mirror that imaged a truth, not refrain
A testimony to chastity sans stain
Wavering trust shan’t sway again

Caged

2005-11-04T09:02:00.000-08:00

He sat on the edge of his bed, his fragile body shaking vigorously as if under spasms, his mind, convoluted, pondering furiously over the options open to him. He was a man possessed, but he was vulnerable. Not that he doubted in his abilities to carry out the ominous task that he had assigned himself, but he was weak. He was seeking something. It wasn’t a parallel to fight unto death. Rather, a fight to gain. It is in these battles that you stand to lose the most. One wrong step could take him deep into the dungeons of obscurity and depression. He could not afford it. His win was far more valuable and he attached even more value to it. That could be his undoing. Execution carried out swiftly and diligently is the best course taken. Even a trace of emotion could backfire. You’ve got to be businesslike, officious, proficient and detached from the whole scenario. Do it as you would your daily chores. Plan each step meticulously, outthink your adversaries and then put them on the guillotine. Do the unexpected. Confuse them. It is the first sign of terror. Let them attack you, not in offence, but their own defence. That is when they will falter. In their fright, they will tend to overlook the facts that could bail them out. Use them to your advantage. Set up a reverse trap.

He retched. As all these thoughts raced through him, he felt a certain loathing for himself. How grotesque had he become? Was there a trace left in him, of the person he used to be? Will this really be the end of his agonies or the end of every feeling he had ever known? As the bed creaked from his sporadic, incoherent movements, he returned to his immediate surroundings, taking in the circumstances he was faced with, a submission to a fact he cursed he was a part of, yet a fact he couldn’t do without. It was this fact that had shaped his whole life, his being. It gave him a satisfaction, a feeling of achievement and a sense of being someone who could see more of what their was to life than others around him, who preferred to outlive themselves, in oblivion precisely. He was suffocating inside that room. It was a huge room, elite, furnished tastefully, grandiose written all over it. It would have wetted the buds of any connoisseur of art. Art was the last thing on his mind. The walls done in dull orange and olive green, the ornate sofa in mahogany, the table beside it with a glass top intricately cut in the shape of a broken heart, each crack in the heart clearly visible. The room was dimly lit, with lights of red and yellow flickering alternately. The lights were so placed that every time the red light went on, it shone directly on the cracks of the heart, giving an impression as if blood was oozing out. The yellow, in turn, illuminated the rest of the heart, as if in mourning. To say the least, the setting was eerie. Yet he did not care. His distant, vacant eyes were someplace else.

He walked, in slow, measured steps, towards the window overlooking the bustling street, the market across and beyond. He needed fresh air to realign his thoughts. Amongst the joy and cheerfulness spreading all around him, he felt grossly out of place. He always had. He had always been lonely, the feeling enhanced in a crowd. He felt vain. No, he did not feel vain. Everyone around him was driven by vanity. Not him. Really? He choked, realizing that he had been smoking. These questions of his would be his bane someday. The window was not doing any good. It added to his sense of loneliness in a caged room. Yet he stood there, observing people. He looked down on them patronizingly, as would a father on his year old child. He thought he knew that theirs was a short-lived joy. They did not understand the intricacies of life. He did. He envied them. His eyes welled up. He had once dreamt of such a life. Normal, happy life. It had all started perfectly, but somewhere down the line, things had gone out of hand. He had thought, to soothe himself, that this was inevitable. Maybe this is what fate had written for him. FATE? That is escapism. Why blame the fate or God for your own follies? He went back to the starting point of their relationship and realized that theirs was never meant to work. They were fundamentally different. The only thing that bound them was love. His. Nothing more. How could he even hope that it would work? At the time, he had been all masculinity redefined, the self sacrificing lamb, ready to do anything in love. When she had refused, saying that she did not love him, he had audaciously gone forward and announced, “My love is sufficient for the two of us”. From thereon, it had started, or probably ended.

He realized it today. He wished it had not come to this. All he had ever wanted was a girl who understood him, complemented him and whose love was silent, intense. Like his. She was nothing like it. But he was vulnerable even then. He needed to hold someone, to hug someone, to talk to someone, to cry his heart out on her lap. And she happened to be there. In his haste, or need, he thought that she was the one he was looking for. He was smiling. For a second, he was reliving those moment. Probably the best of his life. Reality was in your face, too harsh. He did not want to face it but there was no choice. He could not brood over what had come to pass. It was the future that he had to take care of. The immediate future. For there might not be anything beyond it. He turned to look at the wall clock, a miniature version of the backdrop of Paris, with the Eiffel Tower serving as the pendulum. It was barely seven in the evening. His hour in the glory was still hours away. Glory? Oh! His own, self defined, self serving, ego boosting glory. He had always looked upon himself as a survivor, someone endowed with the responsibility of taking care of everyone around him. It gave him something to be proud of in view of his insurmountable failures. Again, he had drifted away from the present. No matter how hard he tried, he could not focus on the situation at hand. His thoughts kept wandering back to merrier times, times when the world was a better place, when he was a better person, happy, a bright spark in his eyes. All that had been washed away with brutal force. He nodded his head and walked back to the other side of the bed that he had been sitting upon. Quietly, he sat down on it, crumpling the sheet below and slowly moved into a deep slumber, a trance like state, with his mind free from all thoughts. The wait was excruciating. He was at peace. Peace it was.

Betrayal

2005-10-02T02:48:00.000-07:00

Of dashed hopes and despair
Misery sprinkled, here and there
Of times, when we used to endear
Vacant, lonely eyes, no trace of a tear
Of a world, apathetic and unfair
Each pleading look met with a glare
Of insecurity and, a persistent fear
When unsolicited sounds, must we hear
Of anguish and suffering in silence
Unaware of the bubbling incense
Of insensitivity to love intense
Nurtured on a farcical pretense
Of self-efficacy at others’ expense
Trying, to one’s limit of forbearance
Of a far, abating cry from a distance
Averted, unheard in disdain immense

Of forlorn desires kept within
Of despondency and chagrin
Of pain camouflaged by a grin
Of pleasures derived from a sin
Of a greater loss with every win
Of quietude lost in the din
Of absence of a will to begin
Of hidden agony in the eyes twin

A grave dug and buried faith
Credible as the roaming wraith
Exhumed to be buried again
Betrayal alone shall sustain

Not Yet!!

2005-09-27T11:26:00.000-07:00

Floating in a hazy world
Wandering, dreamy eyed
Her face, teasingly veiled
Tresses, her smile they hide

Shouts, cackles and squeals
Mischievous, playful, lovable
Music to the ear, pain it heals
Her antics, all too adorable

Love her or hate her
Her magic, she’ll weave
Truly an amazing wonder
A lasting impression, she’ll leave

Treasured moments fly past
Leaving one craving for more
Cherished moments, hardly they last
Wish there was an infinite store

A rolling drop, a trickling drop
Wash away all her fears
Still they refuse to stop
Until cajoled by her dears

Sing to her flattering songs
Tease her all the time
That is what she loves
That is when her heart’ll chime

Talking dime a dozen
Oblivious of the rest
Hardly bitten or brazen
Yet passed many a test

Give her a hug
Tell her you care
Else, she’ll float away
As you stand and stare

A Scream

2005-09-16T10:58:00.000-07:00

"Pieces of a broken heart

A jigsaw without a start

Wholesome, it'll never be

Try as much, may you and me"

Meandering, wandering thoughts
Held close to the bosom
A desire to shout out loud
A scream of pain and anger in fusion
A silent spectator to the tyranny
Cursing, loathing the self
Hiding behind a veil of unctuous demeanor
A scream of chagrin and delusion
A failed effort too many
Every defeat, a hole in the armor
A resolution to rise again to the hilt
A scream of darkest fears in seclusion
A looming shadow, murky
Threatening to envelope and eclipse
To abate and suppress
Every scream of exhilaration

Yet
Yet a cognition
To ride over the storm
To weather the tempest
To scream over the scream
Tearing apart in entirety
Everything in the way of utmost destruction
No considerations, none at all
Of the consequences of that one fall
Replete with agony
Not a sound heard
Of the heart wrenching cry
A silent scream

A scream that should have never been
Some don’t even deserve to scream
Ensconced in him his spiteful dreams
Desert him with his agonizing screams

Accolades 'n' Jubilation

2005-09-02T06:13:00.000-07:00

Another friend. Another birthday. Another poem. Need I say more. Here I go...

Wading through waters
Deep and dark
Head held high
Courage your hallmark

Grace, elegance, eloquence
Your attributes perfect
Maturity tickling innocence
Among ruins, standing tall and erect

A lissome lass
Poise your forte
Amiability your class
Dignity you portray

A whiff of fresh air
An experience exhilarating
Chaste your manner
To friends, a blessing

A delectable laugh
The smile so cute
A blissful mate
Voice, a singing flute

A burning passion
A latent desire
Abounding compassion
Pure as fire

An idol of fervent love
Auspicious your delight
Asunder your thoughts rove
Sensual, candid, a spark bright

Ethereal your facets
An enigma to the core
Precious than myriad assets
Reminiscent of the charm of yore

Your destination in sight
Sheer joy your companion
May you win every fight
Each moment, a moment of elation

Ek Safar - Anant

2005-09-02T06:09:00.000-07:00

Pag pag aage chalte hoon
Rukta hoon, sochta hoon
Aage chal to raha hoon main
Kya aage badhta bhi hoon?
Ya bas ek andhi daud mein
Hissa hoon ek anjaana
Na kuch pata hai raaste ka
Na khabar ki kahan hai jaana
Manzil jisko sab kehte hain
Kya meri talaash bhi wahin par rukti hai
Kya meri seemaayon ka daira itna hi hai
Kyon seemit kar diya hai maine
Apni un aakaankshaaon ko
Jinke sahare kabhi jeeta tha main
Jo mili thi mujhe saugat mein
Kya bhool gaya hoon apna lakshya
Ya bhatak gaya hoon path se
Ya himmat nahi hai mujhme
Jhelne ki un toofanon ko
Jo hain mere intezaar mein
Jinko kabhi samjha na maine
Layak kisi chinta ke
Aaj khade hain saamne
Dharan kiye ek roop vishaal
Kya uthna hai mera mumkin
Ya hausle se hoon kangaal
Thake hue kadmon mein
Itni bachi hai jaan
Ki le chale mujhe us paar
Jahaan se shuru hota hai mera safar
Anant, anant, anant

Akela

2005-09-02T06:07:00.000-07:00

Kyon har lamha sochta tha tujhe
Kyon teri yaad mere khayaalon ko sehlaati thi
Kyon raat ke andhere mein bhi
Ek roshan chehre se sada koi aati thi
Ek pal mere sara jeevan
Aankhon mein utar aata tha
Aur un chanchal nainon mein
Koi apna chehra dhoond nahi paata tha
Ek kiran thi asha ki
Ek tinke sa bharosa
Jiske sahare hua tha yeh aitbaar
Jis kaaran se na maine khud ko roka
Par meri bhool hi thi shaayad
Ya shaayad khaya tha maine dhokha
Akasmaat hi jo thokar lagi
Yaad aaya woh pal jab kisi ne tha mujhe toka
Na chahat hui sambhalne ki
Na uthne ka tha hausla
Ek toote dil ke tukde liye
Main chalta chala akela

Jaane Kyon...

2005-08-31T13:19:00.000-07:00

Dooriyaan jab dilon ke darmiyan hone lagein kam
Kyon panapne lagte hain ankahe gham
Ek noor, jiski asha karta tha dil har dum
Kyon hain khoya hua, ashru se kyon hain aankhein nam
Kyon mere lafzon ka marm ho jaata hai gum
Agar samajhta tha ahmiyat koi mere shabdon ki
Aur deta tha unhe jeevan to woh thi tum
Hoke beqadr, jo main chala karke tumhe gumsum
Seene mein basa ho jaise dard ka nagar
Palkon se behta hai pal pal ik saagar
Manzil ki talaash mein ghoom raha hoon dar badar
Na hoon anjaan, na hi bekhabar
Ki manzil meri kahin hai agar
To sirf aur sirf teri dagar
Taraste hain kadam chalne ko us raah par
Jahaan shayad takti hogi meri raah teri nazar
Par na jaane kyon, chal hi pada hoon jab akela
Ek raste par, jahan na humsafar na koi mela
Jahan na hai ummeedon ka saawan
Na shayad mile khushiyon ki bela
Mehsoos hota hai ek ajab sa sukoon
Masroof tha jinke sajde mein, jaane kyon
Chhoot gaye peechhe chahat ke sab junoon
Tanha jo chala tha, tanha hi khada hoon

Till Death Do Us Part

2005-08-28T12:31:00.001-07:00

Can I be your dream awhile
Can I be the one you want
I’ll stand in the aisle
And never shall I depart
Till death do us part

Will you talk your heart out
Entrust in me your woes
Can’t imagine a life without
You and your golden heart
Till death do us part

Won’t you give me a single chance
To be a part of your soul
To sing to you and to dance
To my spirit a form impart
Till death do us part

Place in me your trust
Let me be your hope
Something beyond lust
A feeling a class apart
Till death do us part

Love me deep, love me more
Love is all that I need
Love me, love me, as in yore
Let us try n make a start
Till death do us part

Hold my hand
And be my life
Beside me stand
And stay in my heart
Till death do us part

Till death do us part
Never shall I depart
You and your golden heart
A feeling a class apart
Stay in my heart

Till death do us part

Silence

2005-08-26T11:50:00.000-07:00

Let us move back a few decades in time. An India of hopes, of progress, of love, of culture, of dreams. Dreams. Dreams that shape the course of our actions, dreams that let us live our life the way we want to. Dreams of wealth, status, fame, success. Of love. Of life. Of peace. Of truth. In that era, was born a girl, an angel, with dreams of her own.

She was an angel not because she was beautiful or ethereal but for reasons far more critical. She never sat by the river and dreamt of a prince on a white horse coming to sweep her of her feet. She never dreamt of being the apple of everyone’s eye. She never dreamt of being a paranormal success in life. She never craved for the fame that lesser mortals do. No, she did not dream of any such things. Her world was very removed from the materialistic considerations of life. Yet, she nurtured a dream. A dream never meant to be fulfilled.

Then came a time when she realized her folly. She stopped dreaming. No, she did not stop living. She was happy. She had no desires. She expected nothing from anyone. She had dreams, but in her dreams, she was self dependent, self reliant and self sufficient. Her dreams were not based on the want of support or help from external sources. This is her story. A story, not a fairy tale. A story dark and gloomy, sadistic even. Yes, it is a story of her grit, her determination, her love, her passion, her beliefs, her fight. She was an angel, but she was hard put to remain one. It was her fight against her own destiny. A fight in vain, maybe, but a fight still. She fought and fought and fought and never did stop.

That young girl grew up to be a lovely young lady. Again the adjectives I use here do not imply physical characteristics. She might have been physically attractive, but then again, she might not have been. It is inconsequential to our story. So, she grew up to be a lovely young lady, a very capable hand at all chores assigned to her. Academically brilliant, the best among her peers. It is, in fact, unfair to compare her to her peers, as I have already said, she was something different, someone at a higher pedestal than the lesser mortals. Not that she wanted to be so or liked her status as thus. Unfortunately, nor did the others. She was praised wherever she went, her endeavors always an overwhelming success, but overwhelming was the wrath of those who disliked her or were jealous of her.

She learned to take everything with a pinch of salt and moved on. She did but the others did not. For her, it was a constant ordeal. Caught in a sort of a time warp, it was a sense of déjà vu all along. Her dreams, her desires, she kept to herself. She did not even realize the atrocities she was going through, for her patience and her enduring capabilities were far greater than ours. Then one day, amidst her education, she was married off, her life a disarray. By the time she could reorient herself and adapt to the new circumstances, her life had changed for ever. She had never wanted to seek her identity, to know who she was. Well, the time still hadn’t come to do so. Or at least she didn’t realize it had.

She took on her new duties with complete vigor and a sincerity unparalleled. Her integrity, unquestionable. Her desires, unfathomable. All she wanted was the trust and support of her husband. Nothing more, nothing less. On the first night of her marriage, her husband made a request to her, “ Please always be true to me. Never ever hide anything and nor will I.” Her joy knew no bounds. Everything that she had wanted ever since her childhood had just fallen in her lap. A truthful, trustworthy companion, who would stand by her side in turbulent times was all she had ever dreamt of. A dream always hidden close to her bosom, never revealed even to the closest of friends, not that she had many. This was a new beginning. Of her doom.

She was naïve, innocent, the path unknown, but she had a mind of her own and her priorities were sorted out. She always followed a path of righteousness and remained true to herself, ensuring that if she ever looked back, she would never have to wish that she had done anything differently and she didn’t. There was fire all around, but she persisted, her courage not yet ready to wilt. She walked through the pyre and came out purer, her chastity intact. Infuriating as it was to all her foes, nothing could they do besides stand and watch. All their efforts at diminishing her divinity had yielded naught. The fact that she did not cast aside her dignity and enter open battle had them baffled. They, pests of human beings, without absolutely any trace of humanity or compassion within them, had never endured anything so pure, so chaste and it hurt them, it hurt them like hell, though it was beyond the powers of their hopeless minds to gather the reasons for it.

And all this time, her husband was in mute support of her foes( read ‘his family’). She wept and she cried. Silently. She was an outsider, not one of them. After toiling for years in their service and respect, she could not as much make a place for herself in their hearts. She was indispensable. They all needed her. They used her. And threw her as if she was something you wash your filth off. Then came a day she decided ‘enough was enough’. They were not worthy of her respect. They were not worthy of her love. They were not worthy. She still did not seek revenge. That day, she decided that she will not allow herself to be exploited. She sought a new life with her husband and kid. There was still a glimmer of hope that not all had been lost and what had been could be rebuilt. Again, it was a new beginning. Of a bigger doom.

They could have understood, and withstood, had she retaliated. Her silence was excruciating. They scampered and they ran to gain lost ground. But they had lost miserably. The fight was over. She had sailed past and they were witnesses to her valor. She, meanwhile, was enduring pain of lost love, wounds of shattered dreams, the injuries of broken desires but her eyes were dry. She still had hope. Her son. And she vowed to make it count. She would make him rise to such heights, the pinnacle of pinnacles that no one would ever dare touch him. In the course of time, she found her friends, allies, with similar woes and they all swore to avenge their sufferings. Avenge, yes, but not seek revenge.

They had still not used their trump card. Her character. Immaculate. Not a blemish. Tarnish her image and watch her crumbling into a heap of ashes. They could still have the last laugh. They connived and plotted and methodically set about spreading rumors of disrepute about her. She, ignorant all the time, clung to her faith of inherent goodness in
everyone. When the bubble burst, everything was a ruin. A chapel of lost faith. Her insides shouting, yelling, ready to burst anytime, yet her eyes were dry. She will not give in. Not yet. Not today. Not tomorrow. Never. Never to these filthy, debauched, licentious, good for nothing pests.

It was a rebirth. As a phoenix is born again from it’s own ash. A new life. A better life. A new beginning. For another doom. Theirs. Her courage, her grit, her determination, her resilience, her focus, her vision, her aim. There was no place for anyone else. It was she and her dreams. Her desires. Her longings. Her cravings. Things that had been suppressed for the sake of others. Others whom she loved and who loved her not. Others whom she cared for and they cared not for her. Others who will never ever be happy in their life because rotten seeds must beget a rotten harvest. A journey had begun. Every success of hers was a stab in the chest for them. Every failure of theirs did not matter to her. She severed all relations with them. There never were relations of love and trust, but she broke off relations of hatred, of vengeance, of anger, of pity, for life. Her success was their doom. And succeed she did. And damned were they.

All this while, one person who continuously and relentlessly stepped a rung down her ladder of faith was her husband. Now he was perched on the last step with abyss beyond. She had no pity for him, no, she had nothing for him. She did not feel for him. But she had spent over two decades with him. She could not let him fall into a chasm deep and dark if she could help it. Again her angel-like qualities came over her. She knew she would be damned for it and he would again strike in the back as soon as he regained his strength. But she was ready for another blow. They had ceased to pain her. They were a part of her life. She sought them now. Also, at last, she set out in search of her true identity, her true self, her goal and the purpose of enduring all this. And thus her fight went on…..

A Tribute

2005-08-24T11:42:00.000-07:00

These are some extremely beautiful lines by a very dear friend of mine, Shefali! I would like to dedicate this post to her and her penchant for penning down such exotic thoughts. I am really happy she allowed me to post this on my blog. Adds up to the zing! Cheers to her.

Kaafile ki talaash me har baar chot khayee hai,
Is zindagi ne raaz ki baat yeh sikhai hai.
Jo jeevan bhar saath de woh saugat kisne paayi hai?
Meri raah ke humsafar ka naam hi tanhai hai.
Jo thaam le yeh zindagi, aisa koi bandhan kahan,
Saahil ki ret par likhe ik anjaan naam ki tarah
Lehren guzarte waqt ki, mita deti hain har nishan.

**************************

Dil jo karta hai tamanna
Mil jaaye kaash mujhe.
Beech saagar mein hoon khadi,
Hai kinare ki talaash mujhe.
Duniya hogi roshan
Zindagi mein bhi koi baat hogi,
Jis din meri apnee
Pehchaan se mulaquat hogi,
Usse pehle na koi din chehkega mera,
Aur na hi koi shaam roshni se aabad hogi.

**************************

Bheed ke is saagar mein kho jaaye hum to kya,
Waqt ki yeh lehrein mita de mera har nishaan,
Par goonj mere lafzon ki teri rooh ko chhookar tujhe meri yaad dilati rahegi
Han meri koi parchhai tere saamne se guzar ke har pal tujhpe yeh jatati rahegi,
Ki duniya mein kahin hai koi shakhs aisa,
Jiski rab se sada rehti hai yeh dua,
Tu jahan bhi rahe salaamat rahe,
Khushyion se bhara ho tera har jahan.

**************************

Zameen aasmaan ke darmiyan jo doori,
Tamanna haqeeqat mein wahi faasla hai.
Nikal to pade ho Karne hasraton ko poora,
Kya kshitij paar karne ka tumme hausla hai?

Saamne khada kathinaiyon ka parvat,
Aur peechhe guzare gamon ka silsila hai.
Na ab saath tere koi humsafar hai,
Na ab sang tere koi kafila hai.
Nikal to pade ho karne hasraton ko poora,
Kya kshitij paar karne ka tumme hausla hai?

Zameen aasmaan ke darmiyan jo doori,
Haan! tamanna haqeeqat mein wahi faasla hai.
Par nikal jo pada hoonn karne hasraton ko poora,
To kshitij paar karne ka bhi mujhme hausla hai.

Kathinayion ka ab mujhe koi darr nahi hai,
Drid nischay ke aage har parvat hila hai.
Nahi hai mujhe karvan ki zaroorat
Na hi in tanha raahon ka gila hai.

Haan! apne astitva ka talaashne ki mujhme uthi hai khwahish,
Aur dhoondne se bande khuda bhi mila hai.
Nikal hi pada hoon karne hasraton ko poora to
Kshitij paar karne ka bhi mujhme hausla hai.

Haan! mujhme hausla hai!

A Journey Retraced

2005-08-20T09:48:00.000-07:00

“Seek thy gold not in a mine
For thou art gold, mine
Shall we be rich estranged
Or poor with love old as wine”

A journey lonesome
Accompanied
By aspirations some
Some desires buried

Aiming for the clouds
The ground left behind
Amongst cheers and shouts
To a silent prayer, turned blind

The apex beckoning
Alluring to the appetite
That look imploring
Following the pace of his feet

Chasing the unknown
In quest of accolades
Stranded at the pinnacle alone
A witness, as the fame fades

Turning around
Towards the abode
Incapable of hearing a sound
From where, away he strode

Nostalgic, repentant
As realization dawned
In a frenzy, the whole life spent
And passed beyond

A walk back to the roots
An odyssey humbling
After onerous pursuits
Quenched thirst and pining

Emerging from admiration mock
Dejected, heartbroken
A tardy walk
On a path long forgotten

Hoping for a beginning new
Of mirth and sorrow
Revival of a dream to pursue
Today and tomorrow

A Rendezvous

2005-08-13T14:01:00.000-07:00

The eve embracing dusk
As the silence spreads
Inarticulate yet glibly accentuated
The aura, pregnant with musk

Outstretched arms
Endearing stillness
The breeze brushing past
Tranquil, bound by charms

Desiring solitude
A coveted moment
Of flirtatious coquetry
Of emotions lain bare an’ nude

A delicate touch
In poignant delight
Stimulating, enticing
Lingering, to savor and clutch

Euphoric, ecstatic
Intoxicating delirium
A rendezvous enigmatic as thus
Enhancing the exotic

A gaze into wilderness
The turmoil indisputably palpable
Audacity or restraint
To give rein or let go the harness

Angel

2005-08-04T09:39:00.000-07:00

I dedicate this effort of mine to my best friend on her birthday. You have been a wonderful friend, an amazing experience, pure joy to be with. I just want you to know that you hold a very special place in my heart that is indelible. So just flatter yourself and enjoy to the hilt. Remember that you are special and let nothing make you forget this. EVER.

Pure as a drop of dew
Joy as if a dream come true
The impish smile, that flaming desire
Ah! craving to kiss her way through

Petite, tender as a petal
Arousing affections primeval
Bewitching, enticing, a teasing look
To resist her is an ordeal

Careless whispers frittered away
Innocence, her face, candor, her way
An angel adorable, a damsel svelte
A dazzling star, a sparkling ray

Exuberance personified
A vulnerability that cried
Feminine! Feminine! Feminine!
Her virtue, her pride

The memories of her clamor
The moments of her amour
Reminiscing, reliving those stretches
I feel her and still stammer

Vibrant, her life a blur
In the frigid, an emotion she’ll stir
Just a fleeting touch
To feel, to know, to love her

Love you K

Eyes ?

2005-07-08T12:40:00.000-07:00

Stretching wider than the azure firmament
Gleaming with a fiery light
Yet so kindly and benevolent
Even as daring the Sol’s might

Deeper than the all consuming swell
The expanse ever so huge
The inception of a stream juvenile
The trickling pearls’ sole refuge

Among peals of tinkling laughter
The orbs, shimmering with a twinkle
Coy and naïve and vivacious
Easing out every crease and wrinkle

An orifice to the heart’s core
A sieve to the mundane verity
Dispelling myth an’ lore
Revealing the truth in entirety

Compassion, compunction and caution
The throne whence love heralds
A mirror of every emotion
A stage whence the drama unfolds

The charisma, the magnetism
The void, the longing, the pain
All manifest themselves in unison
Before they mingle and wane

The emergence from a hazy mist
The attainment of a dream unfulfilled
As if spurred by the antics of a poltergeist
Unveiling a new dawn for the eyes that willed

A Dying Flame...

2005-06-24T13:42:00.000-07:00

Remnants of fire, a dying flame, struggling to keep alight a precarious truth being pushed into a hurricane of lies, a whirlpool of treachery, awaiting a weathered storm, a humbled thunder to bring forth the rekindled LIGHT....

A light to lighten the hearts
Darkness, the light thwarts
Dark as the silence of his
Him, that shame departs

Devoid of emotions and feelings
Convenience is the name in all dealings
Kick the luck and dodge the fate
Then sneer and curse for your damn failings

A light to stab the darkness in the eye, a light to honour those who try, in the sky make them fly, take them away, oh! so high, to set ablaze the expanse of sky, to never, never let them cry, a light to burn all those who pry, to set up a smile genuine and not so wry... well, let's just try..........

THE ADVENT OF LIGHT HAS JUST BEGUN...

Take a bow, raise a toast, bring the ship, unto the coast...

Plight Or Pleasure ?

2005-06-18T12:25:00.000-07:00

Writes he every word, in joy and in pain
Lest his very thoughts become his bane
To appease the storm within and keep his sane
Ulterior pretense helps not self to feign

The ensemble of his reflections
Woven in a maze of puns and expressions
With prose and poetry he stuns
Evasive his manner, reclusive, company he shuns

Flows the thought, swifter than steeds
Slower than naught, his quill leads
Bereft of words, volumes he reads
Jewels he finds, amongst the weeds

Squalid, squeamish, staid and satire
Entwines he plots, plunging in mire
Fantasy to horror, every genre, he will sire
Untiring he toils, for his needs are dire

Outlandish to platitudinous, esoteric to aesthetic
Meddles he in affairs, plebeian and eclectic
Alliteration, hyperbole, exaggeration rhythmic
Conceal and render, a splendor intrinsic

Construed together are words trivial
Rendered meaningful are phrases inconsequential
Such is the beauty and power textual
The confines of fiction stretch to tickle the real

In Retrospect

2005-05-27T16:26:00.000-07:00

Disillusioned I sat
Taking into cognizance
My actions of late
Without cursing my fate

Livid with anger
I loathed myself
Decidedly, I stood up
Moist eyes burning

Filled with grit
Replete with determination
I embark on an odyssey
To exhibit my inner strength and agitation

Fail, I might
Atleast I sought to fight
Myriad weaknesses yore
I never had them before

I must rise above them
In adversity, the strengths stem
I’ve lain low too long
It’s time to prove I’m as strong

To give in now would be a cardinal sin
Though it’s still not my last chance to win
I will have many more
You never know what’s in store

It’s not the time to fake
My pride is at stake
The fists are clenched
With resolution, fully drenched

It’s a hunch, I’ll make it through
Or self-confidence might bid me adieu
I have no choices left
I have to be sharp and very deft

Hard work
When complacencies lurk
Focus and perspiration
Now, no more frustration

Dispelling all fears
Leaving behind peers
Still in tears
My mind endears

Only If I Knew ...

2005-05-27T16:21:00.000-07:00

Shyly, I looked up
Shot a furtive glance at you
To have another longing look
At your ethereal face

My gaze met yours
My heart skipped a beat
You smiled coquettishly
Inebriated, I could feel the heat

You mesmerize me
An epitome of beauty
I, the beholder
My eyes see no flaw
Even when you get naughty

Anointed in self imposed love
Brooding, engrossed
Rendered believable are
Reveries with all limits crossed

I repudiate my dignity
Feign my best mood
To win a propitious place
In your egregious heart for good

Subsumed in all my thoughts
Aphrodisiac or appetent
My world, confined to you
My feelings, are for you meant

My clandestine endeavor
The fervor I exuded
All failed to saunter
Through to the destination intended

I feel like a despondent dilettante
Desirous of acceding to my will
To shun my diffidence
To blurt out verbatim my predicament
And sustain my sanity still

But I confess not love
No self respect I feel
My feelings I preserve
In vows of fidelity, I want to deal

Love is when the infallibles fall
The cognizance of the inarticulate
I'd rather let silence say it all
Than ebb the emotion with platitudes I hate

Why do I feel for you?
And let my despair grow
Why do I let you
Steal the show?

Do I love you?
I know not
Or it's just that
Myself I besot?

Perhaps ...

2005-05-27T16:15:00.000-07:00

I look around
See vanity profound
The seemingly vainest of them
Are closest to ground

Their thoughts are crass
Never will they let pass
Any opportunity to
Be harassed and to harass

They search for vistas and venue
Old and new
The never ending endeavour
For habits are hard to bid adieu

A worthless life
Lived on a double-edged knife
Meaningless if it ends
Better deprived, than rife

Resign, if you must
To desire and lust
Rather try and feel the ecstasy of what lies
Within the upper crust

Deeds superficial
Expressions facial
Deceive, they might
But not actions filial

Decide not worth
On whims and mirth
What we portray
Is upbringing and birth

Must you always doubt
In rain and drought
The integrity of the righteous
Always brought about

On the spur of the moment
Your faith did but relent
Such oft repeated imprudence leaves
An everlasting dent

Identify the situation
On notion and intuition
Since closing your eyes
Offers no solution

A Desire Too Many ...

2005-05-25T15:09:00.000-07:00

The desire to be
Free of desire
The desire to
Breathe fire

The desire to be
On top of the town
The desire to turn
It upside down

The desire to be
Like everyone else
The desire to be
The only one

The desire to be
Conniving and mean
To be selfish
For a win

The desire to be
A fatherly figure
To be able to
Help each other

The desire to be
The perfect son
The good Samaritan
All said and done

The desire to run
And not miss the fun
The desire to stop
And catch your breath

The desire to look
Deep into her eyes
The desire to fathom
Why she cries
And to catch
All her lies

The desire to
Speak all day
The desire to
While away

The desire of
Unbearable pain
When matter not
Loss or gain

The desire to hug
To jump with joy
The desire to
Fly so high

The desire to work
Extremely hard
To leave midway
And still stand guard

The desire to achieve
Something worthwhile
On every face
Bring a smile

The desire to fight
Without a reason
To indulge in treachery
And treason

The desire to trust
With all your heart
And with your promises
Never part

The desire to
Watch mother Nature
To live in harmony
Grow in stature

The desire to be
In the country
To observe and admire
Every leaf of the tree

To swell with joy
In the rain
And let go of malice
In the drain

The desire to
Be the best
To be better
Than the rest

The desire to
Shout out loud
The desire to scream
To clear the clogging cloud

The desire to
Lose someone
And wish vehemently
For it to be undone

The desire to
Change the system
And be a part of it
As a custom

The desire to
Write a book
The desire to present
Your best look

The desire to
Bounce back
To get yourself counted
In the pack

The desire to
Effect a revolt
And to stop
Without a jolt

The desire to love
And be loved
The desire to die
A peaceful death

The desire to be desirous
To do it, without fuss
For desires can be dangerous
Still they lie, with all of us

Endorse Your Actions

2005-05-25T15:03:00.000-07:00

Every day
A struggle
Each one of us
Fighting
The demons of our will

An incoherent battle
Between the heart
And the mind
Throughout our life

Looking to make hay
To make things go our way
By hook or by crook
Good, must life look

The toughest part
Is to know
The right path
And still persist
With the wrong

Unsure
Of our own actions
Detesting every moment
Cherishing it at the same time

A constant, incessant duel
Between us and our conscience
The end seems not near
The consequences
We must bear

A Conversation So Futile

2005-05-24T16:27:00.000-07:00

I have written this in reference to the DPS RK Puram MMS incident that took place sometime back. I have tried to relive the conversation that I thought might have taken place between the girl and her father. I've tried not to be judgemental, biased or obscene. The end is somewhat vague considering the fact that such conversations or arguments never really have a proper end. They just taper off. To all the purists, please don't take it seriously, this was just done on a lighter note. I, myself being an ex-student of the same school, felt that I had to say something in this regard. Period.

"Get a hold of yourself", he bellowed
"None of your concern", not to be outdone, she followed
"What's all this supposed to be?"
"It's my life and let it be"
"Ha! Life", sarcastically he said, "What have you seen?"
"Well, to be honest, you are 'has been' "
"Don't you act smart"
"I love him with all my heart"
"LOVE! you call it that"
"True", was the reply pat
"You've become a laughing stock"
"Our bond is solid as rock"
"You're under media's stare"
"As if I care"
"You can't go anyplace"
Amused, "Are you scared to show your face?"
"Will you stop being a shameless shrew"
"It's no crime to screw"
"It's a matter intimate"
"I'll do it again any given date"
"You're a bitch"
"That ain't a hitch"
"Why don't you understand, I care for you"
"Yeah, sure you do"
"I'm losing my patience"
"I still keep my stance"
"Such arrogance you exude"
"Stop your condescending attitude"
"I'll kill that guy"
"Together, our souls fly"
"You're impossible"
"His mark is indelible"
"Shut up, will you"
"Why don't you?"
"You've got to learn, this is not right"
"It's my choice and I'll fight"
"It's not a matter of choice but inner voice"
"Inner voice!! c'mon dad, gimme a break"
"Stop acting like a freak"
"Will you stop that crap?"
"You warrant a slap"
"Dare you touch me"
"I'll teach a lesson to thee"
"You must be insane"
"You trodded the forbidden lane"
"I will do it again"
“You are fighting in vain”
“Reign supreme will our love sublime”
“I will talk to you some other time”

Too Late

2005-05-24T16:19:00.000-07:00

The cacophony of thoughts
As my mind trots

The past is deep
The shadows creep
The darkness looms
And melancholy blooms

I feel the guilt
On it I built
A vulnerable life
Torn and strife

To myself I plead
No more can I bleed
It hurts so bad
It was just a fad

The infallible insouciant
Now repentant
Acceded to desire
Clairvoyance hidden by ire

Never again a gaudy show
Never again will I stoop so low
The imbecile feigned
The penitent is truly pained

The Abyss

2005-02-22T10:15:00.000-08:00

Every dream shattered
Bruised and battered
Inhibitions shed
As innocents bled

Still clinging
Clutching
To my eroding faith
I envisage
A telling death
Bejewelled with a wreath

Of dignity
Not a trace
Stranded
In a chasm
Of disgrace

I cry in anguish
Writhe in pain
All hopes
Brutally slain

Apathy plenteous
Intentions hideous
Repugnance galore
Comes to fore

Obscene, atrocious
Promiscuous demeanour
Nothing to delineate
From a vapid lecher

Encore
Is it?
Or desires more pernicious
Beware of
Designs vicious,malicious

Speechless I stand
Amidst the abyss
Aghast
Apalled

Strangled
Struggling
To breathe
The air
So perverse
Lest I estrange
My own chaste

Friends?
Foes?
Oblivion!!!

The Shallow Depths

2005-02-17T07:26:00.000-08:00

Flamboyance
Or thus you pretend
So hard, just to apprehend
It is but an art
To traverse
Through the deep bowels of your heart

Wish
You were only a friend
But that is
Not the trend

That façade
It ain’t gonna last
For all frivolity is
A thing of the past

This dialogue
A prologue
For the years to come
Together we’ll hum
The tunes of ecstasy

I ideate
It’s still not too late
To start afresh
You’re still my crush

How hard I strive
To contrive
My strengths I harness
To rid myself
Of all insidiousness

Those who think
Such feelings are scarce
Their life is
Nothing more than a farce

Accompany me
To a higher plane
The world unknown
Free of profane

Your benign soul
Like the sound of a koel
Whispers softly
As barefoot you tread
Wish I was
The grass beneath

I, a puppet
Tied to a thread
You pull the string
And along you sing

The purity of thought
My mind distraught
You caress, you tickle
I squirm
A flame so fickle

My heart aches
For all it takes
Is your captivating smile
I never felt so vile

Oh! how I miss
The brush of your tender lips
Against mine
I still seek
That peck on the cheek

The aroma of your hair
Leaves me in despair
The pearl in your eyes
The trembling hands
The delectable lies

The silent moments
When the rules were bent
When nothing was spoken
When everything was said
A dream fulfilled
When you went red

I want to hold you tight
I feel so light
Embrace me, hug me
Out there, it’s a dark night

How much I yearn
How much I pine
Just to learn
Will you be mine?