tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50374964755777831142024-03-14T20:05:48.035+05:30UnapologeticExpressions-Bland and Rich!Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-68874118517356657572012-08-13T23:12:00.000+05:302012-08-13T23:12:52.906+05:30Independence Ahoy!!!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">What
a time to choose to write this piece - on the eve of India’s 65<sup>th</sup>
Independence day, just when, the whole country seems to be embroiled and obsessed
with the need for another freedom movement although this is not exactly for a
new nation or maybe if I am to put it in literal terms – It is for a new
nation. And who should be the crusaders – a Yoga guru, a pre independence ex-army
jawan-socialist-octogenarian, a voluntary retired IAS officer, an ex reformist IPS
officer, a retired Supreme court judge, a lawyer and close to a million (they
will argue the whole nation but trust me I have been optimistic with my
figures) Indians. Indeed with such noble leaders one can expect the struggle
for the foundation of the new nation to be robust and authentic. So did I till
I sniffed it to be another political movement bent upon change of guard of who
rules the nation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">Let
me confess that I am not much of a political person so I get away by being what
a typical middle class citizen is good at – maintaining the vicious cycle of
electing, discussing, criticising and re electing governments and
representatives at every level. That actually does not make me a genuine
commentator of the course of the present day events, yet being a creature of
habit, I choose to present a point of view never-the-less.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">When
Shakespeare announced that “All the world’s a stage,” I believe we took this
literally or maybe the bard just pronounced what we as human beings have always
loved – a good spectacle. Leaders or the so called leaders love this trait and
why not so – it takes courage to become or stage one such. However even this
needs a cause and in this problem fraught world it would not be much to find
one lying just next to you waiting to be hurled up and highlighted in bold Neon
from the rooftops. A fight against
corruption was one of the easier and topical ones which have been floating
around since our epic days. Come to think of it even our epics could not
provide a solution to this except lamely announcing that with the death or exit
of the good men a new era (yug) of malice and corruption will descend. So it
did and rampantly spread across in every era and in each era people raised a
voice against it. I am happy that in India and in this era this has been
religiously upheld. However is this cause worthy or even the right cause
because had it been so, the issue would have been resolved long time ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">I
have always thought that we are knocking at the wrong door for the remedy of
this problem. Corruption cannot be eradicated because it is engrained in the
human genes and unless we decide to identify the perfect pair of human being,
have them reproduce and breed the perfect children and hope that this
multiplies to the creation of the perfect nation and then the world, the
thought of eradicating corruption is superficial and holistic. This is not my
cynicism but an honest (sigh) belief and observation. Ironically when Plato
suggested the above solution for the creation of the perfect Republic his study
and philosophy became a term which itself meant ‘not of the physical (possible)
realm.’ So if you think that in my opinion the perfect Republic minus the
corruption and other vagaries associated with it is not possible, you are
mistaken. I have no intention of propounding any nihilistic theory here. That
would be blasphemy of my own ideology.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">Change
is required. Change is required in human behaviour. This does not imply that we
go about trying to change the behaviour of every other person. Change begins
within one’s own self. Leaders cannot or perhaps can catalyst this change. If
they at all have to catalyst it then the call out should not be – “Give me this
and then I will do this.” It rather should be “Be this and keep being this.” Social
theory says that human beings have a tendency to adopt and adapt behaviours.
Not surprising since our children learn to behave the way we behave. So where
is the corruption stemming from? It is somewhere within us and yet
superficially we want to oppose it and hence will raise a voice with the crowd.
Honestly, I believe we are trying to exorcise our own ghosts in the garb of
blaming someone else for our share of problems. A Ramdev baba, Anna Hazare,
Arvind Kejriwal, Kiran Bedi are good leaders. They have what each one of us
aspire to have and hence we will follow them blindly thinking that they are
right. They might be or may not be, but the fear/question is that if they are not
- Are we strong enough to accept the truth? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">I
have read books on our freedom movement and what I might now say will sound bizarre
or perhaps even unbelievable to many but it is the truth. Gandhi or Nehru did
not get us our independence. It was each man and woman of that period who
wanted independence and believed in their own strength of character. Read
Gandhi carefully – he never exhorted the people to raise their voices till he believed
that they believed in what they were doing. In the Congress session of 1940 he
announced this boldly from the podium saying that the country is not ready for
independence. Many have connoted this term to their own convenience and theory
but if one compares Gandhi’s ideology one will believe in what I have just proposed.
In this present scenario I can state that – “Yes I believe that corruption
should be eradicated,” but that is me saying it and yet not practising it for
real. Eradicating corruption will begin with me saying ‘No’ to my own willingness
to succumb to it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">There
have been long drawn debates and comparisons to Anna’s or Ramdev’s movement as
an Independence movement. This is foolish. Our independence movement was not a
political movement – it was a movement of character and self belief in the
truth. There were no political ambitions till the penultimate hours before the split
of the nation. The IAC movement or the Ramdev movement is nothing but a
political movement curtained by a socialist call. In a recent debate on a news
television, which fortunately for them, such movements have given them enough
fodder to keep the high paid political editors, anchors and script writers
busy, I overheard some dignitary saying that post independence, if there has
been any movement true to its character and cause; it has been the Jai Prakash
Narayan Movement. I so whole heartedly agreed to this. If you are not aware of
this movement do some search and you will understand and believe why I say so. A
fight against corruption, I would argue is not even a socialist call. It is as
termed earlier the easiest and most Platonic call.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">If
you ask me, and I have already indemnified myself and my opinion in the true
blue middle class manner, on this independence day I will try and change myself
and my character to establish myself as a person who befits the preamble and
the oath of being an Indian. You can choose your own and there is no force on
any, since our share of problems will not reduce by an opinion, or will it.
Wishing you all a good day and good year.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-5040399838094909822012-02-12T22:44:00.001+05:302012-02-13T10:44:27.112+05:30Much Ado about Love –Ek Main aur Ekk Tu<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh2Y7xMok-njfrDuABRjCqDrqAIWADmJlk39h_T2NXNliIL2BIFuGsgie4fWMuyvn16HXxxGFuwm-gSASIz7ZJ6ih6hPhcAB6NYAAOJ43B30MdXFPwkaeLe3KaCfCRJdOkJSQp6eS8Egw/s1600/EMAET.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
<img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh2Y7xMok-njfrDuABRjCqDrqAIWADmJlk39h_T2NXNliIL2BIFuGsgie4fWMuyvn16HXxxGFuwm-gSASIz7ZJ6ih6hPhcAB6NYAAOJ43B30MdXFPwkaeLe3KaCfCRJdOkJSQp6eS8Egw/s320/EMAET.jpg" width="211" /></a><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We reached at least ten minutes early for the movie, which was a pleasant surprise considering Simmi and my propensity to arrive at the last minute for movies, almost always. For EMAET we could catch the promo trailers that were run before the screening of the movie – <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4LCQ2suUSUw" target="_blank">Housefull 2</a></i> and <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QU1NYZ28R8s" target="_blank">Tere Naal Love Ho Gaya</a></i>. If I were to go by the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wI2hljDJmOQ" target="_blank">trailers</a>, then I would think twice, before buying exorbitant multiplex tickets to watch any of the two which seem to be nothing but run of the mill slapstick rom-coms. I had held a similar opinion for EMAET too. But let me get one thing straight – being a hard core Kareena fan, if anything could have dragged me to the movie hall, it had to be only her. Yet the movie turned out to be more than just her. It was a pleasant and refreshing surprise for its genre of romantic comedy. I would regard it as a good experiment as far as story and screen play is concerned. One also has to give it to debutant director Shakun Batra for managing to knit the so often told ‘loser-boy-meets-happening-girl-life-changes’ situation well by demanding balanced performances from each of his actors.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">There is not much that you all cannot guess of the story from the trailers and promos except perhaps the ending or the treatment. The story will revolve around Rahul Kapoor (Imran Khan), a 25 year old who is yet to find a foot hold of his own life on his own terms or even come off the shadow of his demanding socially elite parents played by the versatile pair of Boman Irani and Ratna Pathak Shah. The latter by the way plays mother to Imran for the second time post his debut in <i>Jane Tu Ya Jane Na</i> and if you have any hangover of her earlier character, rest assured this new character will exorcise it. So Mr. Loser and ‘uptight’ meets Ms. Carefree –Riana Braganza (Kareena Kapoor) and then one fine day on Christmas Eve they go out drinking. Well picture this, its Vegas, ‘uptight’ protagonist goes drinking with ‘coolest’ girl and then over a drunken stupor gets married. Shocked? Do not be – It is Vegas and then it is Bollywood. You should expect slap-stick. But it is from here onwards to the end that will convince you of the coming of age of bollywood directors in Dharma Productions like Malhotra (Agneepath) and now Shakun, who are treading the ground of intelligent cinema. To begin with they understand and work well with the limitations they are subjected to. If EMAET was treated as a <i>Dil Toh Pagal Hai</i> or <i>Kal ho Na Ho</i> way, then my review would have been much different. This movie is quintessentially sweet because at the end the two hours you feel the story was real. EMAET kind of story happens and it may have already or might happen to you.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In the acting department, I will begin with Kareena as the effervescent Riana Braganza, an unemployed hair dresser in Vegas nursing a sixth broken relationship. Interesting character but with all my biased feelings for her, I have to say that in this role she only reprises the role of ‘Geet’ from <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QpWw0OzzFgI" target="_blank">Jab We Met</a></i> in a different setting. She is brilliant in this kind of a role, which is effortless for her to play, but being a terrific actress, that she is, she has to explore more meat in roles that do not typify her as the never forgettable ‘Geet.’ <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The surprise package is Imran Khan. Many have complained of his cold, emotion less acting in his last role in <i>Mere Brother Ki Dulhan</i>. (For heaven’s sake, Simmi expressed that Kat was a better actor than him in that movie. Gee!) But you will love Rahul Kapoor. Imran is convincing in the three avatars of the character – the confused, under confident loser who could not choose for himself which tie to wear, to a lad in love, to finally a confident individual who chooses life on his own terms. The best part is that he does not over do any part and thus when you walk out of the hall you may just feel that he exists in you.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The others, who surprisingly are not many except notable mentions for Boman Irani, Ratna Pathak and Ram Kapoor have limited screen space and rightly so. The movie demanded such a treatment that avoided unnecessary histrionics. So at the end of it all, it is Shakun Batra who in my humble opinion gets the feather for presenting us a pleasant modern romantic tale in the mushy month. The other winner of course is its music. Amit Trivedi and Amitabh Bhattacharya regale your ears with freshly brewed music which gels with the theme as well as the situations. My vote for the most hummable numbers - the haunting <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pvF2ba67YOY&list=PLF4EEE0A76CA06A66&index=6&feature=plpp_video" target="_blank">Aahetein</a></i> and the inspiring <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sn6FtBBsbNo&feature=watch_response" target="_blank">Gubbare</a></i>. Well, what the heck even a metal head like me has a taste for mushy music in this month. ;) <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So go ahead this Valentine and watch this movie with your friend or love. And if you do not want to spend precious money on the tickets and the overpriced popcorns, then you can actually wait for the movie to be screened in the local channels. My advice -Whenever it does, do watch it just for the pleasant refreshing experience.</span></span></div></div>Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-1464912154852204472012-02-06T12:23:00.000+05:302012-02-06T12:23:53.402+05:30Lathpath, Lathpath, Lathpath - Agneepath<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div><b id="internal-source-marker_0.14406110951676965"><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHAJsBC6AqWi537QqppKa0dwLF1u7ov3hfU6LhIV7N6vuhHsQe-RNQaKU81VHEABe5K3OEC78ylx-dLGuXmjW03iwpXGS5C1yFvgJz70su9mebH8oxh-GDaJYuKUaJzWY4H_P2k5P0wLw/s1600/Agneepath-Movie-latest-poster-wallpaper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHAJsBC6AqWi537QqppKa0dwLF1u7ov3hfU6LhIV7N6vuhHsQe-RNQaKU81VHEABe5K3OEC78ylx-dLGuXmjW03iwpXGS5C1yFvgJz70su9mebH8oxh-GDaJYuKUaJzWY4H_P2k5P0wLw/s320/Agneepath-Movie-latest-poster-wallpaper.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am a bad audience of dialogues in a movie. There have been very few which I remember or perhaps carry with me for a long period. I agree that dialogues are the real punch of the movie, but blame my love for the visual that precedes cinematography over words; bitter irony for someone like me, who otherwise prefers writing. Yet that is how it is. But then again, there are scenes of movies that have had the twin effect of registering a commanding visual along with an equally powerful dialogue. Vijay Dinanath Chauhan introducing himself to the inspector in the earlier </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Agneepath</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> is such an epochal memory. Discounting the number of times the dialogue has been spoofed and narrated across different mediums by different actors, it is one scene that will remain synonymous with Amitabh Bachan’s career. That is what made </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Agneepath</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> special when Mukul Anand directed it. He took out careful time to etch out each character of the movie, so much so that long after the movie bombed at the box office, it got its due to become a classic and the characters became legends. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />
</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With such a history, Karan Malhotra had a daunting task in choosing to remake </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Agneepath</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Obviously the story could not just be a screen adaptation of the earlier. In the present times one had to concentrate on a larger canvas, without failing to focus on the micro details of each colour that would go on to adorn the canvas. Thankfully, he does. Not in an epic manner but one can feel the genuineness in his attempt which makes up for everything else. Besides, like I said, I am biased towards the visual and Kiran Deohans and Ravi Chandran does not disappoint. Be it, the landscape of Mandwa before and after the entry of Kancha or the Chawl’s of Mumbai where Vijay Dinanath Chauhan will grow and plot the revenge of his father’s death, the film has unlimited shares of visual delights. One particular scene that I would mention to support my case is the panoramic shot across Mandwa when Kancha makes his entry. Along with a long shot of the dark clouds that occupy the sky, symbolically signalling the ominous that is to come, there is the towering presence of Sanjay Dutt, his menacing tattoos and his black ensemble of a dhoti and kurta, a stark departure from the suave suit clad Danny as Kancha in the earlier Agneepath. This is Karan’s </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Kancha</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and when I say that the canvas needed to be larger it also meant that the characters had to be larger and more striking. In this </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Agneepath</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Malhotra does manage to create such striking characters.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />
</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hrithik Roshan as the brooding Vijay Dinanath Chauhan comes off almost as convincing as Amitabh was in his role. However, the pinch of salt will be that Amitabh played the role when he was in his mid forties and obviously was more seasoned as an actor than Hrithik is now. Amitabh created an identity of Vijay in the earlier </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Agneepath</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, whereas Hrithik only manages to give a splendid performance in the remake as much the role demanded. His Vijay Dinanath Chauhan will not be someone you will remember when someone takes the name. Having said so, one cannot take away anything from Hrithik who performs beautifully speaking with his eyes and expressions to the last shot – as a son, brother, friend, lover and even a devious scheming character.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />
</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There are no villains in modern cinema, only negative characters. In this </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Agneepath</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> the audience will experience not one but two such characters, each played to perfection by two very seasoned actors – Sanjay Dutt and Rishi Kapoor. While Sanjay Dutt goes on to re-script Kancha Cheena (someone who will be remembered for the character, as Amitabh will be for Vijay) it is Rishi Kapoor as Rauf Lala, the local Mumbai don, drug lord, human trafficker and an arch business nemesis of Kancha who emerges as a pick among the actors for me. In this new character introduced by Karan, there is enough meat to make it a memorable one. Sinister, scheming and sentimental, his role is not just about the alliterations; his character is shaped to make up for the absence of one played by Mithun Chakravorty in the earlier version. He is nothing near to good but will be instrumental for Vijay to achieve the objective of killing Kancha and avenging his father’s murder. That Ranbir Kapoor has good genes of acting is evident in the ease with which Rishi Kapoor essays this role. He commands screen presence and regales you with the performance. A scene that you might pay special interest to is in the climax of conflict between Rauf and Vijay. I can easily see Rishi Kapoor in 2012’s nominations across movie awards as a best supporting actor or even in a negative role.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />
</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Kancha Cheena - Like I said earlier, the character will be remembered for Sanjay Dutt, even though there was nothing less that Danny had put in his performance earlier in the same role. It is just about how the character has been written and played that makes all the difference. Harbouring a bitter memory of his ugliness, Kancha in this movie believes that being ugly is synonymous with being evil and so leaves no stones unturned in his mission of becoming a producer of cocaine within the fortress that he creates out of Mandwa. The beauty of the characterisation is that like many other such characters, one such seen in Rakeysh Mehra’s Aks played by Manoj Bajpai, Kancha has a penchant of quoting from the Gita, of course tweaking the meaning to fulfil his own objective – “</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Kya leke aaye the, Kya leke jaoge</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">” being one such quote, before murdering anyone. Taran Adarsh mentions in his critique of the movie, that Kancha has the influence of a Kurtz like character played by Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now. I will second that, only to add that Kancha is more sinister. The evil smile and brutality that Sanjay portrays is scary but convincing for the role. His look - massive, bald, tattooed body, soiled toe nails (watch carefully) and a black attire easily fits into someone that the character demanded. </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Agneepath</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> 2012 is as much of Kancha as Vijay’s.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />
</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There is not much left for the woman characters in this </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Agneepath</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, though Priyanka Chopra does good a Kali, Vijay’s childhood friend and then eventually as his lover in the Chawl of Mumbai. She offers intensity to the emotional scenes but leaves you with nothing significant to carry back. Zarina Wahab as Suhasini Chauhan is a far cry from Rohini Hattangadi of the earlier version. In the earlier version the silence of Rohini Hattangadi was a powerful statement to the last shot, even when Amitabh dies in her arms. Not much justice is done to that role in the present characterisation with Suhasini Chauhan is left as a brooding wife and mother who disapproves of her son’s revengeful attitude. Om Puri as the commissioner of Mumbai Police recognises Vijay’s purpose albeit late but like the earlier Agneepath, in this also he remains as someone who tries to warn and pull out Vijay from the pulpit of revenge and evil that the latter engages with a single minded purpose.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One complain that I have of the present version is the song and dance routine which seems to be one too many, perhaps an extension of the Karan Johar effect as a producer. Though the music is good, it would have been more pleasant if some of the numbers, which occur almost immediately after one ends, were done away with or kept as promo items only. This applies also for the popular </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Chikni Chameli</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> number, but one must accept this extravagance as this is a commercial and not parallel cinema.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />
</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Karan Malhotra has successfully carried the remake of </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Agneepath</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and you must watch it once at least. And all this began with a title immortalised by the late Harivansh Rai Bachan’s famous poem:</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />
</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Vriksh hon bhale khade,</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hon bade, hon ghane,</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ek Patra chhah bhi,</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Maang mat, Maang mat, Maang mat.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Agneepath! Agneepath! Agneepath!</span></div><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tu na jhukega kabhi,</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tu na mudega kabhi,</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tu na thamega kabhi,</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Kar shapath, Kar shapath, Kar shapath.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Agneepath! Agneepath! Agneepath!</span></div><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ye Mahaan Drushya Hai,</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Chal Raha Manushya Hai,</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ashru, Shwed, Rakta Se,</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lathpath, Lathpath, Lathpath.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Agneepath! Agneepath! Agneepath!</span></div></b></div></div>Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-51115169221726357332012-01-30T01:14:00.002+05:302012-01-30T13:29:07.158+05:30A pair of glasses<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPbBMuC1GHOzx4xsx81LBNLVTtiRELafvO1oijm_2czw1Tdl5GGsKcfYrxfYMiagkXoojiGutmwE6hQaePZkya-053WShjoydjcx2p5HPKLyd_x9ycD0AWUaS1ER4whcoXe4cx_ZKEbTs/s1600/glasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPbBMuC1GHOzx4xsx81LBNLVTtiRELafvO1oijm_2czw1Tdl5GGsKcfYrxfYMiagkXoojiGutmwE6hQaePZkya-053WShjoydjcx2p5HPKLyd_x9ycD0AWUaS1ER4whcoXe4cx_ZKEbTs/s1600/glasses.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Ravi picked up his lunch box from the dining table. It was not the regular steel box, he had</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> been using from the past couple of years. This was a taller variety with three polycarbonate boxes stacked one over the other inside a jacket. Most of his office colleagues carried one of these kinds that promise in flashy advertisements, to keep the food warm. He had earlier never thought of buying one for himself, simply because he never saw the need for one. His lunch was never more than two </span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">chapptis</i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> and some vegetables, sometimes </span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">paranthas</i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> and </span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">achhar</i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> or a humble sandwich which comfortably fit inside the steel box. But, of many things that would change in the years to come, marriage brought about this trivial change also, which honestly he was not much worried about. A taller lunch box could only mean a welcome change in his lunch menu; this brought a slight smile on his face, as he picked it up.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">His was an arranged marriage. The eldest son of a Bihari middle class family, he did not have much of a choice. His father had called him two months prior to the wedding and announced the decision on him. As it always was, he had accepted it meekly, without saying much. The only time he had ever asserted his personal choice was in selecting a course during graduation. He was a Commerce graduate, the first in his family; though there were not many in the family tree that could either claim to be a graduate at all. His father was one. A science graduate of the early nineteen sixties and by that merit had also secured a position in one of the state government agricultural firms. This was no mean feat for his father or the family then, and along with a secure job it also helped his father to the top of the hierarchy of the family decision making matrix. “<i>Offcer beta</i> is never wrong,” the family would believe. His father still held to that axiom though Ravi would, sometimes, want to think otherwise. He had accepted the decision of his marriage and choice of bride with a pinch of salt. Not that he was in love with someone else, but he fathomed the idea. The years of being in Delhi had seeded the wish. His office was abuzz with love stories that he thought befitted the silver screen. There was Dubey and his love marriage, a story made of all ingredients that kept Ravi in rapture every time the former narrated it. More than the billet-doux of the story, Ravi would be fascinated with Dubey’s wife, Kriti’s bold and fearless nature. For someone who hailed from a native town in Uttar Pradesh, she had not thought twice before coming to Delhi in the sly to ask Dubey to marry her lest her father married her off to someone else. Ravi was a sucker for such a fearless and care-free spirit and would often dream of a wife like Kriti, sometimes blasphemously fantasising her as his own wife.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">He had first met Richa on the day of their engagement which was a month before the actual marriage. She was selected and finalised by his father much before he had called Ravi to announce the decision and of the engagement date. His brother had shared her profile and photograph on mail. He remembers checking the mail long after the office hours lest others would catch him checking a girl’s photograph. He wanted to avoid all queries and discussions in the office regarding his marriage, more so because he had not met his bride to be till now. There were two photographs – one full length and the other, a close up. Obviously it was clicked for the occasion at a studio. She was wearing a <i>saree</i> and was decked up with light jewellery. Wheatish complexion, medium frame the full length photograph did not speak much, except that she was directed to appear coy and demure, as an Indian girl would required to be, especially if one is being clicked as a prospect for a marriage. The close up also came off more like a passport photograph, with her eyes trained direct towards the camera. They were <i>kohled</i> and deep brown as much he could make of reading a girl’s eyes. The nose seemed sharp and there was no smile on her lips. That was all he could make off the photographs and he did not spend much time on it then or even later. If he had an opinion, he either wise could not express. The decision was already taken by his father. The only consolation he drew from the profile was that she was doing her graduation in commerce from a local college. Not much ground for similarities, but he liked the subject. It was of his choice. Ravi had shut down his system and left. He would catch the 7.30 yellow line metro from IFFCO to Rajiv Chowk and then finally the Blue Line to Yamuna Bank. His life was a routine between the blue and yellow lines. Accommodation was cheap at Yamuna Bank and he was grateful to the Delhi Metro that made his travel easy to IFFCO Tokio, Gurgaon, where he worked as an accountant to make a living. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">When he had first met her, Ravi could not exchange much conversation with Richa. It was anyway their engagement and though he would have liked some quiet moments with her, maybe speak to her a little and overcome his own shyness, none of all that happens in such an occasion. All one can manage are smiles and perhaps a word or two while the families are guffawing and exchanging greetings as if they have all known each other for generations. He had spoken to her a few times over the phone after the engagement but those could be written off as mere formalities of courtesy. Before long, they were married and Ravi was back to Delhi with his bride. Perhaps it was his hangover of Dubey’s love story and a mental image of a wife like Kriti that built an ice between him and Richa, so much so that even after they came back to Delhi, he would only have intermittent conversations with her. In the days from his engagement to marriage and then the week in Delhi, he had made an opinion of her – She was shy, not an excellent conversationalist and one of those kinds from his village who spent their whole life treating marriage and husband as a social responsibility. He had taken the extra week off without his father’s knowledge. He had planned it for a honey moon to Rajasthan, but had later settled it for a period of stay in Delhi taking Richa for a sight-seeing of the city. They visited all those places in Delhi synonymous for romantic getaways with a futile attempt to loosen up with each other. At the end of the week, after all the metro rides, eating at the stalls of Delhi Haat, ice-creams at India Gate, walks around Purana Qila, getting harassed by the Eunuchs at Lodhi Garden and shopping at various markets of Delhi, nothing had changed. The lunch box was purchased at one of these visits, at Lajpat Nagar and he would use it for the first time today. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">He called out to her from the door, “Richa, I am leaving. Keep the doors locked and open only if necessary.” He paused, waiting for her to emerge from the kitchen, where she seemed to be perpetually locked since morning. She came out, wiping her hands against the <i>pallu</i> of her saree and stood in front of him. He looked at her once again, almost a nonchalant reassuring look, maybe expecting that she will change. Her coy nod was the last look he registered as he climbed down the stairs. It was 7:45 am and he had just fifteen minutes to catch the metro. He stopped a cycle rickshaw with a frantic call.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Metro,” he ordered the <i>rickshawalla</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Through the bumpy ride out of his lane, he began to take mental notes of a checklist of the things to do. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Drinking water,” he heard himself. On the way he stopped the rickshaw in front of a <i>kirana</i> store and shouted to a boy at the counter, “Raju, please deliver two cans of water to my home.” He paused and thought for a moment and then almost shouted back immediately, “Forget it, I will take it myself in the evening.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Hurry,” he goaded the rickshawalla.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">He made it in time. There was still two minutes before the metro reached the station. Ravi began to run through his check list again. It was almost after three weeks that he was visiting office and he wanted to be sure that everything was in place. He was in midst of his thoughts when the train entered the station.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">He took a corner seat, once inside. He liked the corner seat. Sometimes he could catch a wink or two leaning against the fibre glass. Today, he began to run through his check list again.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Mr. Gupta’s file,” he thought. He opened his bag and shuffled through the content. After a while he seemed satisfied. Two stations had passed; two more to go before he changed trains at Rajiv Chowk. Of the entire journey, he disliked this part the most. Rajiv Chowk during rush hours was nothing less than a <i>Kumbh Mela</i>. Even the most careful could get lost. He himself was disgusted and lost on the first day of his break journey. Over these three years he still found it difficult. He sighed as the train came to a halt and he made way towards the yellow line to Gurgaon.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">He got a corner seat once again. “A lucky day,” he chuckled to himself. Once seated, he returned to his train of thoughts. He thought of his office colleagues and their reaction to his marriage. He was glad that none of them had attended his marriage though as a courtesy he had circulated an invitation a few days before leaving, fingers crossed that no one would want to attend the marriage in a far flung village of his state. Now that he was back they would ask him about his wife, his first night, tease him. He had seen all this happen with other colleagues never expecting that he would be subjected to the same situation some day. He could not talk much about Richa. He hardly knew her yet. Moreover, she would be nothing what he had thought he would have liked in his wife. Maybe, he could make it all up with imaginary stories about her. “That would not be right,” he heard himself saying almost simultaneously with the automated announcement system announcing that the next station is INA. Richa and he had visited INA market when they were at Delhi Haat. In fact it was also his first visit to the market in all these years in Delhi. They had bought some fruits from the market. He was appalled with the rates but had not expressed it to Richa. The same were available much cheaper in their local market.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Market,” he thought to himself, recalling some items that he had to shop on the way back. She had told him last night that there were some kitchen items required. For a moment he had thought, he could ask her to get it herself, but then refrained from doing so after revisiting the mental image he had made of her.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The Metro was passing through the Qutub Minar station. He glanced out of the window to catch a quick glimpse of the Minar. In all these years he had never been inside the premises. Maybe, the coming weekend he would visit it along with Richa. A lady came and occupied the seat next to him. He squeezed himself little more to the glass fixing his eyes to the floor, stealing glances occasionally at her feet. She wore a red paint on her toes. He tried to recollect what colour Richa was wearing in the wedding. He could not. “Does she wear nail paint at all?” he thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Ravi’s thoughts began to numb as the train kept moving one station to the other. He caught a few winks, before he heard the announcement that the next station was IFFCO chowk. He rustled himself casting a quick glance around. The girl with the red nail paint was gone. There was actually no one beside him. The train was much emptier when it stopped at IFFCO chowk. Ravi got down and made way for the exit. It was 9:20 am. He would reach office on time, as usual.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">IFFCO Tokio was huge building. An insurance company, the building housed over thousand employees. Ravi’s department was in the ninth floor. As the lift made its way up, he began a quick run through of his things to do at office. He was having a feeling he was forgetting something even as he came out of the lift and entered his office he could not figure out what. Lost in his thoughts he made way to his desk and was greeted by the peon.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Welcome Sir,” the peon saluted him with a broad smile on his face. Ravi smiled back.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Once at his desk, his colleagues started to throng around him one after the other. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Congrats, bhai”, “So how was it?”, “Where was the honey-moon?” questions and greetings came in from one and all. He smiled and replied to a few, accepting the greetings warmly. It would be only a short while before everything would settle down. And so it did - fifteen minutes after the initial euphoria, office was back to normal. Ravi sighed. He had already begun to get uncomfortable. After a breather, he began to pull out the files from his bag. He meticulously pulled out his stationary, the keys to his cabinet and then rummaged inside the bag to fish out his glasses. He was long sighted and needed them to read almost anything but to his horror he could not find the pair in his bag. Frantically, he pulled the bag open wide and peered in, but they were not there. He thought for a moment and then struck him what was missing in his check list - his glasses. It must be lying beside their bed where he had left the night before. He cursed himself. No glasses meant no paper work but that is not how his Boss would look at it. In a complete confused state he began to think of excuses. After a moment he thought that it was really not a big issue and he could honestly speak about it to his Boss. “That will be a good idea,” he said to himself and began to walk towards his boss’s cabin. He thought he heard someone calling his name. He turned around to see the peon walking towards him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Ravi Sir, Ravi Sir – Is your mobile not working?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“My mobile,” Ravi exclaimed, giving him a surprised look. Fearing that he had left the mobile too, he made a frantic check in his pant pockets. He was relieved to find it. It was on a silent mode and there were some six missed calls, the last being from his office itself a few minutes ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Arey Sir, the guard was calling you from the reception,” the peon went on. “Madam is waiting for you at the reception.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Madam?” Ravi blurted taking it as a bolt from the blue. “Who, madam?” he asked the peon.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Sir, your wife,” he replied with the same broad smile on his face.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPbBMuC1GHOzx4xsx81LBNLVTtiRELafvO1oijm_2czw1Tdl5GGsKcfYrxfYMiagkXoojiGutmwE6hQaePZkya-053WShjoydjcx2p5HPKLyd_x9ycD0AWUaS1ER4whcoXe4cx_ZKEbTs/s1600/glasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Ravi had already started to walk towards the reception. “Surely it cannot be,” he thought to himself, unsure, confused. “Richa cannot come so far by herself,” he had already started to walk in a faster pace towards the reception.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">At the reception he looked around. There were some sales agents with their clients but seated on the sofa, in a green salwar suit, it was Richa. She stood up and smiled on seeing him. He could not smile back. He was shocked beyond belief. She held out her hand with his glasses inside the case. “You had left it next to the bed and I knew you cannot read a word without it. So..” she trailed her words trying to register his dazed look and an even more dazed smile at her.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">He could not say it at that moment but he would do so, much later that he was in love with her and that he loved her pink nail paint. Much later he would also believe “<i>Offcer</i> beta is never wrong.”<o:p></o:p></span></div></div>Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-82042878521631305642012-01-23T01:06:00.002+05:302012-01-23T01:15:47.533+05:30Chronicle of a death foretold (and averted?)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtUfn7huqkKA_jASzTf0Cz4aHq-gn-tIhfVXvi4KCON2_YV1TbJLGJgGgD03KSd6cYPvZPoAj3kKYuX1_GNgKIPokiDOw2gX8p0u45G9ma_XE33UjpBEAcchyphenhyphengLRheuQdFHhFyLgYB1I8/s1600/chronicle+of+a+death+foretold.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtUfn7huqkKA_jASzTf0Cz4aHq-gn-tIhfVXvi4KCON2_YV1TbJLGJgGgD03KSd6cYPvZPoAj3kKYuX1_GNgKIPokiDOw2gX8p0u45G9ma_XE33UjpBEAcchyphenhyphengLRheuQdFHhFyLgYB1I8/s400/chronicle+of+a+death+foretold.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">On the day <i>he thought</i> they were going to kill him, <i>Salman Rushdie</i>, got up at <i>some time</i> in the morning to wait for the <i>news-rooms in India to wake up</i>. He’d dreamed that he was <i>not</i> going <i>to a Literature festival in Jaipur, where he was much in demand,</i> and for an instant he was happy in his dream, but when he awoke he felt completely spattered with bird <i>(read – tweet)</i> shit.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Hope Marquez forgives me for borrowing these opening lines (and more so for tweaking them) from one of his classics – <i>Chronicle of a death foretold</i>. But, with all the recent focus (and growing) on Salman Rushdie, I could not help draw a parallel between Marquez’s protagonist in the novel, Santiago Nassar and him. Rushdie, if not in any other way, certainly is a perfect alter ego of Nassar in being a victim of a collective social consciousness. What more, just like everyone in the town knew that Santiago is going to be murdered, each of the esteemed guest and writers in Jaipur Literary Festival knew that the storm was coming moment Rushdie was announced as one of the speakers. For a moment this also seemed like a great politically correct ploy to generate more eye balls for the event. (Is it?) Having said so, when I look at the course of event, from the announcement of the organisers, the immediate uproar, the debates (between the intellectuals/the heathens – almost similar), Rushdie’s regret of absence to the organised sometimes honest and mostly fame piggy-backing support for him and his <i>book-that-shalth-not-be-named</i>, (see footnotes if you have to </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings;">J</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">) the whole episode seemed to be a chronicle of events foretold with the name Rushdie associated in India – the ‘secular-social-democratic’ state. So, why was the episode not avoided at all by the organisers? Was there an expectation that in a country where religious and minority politics are evergreen agendas will suddenly become tolerant to an issue that was raised 24 years ago? Not if you ask me and not in another 24 years because it is a collective will of the people that refuses to change.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The Vicario brothers never wanted to kill Santiago. They wanted someone to stop them and it is why they pronounced their intention loud. Santiago was murdered by the collective will of the people who considered him guilty on the word of Angela Vicario – the woman who he allegedly ‘perpetuated’. The Fatwa against Rushdie by Iran’s Ayatollah Khomeini was echoed in unison by many Muslim countries and nearer home by the hardliner Muslim bodies – but that was 1988. Over the years Iran has softened their stand on Rushdie but in India politics remain the same, perhaps even more dispersed and hence the chances of the author making a visit are even lesser. Yet, the esteemed organisers overlook this socio-political development of the country– so it was in the calling that this event makes news.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">News it did make – in as well as out of the event allowing everyone and anyone who knew (or did not) anything about the author, Indian democracy and politics to make a statement or an argument, so much so that it also popped in after dinner conversations. If I were Rushdie, I would be careful, because this is what Santiago Nassar did not read into as the sign of his impending death. When people start making opinions based on a collective debate, the outcome could be fatal. There were only a select few who spoke for Nassar, most of others willed his death and so chose to be impotent spectators to the murder. The literary fraternity’s support for Rushdie is the select few and their voices cannot save the author from the slingshots of the bigger mass who in their impotency to such situations only can become willing participants to the attack. In this whole episode some have chosen to blame the government. (Chuckle) That is so easy – makes me feel that I could wake up tomorrow with malaria and blame that the government did not kill the mosquitoes. Seriously, this is lame because not all the security in the world can protect a man whose fate has been foretold by a socio-political history. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I do not suggest that Rushdie should be in hiding or that he should not come to India at all (for God’s sake he does not even need a Visa) but if he chooses to do so then he has to embrace the fate that he has sealed with his book and take a stand. Triggering a debate will only oil the rusty lamp. And if there should be a debate then it should not be whether Rushdie should come to India or not, rather it should be if the issue really affects the lives of the thirteen percent Muslim population in India. The ‘few-good-men-and-women’ who support the author will either wise continue to do so across the mediums. His coming to India or not really should not make the big difference. The real need which this event has actually catalysed is – Can we as Indian’s discard a religious socio-political history and come off as a truly democratic state, where art and its form are not licensed by petty sentiments? Not, if we do not begin to address this in our own social framework and practice democracy of thoughts towards religion and community. Till then we will continue to have these periodic debates that will die almost as soon as a four day festival comes to an end. (Or am I wrong?)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Note: I have only read the following of Rushdie – Haroun and the sea of stories, Midnight’s Children, The Moor’s Last Sigh, Shalimar the Clown, East, West, Fury and hence may have a limited outlook to the debate that all of us are so engrossed in. I could not get hold of the Satanic Verses yet, but I believe someone from JLF might just have smuggled a copy. Pity if after all this, someone has not managed to.</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">J</span></div>Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-25509049400432924602012-01-22T03:12:00.002+05:302012-01-22T03:17:18.499+05:30Conquering fear in the time of love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-YbLdDIqOjRV1jg1LtHX3piYyNVG4UPFBiOmJ9_qkZcQWNS3TGvIZoYRLSTwatl_JAKnGLk9z-ub5jNdFd6Ci9kfzbnfmeNS4weoSdU6w6s6lYNJvNI-AAoyXjM6Grg0bnpzRCVN4qjQ/s1600/ConqueringFear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-YbLdDIqOjRV1jg1LtHX3piYyNVG4UPFBiOmJ9_qkZcQWNS3TGvIZoYRLSTwatl_JAKnGLk9z-ub5jNdFd6Ci9kfzbnfmeNS4weoSdU6w6s6lYNJvNI-AAoyXjM6Grg0bnpzRCVN4qjQ/s320/ConqueringFear.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Fear springs at the oddest hour and place. The least one would expect is it to be associated with love, yet it goes hand in hand with the latter. If one is or was in love then fear is an association they cannot deny. Love conditions the mind to create an illusory world of expectations, which then becomes the <i>raison-d’etre</i> of love itself; losing it would be losing love in all, being the belief. Now, not that the axiom <i>unconditional love</i> is redundant for such a proposition but that, such a thought hinges on the hypothesis – <i>Nothing is unconditional and love is not an exception</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In the Gita, Lord Krishna makes a reference to <i>maya</i> in Chapter VII, Verse fourteen. He tells Arjun,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“<i>Hard it is<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">To pierce that veil divine of various shows<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Which hideth Me; yet they who worship Me<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Pierce it and pass beyond.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The world is much fascinated by the reference to Maya or a state of illusion, because it is seen as a matrix designed to keep one rooted to the very fragment of being a regular human being. So, to be emotive is to being human, the regular kinds which breathe, live and walk among us - our fellow members of the matrix with no present consciousness to leave the mesh either. Being in or out of love is therefore just another state where we will be subjected to the myriad of emotions binding or separating us from another. Of them all, it is fear that is the most unavoidable. One cannot do with or without it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As an emotion fear will not willingly be expressed. It is not an emotion credited with the state of being a social being. So, even worse it will lurk inside and metamorphose into more devious emotions. Take an example – A person in love will never willing express if he/she fears that they may lose the one they love. It is a thought unpronounced, lurking inside and making stealthy appearances in the form of doubt, envy, rage and even hatred. Contrary to popular sentiments and belief that love begets such allied emotions it is actually the suppression of fear that stems them. It will be therefore much easier if one expresses the relevant fear rather than letting it be a dormant resident.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It is ok to fear. Our religious mythologies are full of stories of even the Gods expressing fear. In the Christian story, Jesus is supposed to have expressed and conquered fear at the eleventh hour before the day He was crucified. It is only by the expression of fear that one can learn to conquer it and move towards a more unconditional state of love. Expressing the fear that seeds and grow inside your head will allow one to be more forthcoming with the other person. If the fear is of losing the person one loves then one should express it. It immediately arrests the unrest inside the head and paves way for a solution in coming to terms with the fear. In love we keep mulling over such a thought, letting it reside and grow slowly till the time it becomes too overbearing and we pronounce it out in any possible thoughtless way. The condition is worse when one is out of love because then the fear, which has unfortunately manifested itself as true, becomes a physical reality that one may make the mistake (and they do, all the time) of referring to as a recurrent example, jeopardising any chance of being in love again, at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Having stated the condition what will be the easy way to conquer fear when in love? The answer is simple and I repeat it again – by admittance. It will not steal away a gallantry award or make you less human. In fact it will make you more so and also (perhaps) becomes one of the catalysts to transcend you to a better state of ‘unconditional love.’ In my own condition, I admit there are many fears lurking inside me but of them all, the fear of being out of love of the one I love is certainly not a case. I have always pronounced it being an expressive person that I am.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div>Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-13914876309363268942012-01-18T00:53:00.006+05:302012-01-18T01:25:42.873+05:30Getting Dirty<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj23HMMQk4EoA4OYYp_1VUuMuJ2HoljhMg_LBzxSuop4fy-2kZ0A3NZLWd-zMDA4TvvLPHicXr_HOrjSidw3B0uqdhpTdmHz_Pd6FB3rHOfb1o96_6sfvxmK3Zx7MOoY7SPOhPuSy3nEfY/s1600/dirty-picture-poster-movie.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj23HMMQk4EoA4OYYp_1VUuMuJ2HoljhMg_LBzxSuop4fy-2kZ0A3NZLWd-zMDA4TvvLPHicXr_HOrjSidw3B0uqdhpTdmHz_Pd6FB3rHOfb1o96_6sfvxmK3Zx7MOoY7SPOhPuSy3nEfY/s200/dirty-picture-poster-movie.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5698686062307360146" /></a><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align: left;margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; text-align: justify; ">In one of the introductory scenes of </span><b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; text-align: justify; "><i>The Dirty Picture</i></b><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; text-align: justify; ">, Vidya Balan in her role as Reshma a.ka. Silk, says to Emran Hashmi playing Abraham, a reticent </span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; text-align: justify; ">I-hate-Silk</i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; text-align: justify; "> director “</span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; text-align: justify; ">Filmein sirf teen cheezon ke wajeh se chalti hai. Entertainment, entertainment, entertainment. Aur main entertainment hoon.</i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; text-align: justify; ">” If the dialogue was not a punch enough, the poise with which Vidya delivers it, is a </span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; text-align: justify; ">coup-de-grace</i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; text-align: justify; "> for the audience. The wink, which I have always felt, no actor had done enough justice to post Madhuri Dixit gets a fresh patronage under Vidya. Throughout the movie Vidya as Silk would enthral the viewers with this signature gesture post delivery of any key dialogue. The wink imparts a new meaning to the dialogues, almost as if it never meant what it was supposed to mean; more often establishing Silk’s symbolic pun at her two faced fans, friends or foes.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; line-height: normal; "><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; ">In Ishqiya, if a feisty Vidya was a revelation, in this movie, she goes on to establish herself as an unparalleled actor beyond the league of any of her contemporaries. And how - not just by choosing a role that already had character written all over it, not by deciding to get into the skin of the character through a methodist school of acting - putting on weight, smoking or wearing what the character was needed to, but the real achievement lay in the ability to confidently carry the role of a sultry southern seductress who got a raw deal from the industry that created her, adulated her and then let her slip into an oblivion death, ironically only to reprise her much later in this story. Milan Luthria’s choice of subject is a winner and there are no second thoughts about it. What would have been a pity is if this fine script, camera work and cinematography had met incompetent acting - the movie would have met doomsday instantaneously. The real winner therefore is the casting director followed by the actors themselves. Each role have had a glove like fit in its respective actors. Naseruddin Shah as the never ageing, womanising, super-star who has no qualms of ‘tuning’ with every co-actress during the night and then avoiding them with equal nonchalance in the day, does what he does best - act. It is a treat that we are present in an era to see fine actors like Shah present their craft over and over again tirelessly. Bravo.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; ">Tushar Kapoor plays the second fiddle brother to the super star, a role he must have by now gained an excellence over considering the number of such roles he so convincingly plays. I have always argued that he is a fine actor, if only he knew to select his roles. As </span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; ">Ramakant</i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; ">, Tushar does not disappoint - he is the weakling who despite all his good intentions for Silk can never muster the courage to side step society and wed her.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; ">The other male lead - Emran Hashmi is an actor who has really come of age from the only kiss-and-kiss days. One could not miss his stellar performance in </span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; ">Once upon a time in Mumbai</i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; "> (again a Milan Luthria movie). And once again in this movie he does poetic justice to the role of Abraham, Silk’s arch detractor from the beginning and yet ironically perhaps the only one who empathised in the true sense with her predicament. As a character of a director who lives in the arrogance of his film making abilities not believing that cheap ‘sex’ (read – Silk) can actually ever sell movies Emran is more than convincing. The bitter sweet irony is that by the end of it all when Abraham finally meets a commercial success he admits that movies sell only because of three things - ‘entertainment, entertainment and entertainment,’ thereby coming a full circle by quoting the woman he so loved to hate - Silk.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size:11.5pt;font-family:"Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:black;mso-fareast-language:EN-IN">The movie however unabashedly belongs to the character and actor- Silk and Vidya Balan respectively. I have mentioned earlier that the real winner is the casting director and the cherry in the pie of casting is Vidya Balan. It is not my biased interest in Vidya speaking in this section, but if you have watched the movie, you will agree that reprising the role of a character who moves from rags to riches to rags in her own terms, compromising with morality and satiating the hunger for success, she is utterly fantastic from the first to the last shot. A good director can only do as much as set the plot to a perspective but a good actor can take a perspective to new heights. Vidya does exactly this. She defines the role Silk in a quintessential manner leaving an indelible impression on the viewers. People have written about her ability to confidently feature a more than voluptuous character with ease. I shall regard that second to her ability to impart a unique trademark to the character, which will remain with you as a viewer long after you have come out of the cinema halls. Hence, I began talking about the wink. The manner how Vidya delivers it, almost makes me feel as if it’s aimed as a symbolic pun at her critics and detractors who may have written her off for not being the quintessential size zero, hour glass heroine. Oh - she is not all of that and I thank God for this. She is, well, she is ‘entertainment’ ;)<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size:11.5pt;font-family:"Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:black;mso-fareast-language:EN-IN">The Dirty Picture certainly qualifies as one of the hundred-movies-to-watch-before-you-die. Don’t Miss it.</span><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-fareast-language:EN-IN"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; text-align: justify; "><o:p> </o:p></p><p></p></div>Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-36304351684788647042012-01-01T23:03:00.004+05:302012-01-01T23:17:42.202+05:30The Jalebi Theory<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDwBMkJxA5wYRV3VZYXm7aFs-z_wcbWW2OKCipJDzwk8jLFUh-RYhCE3y1uLtrdqLn0APe4CYTffN5id0O0WCKON644EndP4DgBK75yaN6NC4BDGylXtQ921FWOTSCdJUmbS6wUtQ7bfA/s1600/jalebi.jpg"><img style="text-align: justify;float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDwBMkJxA5wYRV3VZYXm7aFs-z_wcbWW2OKCipJDzwk8jLFUh-RYhCE3y1uLtrdqLn0APe4CYTffN5id0O0WCKON644EndP4DgBK75yaN6NC4BDGylXtQ921FWOTSCdJUmbS6wUtQ7bfA/s200/jalebi.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692718660168220418" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><b id="internal-source-marker_0.28751064208336174"><p dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><span style="font-size: 15px; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Come winters and our capital’s streets and markets come alive with the aroma of delectable warm,oily, spicy (or sweet) snacks. And mind you, keeping in sync with the sentiment of the so-large ‘total vageetarian’ community, the ubiquitous and your nearby </span><span style="font-size: 15px; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: normal; font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Aggarawal</span><span style="font-size: 15px; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "> (both single and double ‘g,’clans) or </span><span style="font-size: 15px; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: normal; font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Nathu halwaiwala</span><span style="font-size: 15px; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">, will perforate the evening air with aromatic and definitely mouth watering dishes like the </span><span style="font-size: 15px; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: normal; font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Aloo Tikki</span><span style="font-size: 15px; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "> (No, Mashed Potato patty is not a close English cousin or synonym), </span><span style="font-size: 15px; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: normal; font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Samosas, Kachori, Moong-Dal-Halwa, Gajar-Ka-halwa, Paneer Tikka, Gulab Jamun</span><span style="font-size: 15px; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "> and a host of others. If in these evenings you loiter or pass around the market and not caring whether you have a flat six pack tummy or one of those half-globe ones, you cannot deny the temptation to have feasted on these delicacies once or every possible time. It’s just so in our </span><span style="font-size: 15px; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: normal; font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Delhism</span><span style="font-size: 15px; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "> to not deny these beauties from adorning our big mouths. Top all this with a plate of piping hot jalebis and you are set to feel like a king/queen. If you ask me, in my humble opinion, this sweet twisted dish (hardly actually, if you consider a fermented dough of flour with some essence a dish) is the queen (assuming it to be feminine) of all winter desserts or street snacks. Well, to my assumption's favour, the Jalebi is certainly royal in her appearance and not one of those all-round-or-fluid’ desserts. The saffron colour adds an edge to the royalty and finally there is always a struggle to get your self a plate of her. (Kind of makes it elitist) Besides, like a benevolent royal, the Jalebi, creates a joyous atmosphere for the people consuming it. Don’t believe me - Observe a group or even yourself when you bite into a piece. There is a sense of immense joy, almost as if all your problems have been taken care of as the deep fried and sweetened dough melts in your mouth and the sweet syrup rushes down the gullet ; then you bite into another and another, till the feeling infiltrates your senses like a drug. That is the royal Jalebi for you.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><span style="font-size: 15px; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><span style="font-size: 15px; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">If that was not enough, then one can feel her elitism when one tries to get an audience with her. Like suitors for a marriage, you are given numbers of when will she grace you. The attendant (the sales-boy) will nonchalantly scribble a number on your token slip and call it out almost as nonchalantly. No one messes with the high priestess and if you want her grace, then you weather the wait. In our friendly Agarwal store, I have not seen many refuse the number even though that would sometimes mean an hour long wait. In my own case I would not wait that long for a doctor, but Ms. Jalebi has her own charm and I succumb to it.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><span style="font-size: 15px; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><span style="font-size: 15px; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">In the numerous plates of Jalebi I have consumed all this long, there was this epiphany today. This simple Indian dessert in many ways is also a philosophy of life itself. No, seriously. The ingredients, the shape, the cooking process and then finally tills its consumed, the Jalebi is life incarnate and if you are connoisseur of the dessert as much as I am , then you will agree. Let me elucidate.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><span style="font-size: 15px; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><span style="font-size: 15px; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Fine wheat flour mixed with butter milk is fermented as the dough for jalebi. Wheat flour is life, butter milk the experience of life and the fermentation is time. (This is not heavy, trust me) One can add saffron and essence to this batter, just as life has its share of emotions, good friends and other elements which ferment along with it. Now, after an overnight of fermentation (not excessive) comes the real cooking. The batter is placed in small quantities inside a muslin pouch which has a small hole. The cook will then artistically make concentric circles of the batter dropping out of the hole into heated oil, where its fried. The boiling oil if you consider can be the trials and tribulations that one’s life is fried in. The shape of the Jalebi is how one’s life is - never a straight line but layers of concentric circles, sometime touching each other and sometimes much dispersed. One can never escape this part regardless of who you are. This is the precedence to the best part, yet to begin. Only after the Jalebi is fried just enough to turn golden brown, that its immersed in a syrup of sugar for a short while, though long enough for it to absorb the sweetness before its served piping on your plate. The same way, life will fry us only enough and give us an opportunity to be dipped in the sweet experiences, which in the long run will be all that matters. And one cannot claim that there are no sweet experiences in one’s life - that will be saying one did not live at all. Better still, look at this way that despite all the fermentation and frying, its the taste of the Jalebi that lingers in your mouth, the joy that it brings in consuming it. So, if one can treat life as an experience through which we can bring joy to others and remain as a sweet memory, one has just Jalebied oneself. Profound - Not exactly, but what the heck, it was a thought and I take the pride of coining this as the Jalebi theory - something I wish 2012 to live by. Next time you gorge on a Jalebi, do not think of the calories; think of it as a learning of life, a bodhta. If that is heavy duty, then just consume it for the sake that it sweetens your taste buds. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><span style="font-size: 15px; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><span style="font-size: 15px; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Wishing all you readers a Jalebi of time in 2012. Share this with all and spread the Jalebi theory. :) </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><span style="font-size: 15px; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Note: Photo courtesy - indianimages.com</span></p></b></div>Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-72052572163609137282011-12-30T00:58:00.002+05:302011-12-30T01:09:38.885+05:30The Rabbit Hole<span ><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwqNn_mebiqCL6PiENdINXvFhCgC9wEUCD6Z0_sDO-wxIBP2LrlQrXkMCgu1sLskGHi9m-7kuOUV-Zm7jnADPcsWgifYfLgVM78EFBSW8C8GyvhbiTWfiyDXQGBpjg7oJrlRhLI-XqI2U/s1600/writer-1.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwqNn_mebiqCL6PiENdINXvFhCgC9wEUCD6Z0_sDO-wxIBP2LrlQrXkMCgu1sLskGHi9m-7kuOUV-Zm7jnADPcsWgifYfLgVM78EFBSW8C8GyvhbiTWfiyDXQGBpjg7oJrlRhLI-XqI2U/s200/writer-1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5691634832299143346" /></a><br /></span><div><span id="internal-source-marker_0.10342529392801225" ><p dir="ltr" style="font-weight: bold; text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><b id="internal-source-marker_0.10342529392801225" style="text-align: left; "></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; display: inline !important; "><b id="internal-source-marker_0.10342529392801225" style="text-align: left; "><span style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">The year is 364 days old. Without wanting to sound very philosophical, come to think of it, even I am older by the same number of calendar days. It has been quiet a year - 2011. Like most of the years since I have started working, the days seem to have passed away quicker. Then again, I know this well, its not time that has picked up pace but my lifestyle. I do not know if this is a boon or a bane - an introspection left for my forties; no careless pondering on this for now.</span></b></p><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="font-weight: bold; text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><span style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">2011 was the Chinese year of the rabbit. (2010 was the year of tiger, ironically) Rabbits, for me have always been far from being a romantic, furry, timid animal. The earliest fictional imagery, I can recollect of a rabbit, is that of the Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland, always in a paucity of time, running late, incoherent yet wise. This perhaps is a perfect analogy for my ‘year of the rabbit’ -(read the mad hatter) Take a dive into a few thought provoking milestones of my journey into the rabbit hole this year.</span></p><span style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><p dir="ltr" style="font-weight: bold; text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><span style="text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Friends:</span><span style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "> This is has been a discovery this year. Well, isn’t this always in a year, you may wonder? Yes, it is, but live my life and age and you will understand why the impulse to write about this topic at the beginning. This year, I earned friends. In the past years I have made and lost friends, but have earned few. Earning friendship is a difficult and patient process. Every individual is different and the bond of friendship recognises this subtle thread that actually binds us together. The ‘rabbit year’ nourished such individuals in my life and I am grateful. It will be futile to talk about them, but if they choose to read (few even complain of my ‘exorbitantly expensive’ english) they well know who they are. My sincere wish that all of you get such friends in years to come and in case you all consider me one such, I will be much honoured and be willing to traverse the journey of life with you as far as possible. </span></p><span style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><p dir="ltr" style="font-weight: bold; text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><span style="text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Wife:</span><span style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "> Simmi and I are now a whole one year and nine months married. It has been a very fulfilling journey till now. Not that we did not or do not have our share of problems. We have had some bitter arguments and fights regarding the most trivial of issues. Yet, we are thankful that we did pick up those arguments and will perhaps continue to do so, because it helps cleanse the system of its unending list of daily frustrations of life, which we often tend to unleash on the easiest prey available to us - the one we love the most. In the course of our some very childish whims and arguments, I have come to realise that none but her would have ever tolerated such temperament of mine. She has over this period of togetherness, helped me to be myself, san pretensions and what more, loved me more for being so. I cannot be more grateful for that and maybe will smile next time we pick up a fight. The year also helped me realise her resoluteness and commitment to my family, when she decided to quit her job and be with my mom to take care of her. I was and still am amazed at her sacrifice, so just saying that ‘I am proud of her’ would be an understatement. Here is secret - Husbands/Men harbour an ambition of having model wife/girlfriends. If you ask me, the rabbit fulfilled my ambition this year.</span></p><span style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><p dir="ltr" style="font-weight: bold; text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><span style="text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Writing:</span><span style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "> This year, I re-discovered this passion. I always wanted to be a writer. It has been an undefeated passion for a long time since, I first wrote a verse in school, followed by some unlimited skits, short stories, essays and then came the years of the blank canvas. To write, I needed to read, to read I needed to discuss, debate, understand, observe and all this while the wheel was often missing some spoke or the other to complete a cycle. The year gifted me with a surreal mentor who completed the picture, dawning a new phase in me. With soulful mentor-ship, I also owe it to the social media revolution, which opened a new direct relationship between the writer and the reader. Factoring all these conditions the journey is well begun and I cross my fingers that I scurry to my destination steadily and not in a race with the tortoise.</span></p><span style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><p dir="ltr" style="font-weight: bold; text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><span style="text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Travel:</span><span style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "> I cannot claim to be a traveller, even though it is a passion. Or, lets put it this way I have not given into the real passion of being a traveller though there were some adventurous steps taken towards it. For the first time (quiet an achievement) I traveled abroad, albeit to only a neigbouring country - Sri Lanka. This was with friends and for cricket, so most of it gets censored in description. However, Lanka was fun - the highlight of the journey - I lost my camera on the first day. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="font-weight: bold; text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><span style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Closer home, there was this road trip to Amritsar, again with friends. Great experience and place - the highlight of the journey - I bought a high end point-and-shoot camera. Then there was an office trip to Naukuchiataal, my holiday with Simmi down south to Bangalore, Hoggenakal and Coorg. In between all this there were two annual trips to home at Shillong or Guwahati, where most of the time, I was either busy repairing or having something repaired among the other lists of things that a dutiful-twelve-day-a-year-visiting son has to fulfill. Home can never be a travel destination, if you wear my shoes, that is.</span></p><span style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><p dir="ltr" style="font-weight: bold; text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><span style="text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Cricket:</span><span style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "> How could I miss this. I lived through all possible superstitions watching the India-Sri Lanka World Cup final in my own living room. The rabbit had a mixed bag for the Indian kookaburras. Winning the world cup is definitely a high point for a long long time, but the England series had exorcised my feeling for Cricket completely. I am now a far less passionate follower of Indian cricket, but deep inside, the heart beats, still race faster, every time a match is positioned on the razor’s edge. Like today, I was cursing and cussing the Indian team all over twitter when the buggers conceded the first test to Australia. Did, I say I was ‘less passionate?’ </span></p><span style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><p dir="ltr" style="font-weight: bold; text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><span style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">I guess, this is too small a list of events to summarise my 364 days, but like the mad hatter, I too am running late for the bed. Few milestones like Sleep, Movies, Reading, Cooking remain and should find place duly but only after I finish doing what I want to do now. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="font-weight: bold; text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><span style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">So where did the rabbit hole lead me to? Think, did I not answer that already. ;) </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="font-weight: bold; text-align: justify; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt; "><span style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">You will see more of me this year but before that gear yourself for 2012 - to ‘train a dragon’. You need skill and faith. Wishing you all ample of it, Happy New Year.</span></p></span></div>Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-80034956731478112662011-12-09T21:16:00.005+05:302011-12-09T21:20:40.054+05:30Before Sunday<p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 14.95pt; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; "><strong style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; ">Author note</strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; ">: </span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; ">"</span><em style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; ">Of the writing exercises that I indulge in, one of my favourite is flash fiction. While most of you have read my poetry and encouraged me to explore the craft more, writing short (flash) fiction is another craft I am exploring. Writing fiction in less than a 1000 words is a difficult exercise, which I have come to realise over the first few attempts because as a writer, the first desire is to write everything and anything, in fear that one might miss out on details. However I have realised that we cannot undercut the role of you, the reader, who is intelligent and have the great ability to visualise. So, shorter sentences, simpler words and tighter plots are difficult and I have tried in what you will read below. There are lot of aspects that have gone in the writing of this story, one of which is staying awake when I should have been sleeping, but guess the fruit of creativity is more tempting than the curse it brings with it. Hope you all love the story and please do share your opinions. They help me to write better for you. Thanks again"</em></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 14.95pt; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><em style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; "><br /></em></span></p> <p style="margin:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:14.95pt;background:white"><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 14.95pt; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; "><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333">I knew it was Monday. I always knew Mondays. They are the busiest and somehow brighter, if you compare it to the lazy Sundays. I love Sunday and I have nothing against Monday either. For a four year old, week days really did not matter much anyway. Week days were important for the elders. They behaved differently on different days and over these young years I have almost come to map the patterns of the ones in my home.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:14.95pt;background:white"><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 14.95pt; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; "><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333">Tuesdays and Wednesdays were almost the same as Mondays. One of them would rouse early, almost sleep walking to the kitchen or the bathroom. The lights of the living room would be lit. In summers, the curtains would be pulled open and bright sun light would eagerly split through the tall windows, resting here and there, lazily changing shapes and positions during the day. Thursdays, the ritual would be almost the same with a slight delay, which I understood led to the louder than usual crescendo of shouting and screaming, doors closing loudly, frantic noises in the kitchen of pots and pans clattering almost as if someone was trying to do voodoo. In between this chaos, one of them would take out a moment to smile at me and speak briefly. I would try to converse, but I am a little slow and they were always so impatient between Mondays to Thursdays. Sometimes they would actually pick up a fight over the time lost over me on these days. I feel guilty and sullen when this happens but always seem to forget it the next day.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:14.95pt;background:white"><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 14.95pt; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; "><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333">Fridays would always arrive with a strange excitement cutting through the air. The best days are when one of them would play music even before the curtains would be pulled open. Over the next few hours, he would hum to the bathroom, dilly dally deliberately till she pushed him in, he struggling playfully. He would sometimes, pull her inside and I would hear her shouting, “No, Rahul, not now,” her protests and pitch oscillating between laughs and verbal struggles. Then it would get quieter, till a while after the lull (the music would be the loudest then) she would rush out of the door wrapped in a towel and he would keep calling out to her.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:14.95pt;background:white"><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 14.95pt; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; "><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333">“Suits you right,” she would shout back, giggling, humming the tune of the song.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:14.95pt;background:white"><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 14.95pt; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; "><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333">“Roshni, please, yaar,” he would keep shouting, his voice getting louder and impatient while she silently would wait outside the bathroom door, smiling to herself till he almost sounded desperate. She would then gently knock at the door and once slightly parted, she would walk inside, only to run out again giggling. A moment later he would follow, laughing and before you know, over the chase, which I also try and join, they would end up cuddling and hugging me. I feel very warm when they hug me and on Fridays, I always get the longer hugs than the usual.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:14.95pt;background:white"><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 14.95pt; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; "><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333">I loved Fridays, as long as they would not return home late. It was not the late part that upsets me. If they were late, it meant more screaming, shouting, doors banging, pots clattering at night.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:14.95pt;background:white"><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:14.95pt;background:white"><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 14.95pt; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; "><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333">“Go to hell,” I heard him once shout.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:14.95pt;background:white"><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 14.95pt; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; "><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333">“Fuck you,” she had once retorted “You had a nerve to behave like that in front of my friends”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:14.95pt;background:white"><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 14.95pt; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; "><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333">I could never understand these conversations which seem to have begun even before they enter the room and then continues to the bedroom followed by eerie silence. The silence would often extend to the afternoon of the Saturday. Then, some friends would visit in the evening and they would behave as if nothing happened. There would be music, laughter and I would again suddenly be the centre of distracted conversations. I would be cuddled, hugged, fed made to forget the evening of the day before once again. Sometimes I get mixed up with the patterns of Saturday evenings and Friday mornings, but you can’t blame me for this, can you?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:14.95pt;background:white"><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 14.95pt; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; "><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333">Sundays were lazy, very lazy. We would all sleep till late. In winters, sometimes, this would stretch to afternoons. I never complained (even though it meant lying on the bed) because this meant a lot of cuddling. I would slip between them and over half wake state they would take turns to talk to me, showering me with fond sweet nothings. If you ask me, I would love if time could freeze on Sunday mornings, but I could not compromise the visit to the park in the evening, the drive to the mall and the ice cream at India Gate. By the end of the day, everything would be sundry, lazy and beautiful, just like the setting sun they both loved to spend time watching, murmuring apologies and stealing kisses against the crimson sky. I loved Sunday evenings almost as much as Friday mornings.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 14.95pt; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; "><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333">But it was, Mondays I knew most. You cannot miss Mondays. They are the busiest and somehow even brightest, if you compare it to the lazy Sundays.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:14.95pt;background:white"><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 14.95pt; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; "><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333">“Honey, I am taking Mojo out for his walk,” he shouted.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:14.95pt;background:white"><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 14.95pt; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; "><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333">“Don’t be late,” she shouted back.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt;line-height:14.95pt;background:white"><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: 14.95pt; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; "><span style="font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#333333">“Here, Mojo,” he ushered towards me as I happily wagged my tail. The week had begun and there are six more days to go before Sunday.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-34670615968066287342011-12-01T10:37:00.001+05:302011-12-01T10:39:46.883+05:30Listen<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >the poet is dead.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Died a silent death</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >when</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >you and I were writing prose</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >by the shores of the windy sea.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >The sand,</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >picked on us</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >the poet,</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >by the rocks.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >We scribbled, drew paragraphs plenty</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >the poet etched,</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >one</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >word</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >at</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >a</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >time</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >II</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" > In the high tide,</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >we swam with the waves</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >hit the rocks</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >held on to them</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >when we were pulled away.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >The poet</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >swam in deep sea;</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >never came back for tea.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >III</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Father,</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >why does my castle not stay?</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Son,</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >its made of sand and clay.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Father</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >what does, this rock say</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Son, it says</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >One</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >word</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >at</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >a</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >time</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Life</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >does</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >not</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >always</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span" >rhyme.</span></p>Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-489130611247033812010-09-05T00:41:00.001+05:302010-09-05T00:45:46.370+05:30For Me...<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 16px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">adhigatya guroH GYAnaM chhAtrebhyo vitaranti ye</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> |</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">vidyA vAtsalya nidhayaH shikshakA mama daivataM</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> ||</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">For me,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">When the tortoise beat the hare,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">when the gulmohar tree bloomed on papyrus,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">when the single lines formed shapes,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">when letters formed words lesser known,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">when two and two added as four,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">when the ball made its way into the goal,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">when the smiles made way for the tears,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">For me, you were there!</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">For me,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">When the dress changed from grey to colours,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">when books made way for notes,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">when benches were counted from behind,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">when time was measured with a </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">P</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> or an </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">A,</span></span></em></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">when I grew and outgrew,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">when I stole minutes in seconds to write verse in prose,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">when i became a lower notation,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">For me, you were there!</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">For me,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">When i chose a system away from a system,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">when i spoke of what should have been, and not,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">when i carried unfulfilled dreams,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">when i found many you's in many me's,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">when i watered the forbidden desires,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">when i rose and fell, and fell,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">when darkness made way to light,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">For me, you were there!</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">In my poetry,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">In my soul,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">In me, you all were there;</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">in each form,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">same shape,</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">just a different octate, a different sestet!</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">For you, my own -</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Om Gurur Brahma Gurur Vishnuh </span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">|</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Gurur Devo Maheshawarah </span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">||</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Gurureva param brahma </span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">|</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Tasmai Shri Gurave Namah </span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">||</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">To Deuta (Dad), Maa, Bro Dsouza, Mr. Middlecourt, Mrs. Krishnakali, Sutapa ma'm, Krishnamurthy ma'm, Sunil Sir, Dr. Ratan, Rahul Sapra, Sumit Pillai, Namit, Shaheen Jehani, Himanshu Gautam, Arvind Joshi</span></span></p></span>Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-14976561963360668582010-08-08T00:07:00.008+05:302010-08-08T01:26:43.625+05:30The Poem - Generations old!There was a first<div>and they were his words.</div><div>The other listened</div><div>patiently, sometimes</div><div>slept with eyes wide open.</div><div>In between punctuations,</div><div>gargles of alcohol,</div><div>a few nature's calls</div><div>and some verses blank,</div><div>The other would be seated, </div><div>seats below,</div><div>a meter below the meter</div><div>An old saying ran in the village</div><div>"Distance from the first always safer"</div><div><br /></div><div>The first would recite,</div><div>pause;</div><div>The other would clap,</div><div>release a few audible excites.</div><div>Scratch his head,</div><div>Sometimes the groin,</div><div>Looks at the sun</div><div>when he came - was a red ball,</div><div>now - a bright ball,</div><div>when he will leave - in the sky a different ball.</div><div><br /></div><div>His father had done the same,</div><div>So had the father's father.</div><div>Generations of practice,</div><div>Taught the survival in the game.</div><div>His son -</div><div>young and naive.</div><div>In the distance squatted,</div><div>played five on five.</div><div>Bought along to observe,</div><div>In years will have to learn,</div><div>Earn,</div><div>the family's morsel of bread,</div><div>Safe keep the land,</div><div>and all other fears that they dread!</div><div><br /></div><div>The first would rise,</div><div>the other followed.</div><div>The first sighed,</div><div>the other sheepishly smiled.</div><div>The first burped,</div><div>the other gulped.</div><div>The first moved away,</div><div>Two hands on two men,</div><div>The alcohol must have been strong,</div><div>The other picks up his child,</div><div>Sleeping on the grass,</div><div>mud on his hide,</div><div>worms sleeping by his side.</div><div><br /></div><div>On the way back, his questions galore -</div><div>"Baba - what did you hear today?"</div><div>The other would cradle him closer</div><div>"Poetry, my son, everyday!"</div><div>"Was I there in it?"</div><div>another question,</div><div>another silence from the other.</div><div>Many pauses later,</div><div>"No, my son, not you nor grand pa or me was in it!"</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-27291810335015989512010-08-01T16:11:00.001+05:302010-08-01T16:15:59.815+05:30Patterns<p class="MsoNormal">I woke up next to her. The room was dark with faint streaks of street light sneaking past the curtains. Light always manages to surreptitiously make way into the dark corners. All it requires is a small crack, a gap, an inconsequential crevice or even a brief parting. As I sat on the edge of the bed, I deliberately parted the curtain to allow the smooth operator to sneak into the room willingly and sate it’s curiosity to explore dark corners. Dressed in yellow, drawing patterns of the window grill over my face in soft shadows, settling comfortably on the floor, a few of its rays carelessly lay on the bed next to me, flirting silently with my presence. I looked outside. The road that overlooked the window lay bare and my eyes could trace its unending horizon, adorned with numerous street lamps that seemed to coalesce into the dark sky as stars in the distant horizon. I shifted my gaze on the bed where she was lying, unaware, oblivious of the spectacle and my state of mind. The bed stead hugged her tracing the contours of her body. It seemed to be gazing back at me, teasing me at the proximity it seemed to be enjoying with her naked body. I let out a sigh and shifted my gaze back on the road and thought about the night, which was only a few hours old.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Our kisses were always very passionate. From gentle brushes to passionately crushing each other, our lips seemed to have a life of their own. For a few brief moment we would pause, the air echoing with our heavy breathing, look into each other’s eyes and then as if the wait has been itself too long, the lips would lock themselves again. Hands would prowl, pushing, pulling, and tugging at anything that would try and come between our skins. In between all this she would laugh when I bury myself on her neck, but that would be momentary. The bed would take the brunt of our wrestle; cotton, silk and sometimes satin crushed under our bodies. For those minutes everything seems to be secondary – time, the mobile phone ringing, the music, the candles that would never be lit and many other things that would be our concern when we would be two different individuals. Sometimes there would be questions in my mind but would be exorcised as quickly as they would conjure under the pulpit of the passion. I would laugh, sometimes smile and be in a state of stupor; she would winch, bite her lips, close her eyes, clench her fists, claw my back and seconds later everything would come to an abrupt end, the room would be filled with an eerie silence, sometimes punctured by hoarse whispers of her “love you.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was no different today. I kept lying on the bed, knowing what would come next. She crawled herself to my bare chest, kissed it and caressed the hair on it, she so much loved. I ran my hands through her tresses, carefully separating a few strands falling over her eyes. I wanted to see her eyes but like always her face would be buried inside me. I pulled myself back a little allowing her more room to rest her head on. My ears were slowly registering the various sounds around us now. Reality was near and I kept playing with her hair, hoping feverishly that she would fall asleep and silence would be the last conversation before we woke up again. For a long while she lay still and I strained my neck a little to see if she had slept. And then she spoke, her voice feeble but seemed to echo in my ears – “You took her name again today. You loved her a lot, na?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I knew the question; I have heard it many times in the last few months. The past always caught up with me. “Perhaps, I can out run it someday,” I thought to myself as I looked out of the window. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I could still see the road and the lights plastered unto the canvas. Nothing seemed to have changed from when I woke up till now. Time, Yes, time has passed but nothing else has changed. The light was still searching for other crevices and every time it has managed to find a presence in my room through the curtains. I looked at her on the bed. I made way back on the bed cuddling closer to her. The curtains – I left them open. I can’t fight the light anyway.</p>Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-9724894511017950032010-07-25T22:34:00.005+05:302010-07-25T23:00:47.475+05:30BrokenI broke down today<div>Over the thread of joy that lay barren</div><div>On my war struck heart's ground</div><div>Tears dried up inside</div><div>There were so many things to hide</div><div>Some mountains built of mole hills</div><div>Some rivers of rain drops</div><div>Some flowers strewn in between rides</div><div>to nowhere but the path inside</div><div>All along I knew - 'This is just a dream'</div><div>So was She</div><div>many years ago</div><div>When she walked away from my arms to another</div><div>And life had never been the same</div><div>Till I found my thread of joy</div><div>Over one drunk state of life</div><div>I hollered</div><div>The unsaid was heard</div><div>That was it</div><div>The dream began</div><div>And amongst all the nothingness</div><div>Little did I know</div><div>I had grown young</div><div>and the hardened heart tender</div><div>Unconditional</div><div>Unperturbed</div><div>but it was not to be</div><div>Every dream wakes to reality</div><div>I woke up a</div><div>morning with the essence of the thread of joy</div><div>Breaking to pieces</div><div>And I collect the shards of memories</div><div>Not weaker</div><div>but stronger</div><div>Because I have a promise to keep</div><div>To be where I have been left</div><div>with the same smile</div><div>the same spirit</div><div>the same heart</div><div>Tender</div><div>Young</div><div>Never ageing in the day or dark!</div><div><br /></div><div>The first draft came from the heart... I will not say anything more. I have no punctuations left...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-58171259871627986682010-07-20T18:58:00.002+05:302010-07-20T19:03:12.421+05:30Today anger overtook love,<div>Temperament assaulted patience,<br /><div>Love stood where it was.</div><div>It does not know to fight back,</div><div>So it decided to wait,</div><div>Where it stood!</div><div>Anger is volatile,</div><div>Love eternal.</div><div>So it stood under the tree</div><div>Waiting!</div><div><br /></div><div>:) Sigh!!! I guess I have grown with time!!!</div><div><br /></div></div>Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-26074284057437689102010-07-12T14:40:00.001+05:302010-07-12T14:41:44.797+05:30An Absent Presence!<p class="MsoNormal">In a moment fraught with your lingering presence</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I miss the absence</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Time would never be the same</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But, yet it moves,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Dragging the moments,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">With the pace,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I cannot keep up with.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So I wait under your shadow,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Waiting for everything to stand still.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Watch time pass by,</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Waiting for the unheard emotion of the heart,</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>To pronounce the unpronounced,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">To see the unseen!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">All for a moment fraught with your presence,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Where I can feel the absence,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Of everything else but you!</p>Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-70014357471055274682010-06-21T23:36:00.004+05:302010-06-22T02:26:45.158+05:30Birth<span style="font-size:85%;">I had written this a long time back - the good old way on paper. This was the time when I was reading a lot on the stream of consciousness technique in literature, popularised by Henry James and the other favourite of mine, Virginia Woolfe. In college we were being taught Woolfe's Mrs. Dalloway and every page of the book was an experience I can still relish. Some of my friends said that I was literally seduced by her, and I would not disagree. I still am and never fail to miss on reading something about or by her whenever possible. Those bohemian college days were fun and amidst the stupor of literary liquor, the fertile mind would conceive something or the other. This story was a result of one such night. Today, I am re-writing it and hope to carry the original flavour but the excitement of doing so is much more than what the result would be.<br /></span><em><br /></em>She nervously read her appointment receipt. This was the tenth time that she was doing so and perhaps would do so a few more times before the clock reads 3.30 pm.<br /><em><br />"3,30 pm, " she thought to herself, "is the appointment and she could not be late." She was known for procrastinating. Everything could wait for her. Life was fun and so was she. “There will always be a time for everything," she would announce loud to anyone who tried to talk to her about it. Sometime she would laugh it off. Her laugh was mesmerising. It never failed to disarm her detractors and like always leave many men in the room smiling to themselves, secretly wishing her in their lives.<br /><br /></em>The waiting room had two other ladies. She tried not to meet their eyes but would secretly steal a look at them. Both of them carried a happy anticipation on their face. This would make her more nervous and, she would continue to read the appointment receipt and steal glances at the hands of the big round clock that was hung on the wall. It seemed very still and discomforted her. She would shift her gaze occasionally at the water dispenser in the hallway and watch the bubbles rise up in the canister every time someone would fetch out a glass of water.<br /><em><br />He looked around in the room for the bottle of water. She usually would leave it beside his bed knowing that it would be first thing he would reach out for in a half awake and half sleep state. Today, it was not there and finally after groping for a while, he lazily rose from the bed and looked at his watch - "3.30," it read.<br /><br /></em>"3.30," she looked at the clock on the wall and then looked at her wrist. She was not wearing her watch today but that did not matter now. It was 3.30 and she was still waiting for her turn. She looked at her receipt again to reconfirm and then rose nervously trying to smoothen the crease of her dress. She loved dressing for any occasion but did not have time for the same today. Dress did not matter here, grit does. She walked towards the receptionist who was busy on the phone, deftly moving her fingers on the keyboard of the computer at the same time. She cleared her throat to announce her presence.<br /><em><br />"Please proceed," the receptionist told her. She let out a sigh of relief knowing that she was not late today. She did not need directions to the place. She was here earlier and quickly found herself the room. She read the board outside the door like the previous time - "Sonia Singh, Snr. Gynecologist". "Nothing changes," she thought, “nothing at all”. She knocked at the door.<br /><br /></em>He heard a knock at the door and rushed to open it. It was the colony guard asking for the monthly wage. He refused yet again – “Come next week.” He was anticipating her at the door and he would not want to waste time on anyone else. The room was stale with smoke but he was not bothered. He would sometimes move to the window and look out of it through the smudged panes. The street below with all the cars, cycles, rickshaws, thelas and people seemed a contrast of his room, which never bore a busy look. Lazy, maybe but busy never. She loved it that way and he smiled to himself thinking of how she would announce that even an alert sentry would fall asleep in the room.<br /><em><br /></em>She smiled at the doctor. This was the first time she did so. The doctor smiled back and suddenly she was not nervous anymore. She knew what she wanted to hear and she knew what to do. “So,” the doctor spoke raising her eyes from a series of report, “are you serious on your decision”<br /><em><br />“Yes, I am,” she spoke. She looked into the doctor’s eyes. The doctor smiled and asked to her lie down. “It will be a routine check up,” the doctor said, “don’t worry.” She was not worried, just a little amazed at the decision that had materialized in her head. She asked for a glass of water.<br /><br />He hated the morning after dehydrated feeling. “I must stop drinking so much,” he thought to himself. He has been promising the same thing from a long time -sometimes to her and sometimes to himself. Each time he fails miserably, the same way he has been treated in his pursuit for a new job. Jobless, married and living on his wife’s income was not easy. He hated to think himself as a chauvinist but the ‘man’ in him roared at times and he succumbed to the lure of liquor so easily then. He vaguely remembered that she wanted to tell him something yesterday. “What was it?” he thought. “Did she tell me where she will be going today?” he pondered<br /><br /></em>She had not told him about her visit. “He must be anxious,” she thought. She was out on the streets. The din of the traffic was deafening. “Careful,” she told herself, to calm the excitement to reach home. She passed by a McDonalds and quickly stole a glance at her reflection on the window. She looked like one of the ladies in the room earlier – the glow of anticipation not hidden on her face anymore. She smiled and moved towards the crossing and patiently waited for the traffic signal to turn red.<br /><em><br />She still was thinking of her decision at the signal. “This is it.” She told herself continuously, “There is no turning back now.” She took a deep breath and looked at the traffic signal and then at the other side of the road. There was only one woman waiting to cross over. “She looks so happy and bright,” she thought to herself, looking at the woman. The traffic signal turned red and the vehicles came to a screeching halt.<br /><br /></em>He could see the streets from the window and he kept waiting beside it looking at the traffic signals change colours. “She should be home soon,” he thought and looked at the clock on the table. “4.40,” it read.<br /><em><br />“4.40,” he spoke aloud, nervously looking at the table searching for a note or anything that would tell him where she was. He cursed his addiction yet again and lit a cigarette when he heard the knock on the door.<br /><br /></em>“This is it,” he thought as he rushed to open the door.<br /><em><br />“This is it,” she thought as she waited for the door to open.<br /><br /></em>He gave a knowing smile and ushered her in. The time read 4.45 and everything seemed to stand still when she spoke. He heard her patiently and slowly moved towards her. She kept looking at his eyes.<br /><em><br />He thought for a while and then stole his eyes away from her and moved to the window, to blow out the smoke. The window made a strange noise when he yanked it open. Her eyes kept following him waiting for him to break the pregnant pause that had suddenly become more eerie than the room itself.<br /><br /></em>He smiled and held her tight in his arms. He was numb with a feeling that only he could understand.<br />She held him and felt the warmth in his shoulders, “Things would be ok,” she knew it.<br />He loosened her slightly and looked into her eyes while still holding her fragilely in his arms. The gaze was long drawn and she went limp when his breath got closer and spontaneously her eyes closed and lips parted. She could feel him get closer to her lips and was surprised when he passed by and cleared his throat to speak to her ears<br /><em><br />“Abort it,” he spoke.<br />She stood transfixed for the moment, listless and stunned. Her mind re-winded to the clinic, to the knock at the doctor’s door, to the decision, to the exit she had made, to the street, to the crossing, to the woman who stood on the other side of the crossing – “How happy she looked,” she thought before slumping on the floor.<br /><br /></em>“So,” she spoke as she curled naked to the other side and he held her from behind – “Boy or Girl?”<br />“Girl,” he answered, nuzzling his head deeper into her nape and his hands tighter into her stomach.<br /><em><br /></em><br /><em></em>Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-2916953962816988612009-09-17T13:24:00.002+05:302009-09-17T13:26:35.371+05:30A borrowed WishI read it... I loved it... Sorry but I have borrowed it....<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">A wish like the morning dew upon the cold palm</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Like the effervescent laugh on the lips of a three-year old</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Like the silence between the naked lovers sitting by the window</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Like the cluster of stars hovering above the crowded head</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Like the eyes that glisten with hunger and shamelessness,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Like the madness of a vagabond venturing into the unknown, knowingly</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Like the windy night removing the peels of sorrow… slowly</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Like You and I, torn and apart, forming a coherent whole</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Like the wish itself, born in the mind, nursed in the heart and never told</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Like love, surpassing the boundaries of the known, traversing the limitless possibilities with that one wish…</span><br /><br />One could not say this better.... Sigh!!!Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-71886622930488623432009-08-16T02:30:00.000+05:302009-08-16T02:32:07.943+05:30Of the Head and the HeartBefore these first letters and words made into this space, I have written and keyed the back space key on my keyboard more than once. The indecisiveness was again between writing prose or verse and I know where this is coming from. I am in midst of a waging battle between the head and heart. This is not a new feeling but this time the sentiments are overpowering and it is exhausting me. The feeling is similar to the that of an athlete, running the last mile, the finishing line in site. But, I know that I am no athlete this time. I am just the road on which the race is being run.<br />The body, I realise, is strangely only a shell to the two imperialists-the head and the heart. It responds to commands that they order. When there is a truce between them the body is the happiest of all. Lest the imperialists decide to conquer each other, may hem break loose and so is my state right now.<br />So what is the bone of contention this time? If you ask me, I will not be able to define it just now, because as much the heart wants to disclose, the head wants to hide. Thus, my expressions are incoherent and yet in midst of it there may be a meaning, an elixir to calm the furnace that burns inside me, taking away pieces of me in each blow that one strikes to another. I write tonight, not because, I want to express, but because I wish to find myself in these words, lest all is wiped out in this war. Tonight, I write for myself.<br />There are photographs hung up on the wall that stare back at me and then there are photographs in my head (or is it the heart?) that stare into me. Each one has its own space and each one have stories with it. The stories are sometime simple tales and sometime part of an epic that I feel I live in. Our lives indeed are no less than an epic. Each story has another associated with it. Each moment is fraught with heroism and malice, love and hatred, betrayal and loyalty. The list would be endless. What happens when all these stories demand an ending. It is then that battle becomes inevitable. My stories today demand an ending and the head and the heart have different scripts in mind.<br />If the bard said "To be or not to be" is an eternal question, his postulation was not far from the truth that mortal beings have to go through. Yes, I generalise my state with everyone because at this moment I would feel a bit more secure if I were to feel that the state that I am in, is not something that I am waging alone. I have realised that we do not fear driving a moment to its truth, we fear the consequence of it. Hence we hold back and let out exasperated sighs speaking of it all someday (if ever) over intoxicated states and the more enterprising yet cowardly lot like me, would express it subtly with words that other would find hard to understand.<br />I have feared driving many decisions to their moments of truth and tonight they all come out of the closet and stare at me. It is not they want me to act on it but my heart renders in pain seeing their state and revolts against the head who push them back inside the closet. Of all these, one such decision is what my heart would not allow to be shoved back into the closet. So the battle.<br />Fools, I say. In the battle that you both ensue, the moments and memories around the decision is getting ravaged and raped. Stop it, I say. Let me survive with those moments and memories because if they die, I die with them. Understand that it is the memories in the head that lead to the moments that reside in the heart. One cannot survive without the other. And the decision... Know this, as I did a moment ago when I heard it:<br /><br />Zarre Zarre Mein Usi Ka Noor Hai<br />Jhak Khud Mein Woh Na Tujhse Door Hai<br />Ishq Hai Usse To Sab Se Ishq Kar<br />Ishq Hai Usse, To Sab Se Ishq Kar<br />Is Ibadat Ka Yehi Dastoor Hai<br /><br />Amen.Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-73483943622874090512009-05-08T01:29:00.001+05:302009-05-08T01:31:09.158+05:30SilenceYou and I<br />have a silence that<br />speaks of us.<br />A silence that measures<br />our thoughts,<br />our memories,<br />in a single moment of a lull.<br /><br />You and I<br />have a silence that is<br />sometimes loud,<br />sometimes silent,<br />sometimes not at all.<br />Like a secret<br />known to you and me,<br />whispered to our ears<br />by our eyes.<br /><br />You and I<br />have a silence that<br />undresses the noise between us,<br />bares our naked soul,<br />revealing,<br />like the way it always was.<br /><br />You and I<br />live this silence,<br />long after the phone line is cut.<br />A Silence that speaks<br />Of all that remains<br />You in me<br />and I in you.Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-11113956256789512722009-04-01T13:26:00.001+05:302009-04-01T13:26:12.801+05:30Inert<div xmlns='http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml'><font face='georgia'>I have this very strange feeling since morning today. No matter how hard I am trying to define the feeling, I am just unable to do so. It is almost like as if I am been etherized, made inert. Every conversation that I am indulging in seems mindless and all that seems to be echoing in my mind is a drone of some thoughts, which I yet again have no idea of. If you ask me, it almost feels as if the whole universe has boiled down many questions on to me and I do not know which one to answer.<br/><br/>I am asking myself if this feeling actually erupted with the first chapter that I began to read of Milan Kundera's "The Unbearable Lightness of Being." The philosophy he propounds is interesting - <i><br/><br/>The heaviest of burdens is simultaneously an image of life's most intense fulfillment. The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become. Conversely, the absolute absence of a burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into new heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant. What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?</i><br/><br/>I understand this thought but I cannot relate it to my condition. Is it weight that burdens me or is it the mere absence of any that is managing to create these strange confabulations? My guess is that, it cannot be the absence of a burden. Rather, it is confluence of many 'weights' that is creating this condition in me. <br/><br/>Simmi and I will be distanced even further, now with me shifting to Dwarka. There is a piece of news regarding my professional growth that I have been waiting for since sometime and the anxiety of both seems to be the root cause of this inertness. Along with this and so many other thoughts that I seem to be effortlessly indulging myself in, this condition refuses to budge. Permit me to Sigh. It helps. Every pause helps, but only momentarily. Grrrrrrr!!! Oh so Prufrockian!!!<br/><br/><i>...And indeed there will be time<br/>For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,<br/>Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;<br/>There will be time, there will be time<br/>To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;<br/>There will be time to murder and create,<br/>And time for all the works and days of hands<br/>That lift and drop a question on your plate;<br/>Time for you and time for me.<br/>And time yet for a hundred indecisions,<br/>And for a hundred visions and revisions,<br/>Before the taking of a toast and tea.</i><br/></font><br/><br/><div class='zemanta-pixie'><img src='http://img.zemanta.com/pixy.gif?x-id=ece81735-33ee-8e11-84d8-24cd23af39f7' class='zemanta-pixie-img'/></div></div>Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-72272555844109718612009-03-31T15:25:00.002+05:302009-03-31T15:30:24.822+05:30Saints are Sinners Who don't give up!!!<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="gI"><b>Thu, Nov 6, 2008 at 11:55 AM</b>: </span></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">Simmi had this status on her gtalk and it swept me off my feet. When I first read it, I thought that she had picked this line as a random thought from Jhumpa Lahiri's "Unaccustomed Earth" which she has been reading for sometime now. I gave the line a thought and though it intrigued me, I failed to arrive at a concrete or even abstract meaning to the same. I requested her to explain it to me and from that moment on when she did so, I am in a complete awe of the statement. I will try my level best to rephrase the conversation that we have had online and later on phone to share my ecstacy and mental orgasm:<br /></span><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br />Me: Tell me na what it implies<br /><br />Simmi: Wait<br /><br />(after 2 minutes of innocuous prodding)<br /><br />Simmi: Saints are sinners, because they refuse to give up on their ideals...<br /><br />Me: ? (I was wondering if she had read anything Marxist recently)<br /><br />Simmi: Look, how do you define a sin is inconsequential. What matter is, that saints in their attempt to correct and do things right and in doing so they end up 'sinning' in expecting a result. Expectation is a want, in many ways a sin. The true form of duty should not hinge on expectation or result, but only on duty. So many saints in succumbing to expectations, become 'sinners'... (pause)<br /><br />Me: Go on... ( I was not convinced. If a person expects, then he cannot be a saint, is what I thought!! But I knew that she had more to this, than just that)<br /><br />Simmi: Saints also have a will to never give up... They will fight for a cause because they expect the change, which for all probability might be for the best of mankind,... but they fight because they expect a change and in doing so they succumb to it as a temptation. (I was sniffing a philosophy of Gita in it)... I shall discuss this with you further when we talk. Got to run now.<br /><br />Me: K... Hmmmm<br /><br />I was still thinking...<br /><br />We could never proceed with this conversation, but I bet there was more to this. My verdict - "I liked the conversation"<br /></span><br /><br /><div class="zemanta-pixie"><img src="http://img.zemanta.com/pixy.gif?x-id=4cc8c704-93ed-80fe-bf3e-4806e7de458e" class="zemanta-pixie-img" /></div></div>Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-78259531188580830092008-12-27T00:40:00.002+05:302008-12-27T00:52:28.282+05:30Midnight Verse!!!<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">Amidst a cloud of smoke,<br />The butt end of memories<br />Choke in my throat.<br />Coughs cease, my eyes gasp,<br />and the lungs need air.<br />I rush out (like always),<br />Leave the smoke behind<br />Carry the choke,<br />Adam's apple,<br />Eve's love.<br />The cycle is vicious.<br /><br />As the moon sets,<br />and dim stars spangle the sky<br />I light yet another.<br />Inhale the smoke,<br />A half intermittent cough,<br />The butt of memories still remain,<br />Addiction?<br />Nay, " Its Life, I tell myself"<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5037496475577783114.post-81055065859103408942008-12-11T11:46:00.005+05:302008-12-11T13:10:01.306+05:30Burn Fat Faster and Better!!!<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><span style="font-family:georgia;">The article below my friends is worth a read for the serious weight loss aspirants. I came across it in a site </span><span style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="http://www.mensxpert.com/">www.mensxpert.com</a> who in turn have ripped it off from <a href="http://www.divinecaroline.com/">Divine Caroline</a>. (Gee!!! Plagiarism.. But I prefer to keep a safe distance from it and so the due credits) The article is about the top myths that need to be burst in a weight loss regime and I so much agree with it. I have lived through some of the myths in my weight loss program and have realised its futility. Thus it will be worth while for you to understand these 11 myths and then avoid practicing it!!!!</span><br /><blockquote>" <span style="font-family:georgia;">Come on, you’ve heard them. Even people who don’t work out have heard most of them. I’m talking about statements like:<br /><br />· People who play sports like golf, baseball or basketball shouldn’t lift weights because it will make them slow and tight.<br />· The <span style="font-style: italic;">thingamajig</span> is the best exercise for giving you those washboard abs.<br />· You should lose the bulk of your weight before you start to weight train.<br />· I lift weights using high reps to shape and tone my muscles.<br />· Eating a diet high in fat will make me fat.<br /><br />It goes on and on. It just boggles my mind that I still hear and read this stuff and it’s almost 2010. As a matter of fact, I was in the gym last night going through a chest routine when I overheard a so-called personal trainer telling a woman that in order for her to get to see her abs she would have to change her routine. He continued to tell her she needed to perform at least 30 to 50 reps every set for four sets and use four different exercises for every body part. Thank God I didn’t hear what he had to say about diet and cardio, because I probably would’ve lost it right there. Instead, I kept my composure and very nicely introduced myself to the woman and told her in not so many words that he was so full of it, his eyes were brown, and that I would be glad to help her with any questions.<br /><br />Unfortunately, many personal trainers, local muscle-head know-it-alls, and of course the media, are the biggest perpetuators of training and nutritional myths. And what’s more unfortunate, this is where most people -- like you -- get their information.<br /><br />The hard part is that some myths have been around for so long they are accepted as gospel. My part is done. I’ve written this “book” that contains everything you need to know to positively change your body. You need to do your part and open your mind. Some of what you are about to learn goes against the grain, so to speak. The information you’re about to absorb is nothing like what will sell a ThighMaster®. I refuse to offer gimmicks or embellish to hook you in. I offer the truth, which sells itself because it works for the long haul.<br /><br />So here you are facing a fork in the road. Which direction are you going to go? The fact that you’re reading this tells me you are self-motivated. It tells me, after a lot of back and forth, you’ve made the decision to move in the right direction to change the way you look and feel.<br /><br />It’s imperative that if you’ve made the decision to become healthier and stronger, you need to forget everything you’ve heard about diet and exercise. I am asking for a clean slate. Forget about all the sensational fitness and nutritional theories you’ve heard over the years. Read the following as a major first step toward your goal.<br /><br /><b>Myth 1</b>:Training your abs using the right machines or exercises will give you the washboard abs you want.<br />Now, I’m only going to say this once. Ready? You can do abs until you’re blue in the face. I don’t care if you do 1,000 sit ups three times a day -- if you don’t get rid of the fat covering the abdominal wall you’re not going to see didly squat. There is no magical exercise or combination of exercises that will give you abs.<br /><br />Remember there is no such thing as spot reduction. This is so important I must repeat it. There is no such thing as spot reduction. How fast and where we lose our body fat is genetically programmed, and the only way to lose body fat is to eat correctly. Or you can have it sucked out, which I only recommend as a last resort.<br /><br /><br /><b>Myth 2</b>: You should lose weight before you begin weight training or you’ll just bulk up.<br />This is another one I’ve been hearing since my early days in the gym at the Lorain (Ohio) YMCA. That was 25 years ago. (WOW! Man, time flies.) Anyway, lifting weights is exactly what you want to do if you’re overweight. As a matter of fact, if you had to choose only one type of exercise, weight training would be it by a long shot. Some of you are asking, “What about cardio?”<br /><br />It’s muscle that drives the metabolism. The less muscle we have, the slower our metabolism and vice versa. The only way to preserve or build muscle, which is what you really want and need to stay strong and get lean, is through weight training.<br /><br /><br /><b>Myth 3</b>: The best way to lose fat is to do cardio.<br /><br />Screw cardio!<br /><br />Now don’t get me wrong, walking or jogging around the block or on a treadmill is better than nothing. But I’m not -- and you shouldn’t be -- concerned with what’s better than nothing. I personally am not concerned about being average. If you’re going to put the time in, use it wisely.<br /><br />Have you been to any one of the gyms across this country? What percentage of people who perform cardio are lean? How many people that you see performing cardio on a regular basis make gains, and better still, keep them?<br /><br />There are three things to keep in mind about cardio when trying to get leaner. One is that it doesn’t build muscle. Two, it doesn’t preserve muscle while losing weight. Both are extremely important if your goal is not only to get leaner, but to stay that way. As we lose weight the body does not discriminate where the weight comes from. We lose muscle along with fat, especially on a low calorie diet. And performing cardio accentuates this phenomenon.<br /><br />Lastly, unless you enjoy cardiovascular training, it’s just not worth the time. The work to benefit ratio is dismal to say the least. Unless you’re willing to bust your butt and perform 60 to 90 minutes of cardio a day, which will hinder your muscle building capacity, cardio is not worth it.<br /><br />If you do nothing but diet and cardio, you may lose some weight, but your results will be less than expected. Your appearance and overall shape will stay the same. If you have excess fat around your butt and narrow shoulders, your proportion will remain. This is not improvement to me, and if it is to you, you’re going down the wrong road.<br /><br />The best and only form of exercise for reshaping and improving your health is progressive weight training.<br /><br /><br /><b>Myth 4</b>: If you want to shape and tone your muscles you should do high reps.<br /><br />There are two myths contained in the statement above. Let’s take them on one at a time, shall we? It’s still a widespread common misconception that certain exercises are considered shaping exercises. One of the most common is the preacher curl. It was, and still is, widely accepted that preacher curls helped build the bottom half of the bicep. This was welcome news to those who have short bicep muscle bellies. Unfortunately, it is physiologically impossible to change the shape of any muscle on our bodies. If it were, don’t you think we all would be doing it? And if we were all doing it, wouldn’t our physiques look very similar?<br /><br />If you have small flat glute muscles when you start training, you’re going to have smaller, flatter glutes than most, 20 years of training later. If you have narrow triceps, they’re always going to be on the narrow side. If you have high, thin calf muscles, you are always going to have high calf muscles that are on the thin side. This not meant to discourage you but to encourage realistic goals. You can always add size and a more positive appearance. But getting your muscles to change shape is simply not going to happen.<br /><br />“I want to make my muscles look more tone so I’m doing more reps. I don’t want to be big, I just want to be more tone.” First of all, if a guy ever says that, he needs to be slapped and have his estrogen levels checked. A man who would say “I want to look more tone” is also taking a Pilate’s class with a guy named Bruce, has track lighting and wears eye liner. Just kidding. I know a Bruce who has track lighting and he’s as masculine as they come. Very simply, performing 12 reps instead of six to eight per set will have no noticeable effect on the amount of fat you burn.<br /><br />Secondly, and more importantly, the tonus of muscle has nothing to do with its appearance. One can appear more “cut,” more “shredded,” more “defined,” but it is impossible to appear more tone. Muscle tone is the amount of tension a muscle exerts at rest.<br /><br /><br /><b>Myth 5</b>: I’m not sore today so I must not have had a good workout yesterday.<br /><br />The fact that one is sore the days following a workout shows they probably had a good workout. However, not being sore the days following a workout has no correlation with whether or not you had a good workout. The factor you should be paying attention to is the intensity level. Were your sets done with 100 percent intensity, meaning, did you take your working sets to failure using proper form? Another factor is productivity. Did you make any gains? Did you increase in the amount of weight you used, or did you increase the number of reps with a particular weight? How you felt while training is another factor. Did you feel sluggish or did you feel energized and ready to push it? Post workout soreness is just one of several symptoms of a good workout.<br /><br />Don’t worry if you’re not sore. Pay attention to your intensity levels, productivity and how you feel. If any of these factors are lacking, you may need to change your routine. Chances are you’re over-training.<br /><br /><br /><b>Myth 6</b>: Eating a diet high in protein is unhealthy and will damage your kidneys and liver.<br /><br />Thank God this one isn’t quite as common as it once was, but it’s such a classic I had to include it.<br />There is not one study to support the myth above. I dare anyone to show one study that supports the myth that a diet high in protein will harm the liver, kidneys or is unhealthy in any way to a healthy individual. You will find, however, a mound of evidence supporting higher protein diets. Protein has a whole host of positive effects.<br /><br />Protein repairs and maintains everything in our bodies from hormones to muscles. Proteins are made up of building blocks called amino acids. There are eight essential amino acids. Essential means we have to ingest these for survival because our bodies cannot manufacture them. If your protein intake is low, your body will get the essential amino acids it needs from your own muscle tissue. This is a big reason why wacko vegetarians, especially vegans, have a much lower percentage of muscle, on average, than meat-and-fish-eating humans. The lack of quality protein also makes it harder for them to gain muscle in the gym. Not only are they not getting enough protein, they also lack in the quality of protein, unless they supplement with quality protein powders. Vegans are extremists and there is no hope. At least a vegetarian can get quality supplements from dairy products. Vegans must resort to eating garbage soy protein powders and tofu. To each his own.<br /><br />Now for all you thin-skinned readers: I’m talking about optimizing your body’s ability to get lean, healthy and more muscular. I’m not saying being a vegetarian will make you unhealthy. I’m saying it’s not the most advantageous way to go. Vegans are another story. This way of eating is unhealthy. Without supplements, a vegan could not survive. It’s impossible to ingest all the essential nutrients one needs through plant sources only. This lifestyle, flies in the face of science and physiology, and I will not condone it.<br /><br /><br /><b>Myth 7</b>: Eating more protein will make me fat.<br /><br />We are simply made to eat protein. Why anyone would consciously eat a diet low in protein is beyond me. Although, with so much misinformation out there I guess it’s understandable.<br /><br />However, not only do you need to consume protein, it needs to be high quality and in adequate amounts. I recommend one gram per pound of body weight. However, if you train with 100 percent intensity (which is how you should train), you need upwards of 1.5 grams per pound. At the very least you should consume a portion of protein with every meal. Don’t worry; eating more protein will not make you fat.<br /><br />Protein, in and of itself, has little to do with getting fat, and has nothing to do with being unhealthy. You see, a calorie is not a calorie. A calorie of a carbohydrate does not equate to a calorie of protein when being metabolized in our bodies. Protein calories are not likely to be stored as fat, as compared to carbs. This is mainly due to the fact that proteins require a lot of energy to metabolize and assimilate. And as an added bonus, protein lowers the glycemic index of other foods. This helps to ensure your pancreas secretes small amounts of insulin, which is the fat storage hormone. The higher your insulin levels, the more fat you’re going to store.<br /><br />To put it quite simply, if you do not consume enough protein you will not only put a halt to your efforts to have a leaner, more muscular body, you can actually lose some of the muscle you’re working so hard to get.<br /><br /><br /><b>Myth 8</b>: Strictly reducing calories is the key to losing body fat.<br /><br />One of the biggest errors one can make is eating only once or twice per day. Our bodies adapt to any stress placed upon it, and are programmed through tens of thousands of years for survival. When we restrict the amount of food we eat, our bodies will respond by reducing the rate at which we burn fat. It doesn’t matter that you’re eating a burger with fries and a soft drink for dinner; by not eating at regular intervals your body kicks into starvation mode and readily stores fat.<br /><br />It becomes a vicious cycle. You want to lose weight so you cut back on the amount of food, which for most means eating fewer times per day. Your body responds by slowing its metabolism, an automatic survival mechanism.<br /><br />You lose weight at first, which is both fat and muscle, and eventually hit a plateau. Muscle drives the metabolism. It’s what burns fat as fuel. The less you have, the less fat you burn.<br />And if losing muscle and feeling crappy weren’t enough, you are continuously hungry and eventually fall off the wagon. Now you’re eating more with less muscle and a slower metabolism. Your body is now a much less efficient fat-burning machine. Now you can eat less than when you started and still gain weight.<br /><br />The weight you gain when you start eating again (and you will start eating again), will be even greater than when you started your crash diet. Sounds ridiculous doesn’t it? But many people do it over and over.<br /><br />What needs to be done is to eat whole nutritious meals at least four times per day. You need to establish new eating habits, and this may take a few months to feel comfortable. Eating in this way will ensure a faster metabolism, higher energy levels, less hunger and a better outlook.<br /><br /><b><br />Myth 9</b>: Strength training is too dangerous and will stunt the growth of children.<br /><br />I have an 11-year-old daughter. She has already been involved with sports for five years. These days, if a child doesn’t start playing sports in the primary grades, they are going to be behind. Parents do not hesitate to enroll their young children in sports like soccer, basketball, gymnastics, football and others. These children are placed in uncontrolled environments where there is running, tripping, colliding, changing directions at high speed, twisting and a whole host of other forces being applied to their little bodies. But God forbid you put your child on a strength training routine, which is in a totally controlled environment!<br /><br />Some children play two, three or more sports per year. These same parents I talk to in the gym would never consider putting their child on a strength training routine. The above myth is the main reason I hear from parents.<br /><br />To the contrary of what many parents fear, numerous studies show the benefits of strength training, including: increased bone density and development, injury prevention, and improved athletic performance. These far outweigh the dangers that parents worry so much about. So do your kids a favor and get them interested in fitness early.<br /><br /><br /><b>Myth 10</b>: After 96 hours of not training, a muscle will start to lose its size and strength.<br /><br />The first component of a training program that should be given consideration is training frequency. How often can -- or more importantly -- should I train per week? Optimum recovery time between training sessions is essential if one is going to continue to make progress. Training frequency, determined by an individual’s recovery ability, is often a forgotten part of most training protocols.<br /><br />Don’t be so concerned with how many training sessions you can handle per week. Be more concerned about the optimal amount. More is not always better. There is no reason in going to the gym if you’re not going to make progress. In every workout, if you trained properly and have fully recovered, you should be able to add some weight or do an extra reps.<br /><br />The ability to recover from workouts is genetically predetermined. Some individuals can handle a high volume and frequency of training, and others can handle only minimal amounts. You need to determine the frequency at which you should train your body parts; this is done by keeping a detailed training journal of your workouts. How do you know where to go, if you don’t know where you’ve been?<br /><br />If you aren’t making progress, your workout needs to be adjusted. The average individual on a three or four day split routine, training with 100 percent intensity, will need between six and eight days off before training the same body part. I personally train each body part three times per month.<br /><br /><br /><b>Myth 11</b>: Athletes or weekend warriors who play sports like golf, baseball, boxing, soccer, hockey and basketball shouldn’t lift weights because it will make them slow and tight.<br /><br />Why in the world should a person who plays golf weight train? Sports involving swinging, sprinting, jumping, swimming, throwing, kicking or punching are affected by the ratio of the strength of the muscles involved in the movement, to the mass of those body parts. To put it simply, if a soccer player trains properly and increases his strength 15 percent over a six-month period, and his mass remains relatively the same, his ability to accelerate is increased. The stronger a boxer becomes while maintaining a constant body mass, the faster and harder he’ll be able to punch.<br /><br />Now as far as athletes becoming tight, research has shown that full range progressive resistance training is a great way to develop functional flexibility. Individuals who weight train properly, but don’t stretch, are more flexible than individuals who don’t train or stretch.<br /><br />In short, as with people not involved in sports, weight training will not make athletes tight or slow -- it will make them better."<br /><br /><br /><br /></span> </blockquote></div>Unapologetic Confessionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10843500248079315979noreply@blogger.com0