Its 26 years and we are not much surprised. 2-3 December 1984, poisonous gas entered the air of Bhopal, surrounded those who were sleeping, or preparing to sleep, killed, remained in the air, entered the water sources and importantly generated a law-suite which ran for marathon 26 years. Gas must have died in its intensity since accused have been given punishment of 2 years and fine of rupees one lakh. Are those who were guilty have really been punished? Is that funny thing called ‘Justice’ has been delivered? And have we learnt anything from that night, which killed many people instantly and polluted healthy life for years coming. Let’s go one by one.
Who was guilty? There is list of 9 officials of Union Carbide which were summoned and eventually punished. But they didn’t really own the company. The plant which operated at Bhopal had about 49% stakes from Indian. It is understood and fair from strict profit driven framework under which corporate operate, that Union Carbide denied many of the charges. Union Carbide has provided medical help after the incident, invested in the hospital which started functioning from 2001 and started few other initiatives. I am not advocating the company, but I do not want to be blind in putting all the blame on Union Carbide. It is failure of those who should have stood for the victims. They didn’t stand, but played safe and to the extent, didn’t allow the lesson to be taught. Who are they? List must start from Government of India, a usual culprit in many of the crimes against people who don’t really bring foreign investments or add considerable percentages to growth engine. But one must go deeper, who constitutes the state? Who allows the state to take actions? Who has power to show and revert defects of the states? I do not want to blame the state too, as I do not see it as some absolute entity operating on its own. I blame to our lost consciousness of justice, which is happily sleeping in our mind and does some impotent yawning when we read loud articles citing deaths, exploitation and corruption. We allowed it to sleep somewhere near 1947, and since then some pseudo system, which delivers justice is operating.
Am I sounding like a woman who few days back declared to be on that side and made some provocative statements to give a temporary boil to urban blood and generate some lukewarm discussion on democracy? May be. I want to sound like one mad youth who did something to ‘make the deaf here’. How can be ‘Freedom’ or ‘Justice’ are given to somebody? One is free or not free, but never a one is made free. And freedom is never a collective function. It is strictly individual. When we say a group of people is free, it means they can come together, are free to decide where they can curtail individual freedoms and accept something which if violated, can enforce punishment. Such simple concept becomes extremely difficult when group is not homogeneously formed from inside and that what case of India is. How freedom and Justice are linked? Who determines something is Just and something is not. It is collective decision of free minds, which keeping in mind spectrum of action an human being can take, determines widest range to operate individual freedoms and curtail which will harm group, even if benefit individual.
We all want to live as we want. Individually, the end one wants to pursue is of being free to do whatever one wants. Collectively, we all want to be in situation where we all are free to do what we want, without cutting others wish to be free. There is difference between these two ends. Some act can be termed as error when viewed from personal point of view, on collective front it becomes crime. Humanist cries for terrorists, maoists or police brutalities because they see terrorist as an individual who is walking erroneous path. A nationalist accepts these killings since he perceives these acts as threatening for collective existence and termed them crime. What one should be?
I do not know. But I know what to do if I get into such a dilemma. One must call for consciousness we all have for our own and for one whom we see as our fellow human being. I feel outraged at the verdict not because it is delivered in such liquidated manner after so many years, I feel outraged because knowing that this is the system, one never really try to deliver a timely blow to make it correct. A Law, a society or system which corrupts in its mechanism of self improvement, needs external aid or annihilation to appear in improved form. If we look at evolution of societies, we see that every time an act which was out of domain of acceptability happened to cure the disease. A mutiny, on success becomes a justified struggle.
Have we learnt lesson? Our blind belief about perfection of technology is yet dominant. Bhopal tragedy has not shaken, and now it is part of distant memory. We are allowing nuclear power plants, of scale which was not functioned before and can have most disastrous and silent damage. We are allowing them in fragile coastal area and near the sea. Companies which will run these plants have limited liabilities in any Bhopal Like tragedy. I see the need of power. To some extent, I agree that nuclear power will be current solution, but are we placing solution in manner which will cause least harm if anything goes wrong? And, if ‘the state’ is repeatedly failing to place it in right manner, why we are not delivering the timely blow, which may end up in some short scale violence, but can make amendments which will help. Even ‘the state’ in its actual operation, is run by a person. That person can err, but should learn eventually. If there is no learning, then that person must be punished, either by ballet or bullet. One must be conscious with bullet, but should not forget that it supports ballet.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
Remaining and other update
Most of them had left. they have asked me to keep few things of them. these things have filled my room and room looks different.
Some of our friends were ill. but now they are recovering.
I cleaned fan, tube light and my table yesterday. dust filled my hands and then I washed them. Wash basin is dirtier than it was when I started living in the room.
I am under the influence of 'Catcher in the rye....' this particular genre is called 'Stream of consciousness'. Like stream of water flowing through tab over your palms, then to wrists and then dropping into sink since it cannot go anti-gravity. Stream of breaths, stream of letters, stream of memories, stream of steam, stream of books and stream of streams...
i am feeling like throwing darts in the darkness. Soon some darts will chase me, like your words.
I am not drunk, but I am feeling elated.
Dart, Dark, Drunk....
I took few things from my friend's room. i heard voice in empty room and then neglected. I can't use those things. there are touches everywhere.
I forget everything sometimes and then remember with one tiny hit.
I am writing like some hostel student writing to his mom, which never really his mother.
I can't send letter to undefined address. It returns.
Else is fine. I am learning about fear, memories, future, others, regions, truth and so many other things.
Evening is little difficult. I cannot drink tea alone.
I write to somebody and at the end of writing I forget whom I am addressing. So I am writing here.
Some of our friends were ill. but now they are recovering.
I cleaned fan, tube light and my table yesterday. dust filled my hands and then I washed them. Wash basin is dirtier than it was when I started living in the room.
I am under the influence of 'Catcher in the rye....' this particular genre is called 'Stream of consciousness'. Like stream of water flowing through tab over your palms, then to wrists and then dropping into sink since it cannot go anti-gravity. Stream of breaths, stream of letters, stream of memories, stream of steam, stream of books and stream of streams...
i am feeling like throwing darts in the darkness. Soon some darts will chase me, like your words.
I am not drunk, but I am feeling elated.
Dart, Dark, Drunk....
I took few things from my friend's room. i heard voice in empty room and then neglected. I can't use those things. there are touches everywhere.
I forget everything sometimes and then remember with one tiny hit.
I am writing like some hostel student writing to his mom, which never really his mother.
I can't send letter to undefined address. It returns.
Else is fine. I am learning about fear, memories, future, others, regions, truth and so many other things.
Evening is little difficult. I cannot drink tea alone.
I write to somebody and at the end of writing I forget whom I am addressing. So I am writing here.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
5. References of Ephemerence
Realization doesn't last long. One who gets one quits the whole game so quickly. There is no fun living once you know what worth it was. But he was alive, and he realized being alive is being in reference to something.
Reference of what? whose son or daughter or student or relative you are? Where do you have your home? What is your education? how much money do you get per month? What do you want to be in some absurd number of years down the line? What book do you read? What sort of clothes you wear? Who is your wife? What movie you watched recently? Contacts in phone book, people who will come to meet you if you are hospitalized, the college where you got your degree and what not... the list goes on until one goes off. Fuck! nothing absolute.... everything is damn relative... understood in reference to something else..
Even this sea has references of shores. He satirically smiled at his own addiction to analogies. Since long back he lived with reference to what he saw himself from some different place than he actually stood. And kept himself providing analogy of some or other story he provided to his life. One cannot lie, means should not, one should tell stories instead. What if one becomes a story, a mix of lie and imagination.
He walked back. Different sounds reached his ears. one of sea waves was loudest, then conversations of couples sitting near shore. He felt like a silent participant into so many dreams around him. He turned into one scantily lit lane and walked till he came before a restaurant. He couldn't enter. He was not somebody who carries thousand bucks and lots of cards and drives a car and has a perfect postured woman with him.
A car stopped near him, inches away. It was some latest model. It's rear shined in lights of restaurant. A handsome guy came out, and soon followed a girl. Her smooth legs went into borders of red dress above her knees. Near perfect buts mingled into flat roads of back. Her hair were meticulously made. In all darkness, her neck shone among black of her hairs. She locked her fingers into her man's. she leaned on him, giggled, her breast touching his body. He put his hand around her waist, and put his nose near to her. Her lips made an inviting movement for a while, for a second or none and her finger with colored sharp nail carved on his chest. His hands moved slowly on her back. They came closer till their lips touched, eyes half shut and hands pulling each other even more.
He walked away. The peace he had touched moments back was all shattered now. He just wanted to be that guy now. He wished to be touch on her lips. He wished to be a finger on her bare skin. He wished to be caress through her hairs. And knowing that he cannot be one hit him hard next moment. He lacked references for such.
He kept walking till he reached railway station. Now his ears are full with crowd of voices. Yellings, calls, bye's and hi's, names, sledgings, breaths, sighs, whistles. Flock of smells captured him. A strong smell of human sweat, perfumes, urine, dog shits, eatables, smokes and faint smell of distant sea. He kept walking through pool of human bodies touching him, shaking him, pulling and pushing him, avoiding him and surrounding him to provide him one eternal reference of crowd. It is metaphysics in action, he noted and erased. Fuck to philosophy!!
He got the ticket and took the train. He stood catching breeze near the door. Coach was full not croweded. What day is today? He just didn't remember. Whatever it is. Why does it matter, he thought. He felt nice being away from scale of time for a while. Whenever he feels time, he feels it escaping from his grip, something always getting late, timing of everything is always lagging behind some moment few slots of times back. This is better, no time. Train stopped stations. he felt sleepy being inside large amount of exhaled carbon dioxide. Now all he saw are heads and all he felt is different clothes and underneath human flesh. He leaned on rod behind him, straightned himself to avoid touches and felt his breathing at his nostrils. Crowd was expanding itself at every station. He sort of started listing touches he feelingh and meanwhile concentrating on edges of his nostrils. First one loose elderly skin looking to be hold on by crowd, then a tight working man hand having metal wrist watch, then hairs of small boy suffocating among butts of crowd, then contracting touch of a girl and then one arrogant shoulder almost hitting him in his abs. Meanwhile he dozed off in his attempts of concentration. He thought of getting down at next station and having something. He was feeling hungry.
He got down at station and swam through crowd towards exit. He stopped for while to see where he was. He knew these roads, these garland sellers, these book vendors, these smells of coffees , scent of incense sticks in the temples, a warm murmur of friends having tea, fast walking priests and old, tired couples walking slowly from the roadside. He thought of one cheap place to eat.
He ordered a meal. H ordered few items more than his meal. He looked at people eating around him and found them looking at him. He just concentrated on his meal. He kept eating, few crumbs failed on his wrist, he made noise while sipping curry, he ate with much part of his fingers inside his mouth and he almost licked his dish. He felt like some animal who is grabing all pray it had hunted. He paid the bill and walked away on some street entering a gloomy looking next lane. It is like web of lanes and addresses are told with reference to lanes next and behind. So when you are searching somebody here, you are like trapped into old magic of lanes. but he was searching no one. He walked some distance and lit the cigarette.
He felt better when nicotine pushed his spirit a bit. He had few continuous long puffs. He had almost forgotten why he started all his roaming. He watched street though shores of smokes. He suddenly found himself being pulled away from everything else. He tried thinking about his friends, his mother,. He tried feeling a connection with somebody. He tried calling on number of a girl he had flirted with long ago. But somehow he let every impulse pass and emptied his mind with that particular thought. Names of some books flashed before his eyes, he tried sticking plots and dialogues of those books to moment he is right now, but that too disappeared. He threw away the but of cigarette. He was all sweating, his heart beats are quicker than normal. He felt like hiding behind some warm and friendly darkness. Silence is pleasant when it has certain termination. He wanted to speak now, but all his word found a counter word and annihilated. To each of his feeling, there came and struck an opposing feeling. Cloud of pains burst inside his head and yet he couldn't call anybody. He see people around him withering. A web of lanes turned into web of his own imaginations and choked him. He sobbed, muttered something with fast drying lips and lost the last thread of consciousness.
Reference of what? whose son or daughter or student or relative you are? Where do you have your home? What is your education? how much money do you get per month? What do you want to be in some absurd number of years down the line? What book do you read? What sort of clothes you wear? Who is your wife? What movie you watched recently? Contacts in phone book, people who will come to meet you if you are hospitalized, the college where you got your degree and what not... the list goes on until one goes off. Fuck! nothing absolute.... everything is damn relative... understood in reference to something else..
Even this sea has references of shores. He satirically smiled at his own addiction to analogies. Since long back he lived with reference to what he saw himself from some different place than he actually stood. And kept himself providing analogy of some or other story he provided to his life. One cannot lie, means should not, one should tell stories instead. What if one becomes a story, a mix of lie and imagination.
He walked back. Different sounds reached his ears. one of sea waves was loudest, then conversations of couples sitting near shore. He felt like a silent participant into so many dreams around him. He turned into one scantily lit lane and walked till he came before a restaurant. He couldn't enter. He was not somebody who carries thousand bucks and lots of cards and drives a car and has a perfect postured woman with him.
A car stopped near him, inches away. It was some latest model. It's rear shined in lights of restaurant. A handsome guy came out, and soon followed a girl. Her smooth legs went into borders of red dress above her knees. Near perfect buts mingled into flat roads of back. Her hair were meticulously made. In all darkness, her neck shone among black of her hairs. She locked her fingers into her man's. she leaned on him, giggled, her breast touching his body. He put his hand around her waist, and put his nose near to her. Her lips made an inviting movement for a while, for a second or none and her finger with colored sharp nail carved on his chest. His hands moved slowly on her back. They came closer till their lips touched, eyes half shut and hands pulling each other even more.
He walked away. The peace he had touched moments back was all shattered now. He just wanted to be that guy now. He wished to be touch on her lips. He wished to be a finger on her bare skin. He wished to be caress through her hairs. And knowing that he cannot be one hit him hard next moment. He lacked references for such.
He kept walking till he reached railway station. Now his ears are full with crowd of voices. Yellings, calls, bye's and hi's, names, sledgings, breaths, sighs, whistles. Flock of smells captured him. A strong smell of human sweat, perfumes, urine, dog shits, eatables, smokes and faint smell of distant sea. He kept walking through pool of human bodies touching him, shaking him, pulling and pushing him, avoiding him and surrounding him to provide him one eternal reference of crowd. It is metaphysics in action, he noted and erased. Fuck to philosophy!!
He got the ticket and took the train. He stood catching breeze near the door. Coach was full not croweded. What day is today? He just didn't remember. Whatever it is. Why does it matter, he thought. He felt nice being away from scale of time for a while. Whenever he feels time, he feels it escaping from his grip, something always getting late, timing of everything is always lagging behind some moment few slots of times back. This is better, no time. Train stopped stations. he felt sleepy being inside large amount of exhaled carbon dioxide. Now all he saw are heads and all he felt is different clothes and underneath human flesh. He leaned on rod behind him, straightned himself to avoid touches and felt his breathing at his nostrils. Crowd was expanding itself at every station. He sort of started listing touches he feelingh and meanwhile concentrating on edges of his nostrils. First one loose elderly skin looking to be hold on by crowd, then a tight working man hand having metal wrist watch, then hairs of small boy suffocating among butts of crowd, then contracting touch of a girl and then one arrogant shoulder almost hitting him in his abs. Meanwhile he dozed off in his attempts of concentration. He thought of getting down at next station and having something. He was feeling hungry.
He got down at station and swam through crowd towards exit. He stopped for while to see where he was. He knew these roads, these garland sellers, these book vendors, these smells of coffees , scent of incense sticks in the temples, a warm murmur of friends having tea, fast walking priests and old, tired couples walking slowly from the roadside. He thought of one cheap place to eat.
He ordered a meal. H ordered few items more than his meal. He looked at people eating around him and found them looking at him. He just concentrated on his meal. He kept eating, few crumbs failed on his wrist, he made noise while sipping curry, he ate with much part of his fingers inside his mouth and he almost licked his dish. He felt like some animal who is grabing all pray it had hunted. He paid the bill and walked away on some street entering a gloomy looking next lane. It is like web of lanes and addresses are told with reference to lanes next and behind. So when you are searching somebody here, you are like trapped into old magic of lanes. but he was searching no one. He walked some distance and lit the cigarette.
He felt better when nicotine pushed his spirit a bit. He had few continuous long puffs. He had almost forgotten why he started all his roaming. He watched street though shores of smokes. He suddenly found himself being pulled away from everything else. He tried thinking about his friends, his mother,. He tried feeling a connection with somebody. He tried calling on number of a girl he had flirted with long ago. But somehow he let every impulse pass and emptied his mind with that particular thought. Names of some books flashed before his eyes, he tried sticking plots and dialogues of those books to moment he is right now, but that too disappeared. He threw away the but of cigarette. He was all sweating, his heart beats are quicker than normal. He felt like hiding behind some warm and friendly darkness. Silence is pleasant when it has certain termination. He wanted to speak now, but all his word found a counter word and annihilated. To each of his feeling, there came and struck an opposing feeling. Cloud of pains burst inside his head and yet he couldn't call anybody. He see people around him withering. A web of lanes turned into web of his own imaginations and choked him. He sobbed, muttered something with fast drying lips and lost the last thread of consciousness.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
4. Awakening
(first three parts are prologue, city: initial verses, dream skeletons)
Bus kept traveling smoothly and he slept for a while as if he is living kind of swift and smooth life he always looked for. life with constancy of motion, life without doubts of if and should, just a life. but it was just for a while. soon dreams came back, resembling the memories he had, like old skeletons in brand new clothes.
'But why you did that?' somebody was asking.
the voice was hurt, pains filled in it beyond any estimation of depth. he tried answering with sort of poetic reality he has assumed for himself and that voice. In poems, reader resides in words unwritten and one's ownership over that unexpressed content and twin relationship with expressed poem make one reader, a true reader. But poet often forgets that such a reader is assumption to express poem, not hard reality on which poem can grow. he too has forgotten. he changed his poems and so reality which kept shaping his poems.
He lured words to fit in the stage he had set for them and to lure them he camouflaged. now he has forgotten his original color or colorlessness.
'Enough of this webs of yours. you cannot balance emotions on threads of your momentary colors.'
That voice was sharp, wounded and stroked him like a whip.
He started fumbling. He tried erecting some temporary clouds of words to cover the unbearable light which was penetrating him.
'you got to answer questions'. voice said, as if it was of stranger.
he knew this point, he had escaped it before.
he uttered 'I answer but my answers are not what you expect or will fit in image you have about my answers.'
voice laughed, a sarcastic laugh. 'you cannot fool me. Answer!'
'I am not fooling. Nobody accepts something as answer until it fits into our image of that answer. We seek answers because there is space in us which needs something. There is space inside us because whatever person, event we enter inside us cannot fit the experience of that person or event. Experiences are bigger than our encounters with them.'
He expected voice to turn sympathetic, showing some congratulating softness. A strange silence followed, silence which has germs of self destruction, silence which deepens chaotic interpretations, silence which let words form shape which is farthest away from their birthplace.
'Is this your answer? Answers are in plain facts which cannot be excavated further. answer me who am I for you? Answer me who are those for you? answer me. '
'You? Those? and how can I tell it in facts. I know no facts except few like my name. And they too are very shallow'.
'You are weaving one illusion again, but not this time.'
'But I do not have defined me and any of my references.'
'But references are what we have about anybody else. We comprehend by references, not by what it is actually'.
'But that actual exists. Reference is one limited dimension of our perception of that real. Real is incomprehensible.'
'So what do you mean? You are multi-dimensional, much more than what your references can tell about you. Aren't you lying? Fooling yourself?'
Voice didn't say last lines, but it was there unsaid, but almost felt.
He kept looking towards fingers of his feet, aimlessly scratching digs, his body was trembling inside, he felt like jumping from a very very tall cliff or crying, tears rolled to his eyes. he controlled them and kept watching fingers of his feet.
'So be with your incomprehension.' Voice marked these words without saying and faded.
Even with disappearance of that voice he was not at peace. Loss of pain is a loss only. Having nothing is not exactly happy.
He woke up. He was alone in the bus. He felt sea-breeze and salty smell of air. He was soaked with sweat. Few drops were lingering on his eyebrows. They were about to fall and light, entering though their dense media was splitting in droplets of brightness and illuminated his eyes. He removed those drops, dried his forehead and got down from the bus.
Sea was in front of him. He knew this places, lot many poems this sea has in it and he has taken few of them. All those poems then formed a collective appearance, took some name and co-ordinates along space-time and dragged his life till here. He looked at sea, he looked at shores which are too distant to be perceived clearly, he looked at sky, where light was making incomplete attempt to define age old darkness. He felt all moments he lived or thought of living collapsing into the one where he was now. He felt every corner was getting folded into the place beneath his feet. It is just now and here and I.
Bus kept traveling smoothly and he slept for a while as if he is living kind of swift and smooth life he always looked for. life with constancy of motion, life without doubts of if and should, just a life. but it was just for a while. soon dreams came back, resembling the memories he had, like old skeletons in brand new clothes.
'But why you did that?' somebody was asking.
the voice was hurt, pains filled in it beyond any estimation of depth. he tried answering with sort of poetic reality he has assumed for himself and that voice. In poems, reader resides in words unwritten and one's ownership over that unexpressed content and twin relationship with expressed poem make one reader, a true reader. But poet often forgets that such a reader is assumption to express poem, not hard reality on which poem can grow. he too has forgotten. he changed his poems and so reality which kept shaping his poems.
He lured words to fit in the stage he had set for them and to lure them he camouflaged. now he has forgotten his original color or colorlessness.
'Enough of this webs of yours. you cannot balance emotions on threads of your momentary colors.'
That voice was sharp, wounded and stroked him like a whip.
He started fumbling. He tried erecting some temporary clouds of words to cover the unbearable light which was penetrating him.
'you got to answer questions'. voice said, as if it was of stranger.
he knew this point, he had escaped it before.
he uttered 'I answer but my answers are not what you expect or will fit in image you have about my answers.'
voice laughed, a sarcastic laugh. 'you cannot fool me. Answer!'
'I am not fooling. Nobody accepts something as answer until it fits into our image of that answer. We seek answers because there is space in us which needs something. There is space inside us because whatever person, event we enter inside us cannot fit the experience of that person or event. Experiences are bigger than our encounters with them.'
He expected voice to turn sympathetic, showing some congratulating softness. A strange silence followed, silence which has germs of self destruction, silence which deepens chaotic interpretations, silence which let words form shape which is farthest away from their birthplace.
'Is this your answer? Answers are in plain facts which cannot be excavated further. answer me who am I for you? Answer me who are those for you? answer me. '
'You? Those? and how can I tell it in facts. I know no facts except few like my name. And they too are very shallow'.
'You are weaving one illusion again, but not this time.'
'But I do not have defined me and any of my references.'
'But references are what we have about anybody else. We comprehend by references, not by what it is actually'.
'But that actual exists. Reference is one limited dimension of our perception of that real. Real is incomprehensible.'
'So what do you mean? You are multi-dimensional, much more than what your references can tell about you. Aren't you lying? Fooling yourself?'
Voice didn't say last lines, but it was there unsaid, but almost felt.
He kept looking towards fingers of his feet, aimlessly scratching digs, his body was trembling inside, he felt like jumping from a very very tall cliff or crying, tears rolled to his eyes. he controlled them and kept watching fingers of his feet.
'So be with your incomprehension.' Voice marked these words without saying and faded.
Even with disappearance of that voice he was not at peace. Loss of pain is a loss only. Having nothing is not exactly happy.
He woke up. He was alone in the bus. He felt sea-breeze and salty smell of air. He was soaked with sweat. Few drops were lingering on his eyebrows. They were about to fall and light, entering though their dense media was splitting in droplets of brightness and illuminated his eyes. He removed those drops, dried his forehead and got down from the bus.
Sea was in front of him. He knew this places, lot many poems this sea has in it and he has taken few of them. All those poems then formed a collective appearance, took some name and co-ordinates along space-time and dragged his life till here. He looked at sea, he looked at shores which are too distant to be perceived clearly, he looked at sky, where light was making incomplete attempt to define age old darkness. He felt all moments he lived or thought of living collapsing into the one where he was now. He felt every corner was getting folded into the place beneath his feet. It is just now and here and I.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
I know this is only way to release the uneasy sorrow I am carrying with me. I am not used to keep something locked for so much time, except my attempt to identify you with name. It is weird silence, it is silence after long awaited death of bed-ridden person who is better if dies. But even such desired worst result when actually happens shocks in most extraordinary manner. This is numbness of such shock that my words are just lingering around.
I look back to all distance we walked. There are places that any relation can reach. But what make sense of loss severely painful are some spots where we talked, a child in me to a ever present child to you. I was like boy who has just done something wrong in his home and has run away to his dearest friend, to tell her whatever he did without missing any detail and then be free with burden of guilt. Do you remember these spots my friend? You are, I know, because forgetting is habit for those who need to produce constant lies. I am just seeing all these spots, bright in calm, soothing light of their own and making your silence bearable by travel through them.
I never found a child in me so easily conversable. And I realize everybody has such child in them and this child keeps them weird enough so that they remain identifiable in pools of regularity. Child is fearless, to touch something and then on keeping it or leaving. The way I see you loosing yourself in simple acts, trivial for somebody like me burdened with me false sense of theories about world, I wondered whether I have such doors in my self to converse with my innocent self. Now, with your departure, a boy is wondering through all these doors, searching all places where he used to find his friend waiting for him and going lost, as there is no sign of anybody ever present. There can’t be even a cry, because sense of absence has struck him like a hammer, a quick load of immense pains turning him unconscious to any reality around him and he is just watching a newly found world with dry and empty eyes.
It is growing up. When one grows one comes to know that we have limited ability to assimilate people we like to be in us. We cannot assimilate them in all the forms they have. We have to choose. We have to choose whether we take them with us or we carry weightless but heavy memories. I hate such choice dear, and I hate is forced on me by time. I feel toyed, made useless to convey anything to anybody and not able to remain child. I am making escape by saying time did it? Such illusive masks are wore by grown ups, of ambiguous questions, of inconclusive philosophies. Innocence goes without any mask, and that is why it is stern enough not to look back on decisions once taken.
Will you read this? Let time have this answer. But I know what you will say after reading this, “ grown ups are like that..”.
I look back to all distance we walked. There are places that any relation can reach. But what make sense of loss severely painful are some spots where we talked, a child in me to a ever present child to you. I was like boy who has just done something wrong in his home and has run away to his dearest friend, to tell her whatever he did without missing any detail and then be free with burden of guilt. Do you remember these spots my friend? You are, I know, because forgetting is habit for those who need to produce constant lies. I am just seeing all these spots, bright in calm, soothing light of their own and making your silence bearable by travel through them.
I never found a child in me so easily conversable. And I realize everybody has such child in them and this child keeps them weird enough so that they remain identifiable in pools of regularity. Child is fearless, to touch something and then on keeping it or leaving. The way I see you loosing yourself in simple acts, trivial for somebody like me burdened with me false sense of theories about world, I wondered whether I have such doors in my self to converse with my innocent self. Now, with your departure, a boy is wondering through all these doors, searching all places where he used to find his friend waiting for him and going lost, as there is no sign of anybody ever present. There can’t be even a cry, because sense of absence has struck him like a hammer, a quick load of immense pains turning him unconscious to any reality around him and he is just watching a newly found world with dry and empty eyes.
It is growing up. When one grows one comes to know that we have limited ability to assimilate people we like to be in us. We cannot assimilate them in all the forms they have. We have to choose. We have to choose whether we take them with us or we carry weightless but heavy memories. I hate such choice dear, and I hate is forced on me by time. I feel toyed, made useless to convey anything to anybody and not able to remain child. I am making escape by saying time did it? Such illusive masks are wore by grown ups, of ambiguous questions, of inconclusive philosophies. Innocence goes without any mask, and that is why it is stern enough not to look back on decisions once taken.
Will you read this? Let time have this answer. But I know what you will say after reading this, “ grown ups are like that..”.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Memoirs of Poems: Dream skeletons
He traveled back into time by flash of poems. Nostalgia surrounded him and dry, colorless details of past were transformed into a romantic movie, running at breathtaking pace and projecting life as collage of so many beautiful dreams, even now, at a irreversible distance he has walked from them, he felt them still growing inside. He thought, as he regularly thinks about poem of poems, not just poem, 'poems are not imaginations, not any work of fiction is purely imagination. we cannot visualise anything unless we have encountered with some sort of approximation of that visualisation in out lives. it is our mind which then transcends them, remove unwanted dimensions and fools us with product called 'imagination'. ' He thought of imagining her, whom he had traced through his poems, he has marked her footsteps on every encounter he had with her shadows, he has kept some hidden spot on his now rotten soul where she scribbled her poems sometimes. Bus was travelling through southern part of city now. He loved this area. It has ecstasy of life completely filled inside, in slums surrounding skyscrapers, in sea shores lined with free flowing high ways, in delicacies presented in inviting rappers, possibilities exploding of flesh and mind, he loved it. He remembered when he first walked here, it was 9 years back, when he was just a boy, pipping into region of youth which then seemed so wonderful.
Suddenly bus entered into some region, like Harry Potter movie. He never knew city has such a part. Road was surrounded with old villas, creepers running down from balconies of those villas. Every villa is like age old myth which kept fueling dream of the city into distant minds and made them come here and live. though old these structures are, they have exuberance defying their ages. He felt poisoning by bars hold inside these villas, beauties sketched and carved inside those dungeons of passions, he was getting ultra-conscious, poems vibrating strongly near the skin, blood on the verge of exploding, memories coming out through every breath and occupying empty seats of the bus. He closed his eyes, felt a soothing breeze touching tips of his nose and ears, and open his eyes by a familiar but heard long back voice.
She has come, as if listening to urge. She never came like that before, he thought. Why now? 'I know when I need to come', she answered. His doubt melted away by her smile. He felt security surrounding him as she approached and sat beside him. Nothing changed, except few lines on her faces, which have grown matured now and are adding to her look. He puzzled though, to say or ask her anything. He just kept looking at her, sensing her existence near him, covering his orphan one, pacifying every wave of disturbance. Through glimpses of outside visible through patterns of her hair, he watched moon light touching calm sea surface, reflecting back and shining with sprinkles. Finally, he found route to speak to her and asked, 'why had you come? And, will you leave soon?'
'Life has some points when it comes and asks us to ride it. Question comes in deceiving form, it is asked so humbly that we feel it will stay humble like this forever. We have to humble with that humble moment, we have to understand that there is only infinitesimal distinctness we posses, everything else is continuous journey of impressions. We should see what choices that moment has, and then answer it, whatever our answer is. But we should not be rude with it. That moment disappears, then comes mirages of self search, vacant justifications of survivals and misery of dragged behind life, never living it. We deny destiny even when we are crushed under it, and destiny denies us of single moment of unifying with life that we see it in us, but are not able to live. '
He bewildered by what he heard, but soon he realized he deserved what he listened. 'So how do you see me now? Do you think I have nothing left and I am just getting flown by wind? Do you think all poems are just empty treasures? Is only way to happiness is to discover your madness and leave the world to run on it's own? Is there nothing one gets by watching others' lives and then channelling them into another world of stories and songs? Is it all useless whatever I lived? If it so, why not you just end it? I want one new, untouched by you, untouched by any conclusion of what it can be or should be, and then I will sketch my own. '
She put her fingers in his hairs, pulled his head into her lap and kept running her fingers on his head.
'Once I was sitting in the hospital. waiting for test reports of my father. There was one kid playing there. He was running behind balloon given to him by his mother. Suddenly he put his foot wrongly, foot twisted and he gave a very painful cry. It wasn't a very harsh twist, but that boy started crying as if he was in immense pain. His mother ran towards him, her face was red and worried. She took him in her lap, sat on the coach, removed shoes from the foot which was hurt. That boy had leg deformation. The foot got hurt because it was very weak, almost lifeless extension of ankle. It was that shoe which has supported his weakness, but with twist shoe separated from that ugly deformity and he cried. I was in tears when I saw that such innocent boy and his leg. His mother soothed him, but he refused to get down from her lap. He never really looked at anybody else, not to that balloon which he chased so vigorously few minutes back. His cries were not loud, but he kept sobbing in his mother's lap, his weak leg floating in the air, and show lying sadly on the ground.'
She made nodding sound. He felt very calm, as that child would have felt in mother's arms. He was falling like a leave, who has finished it's assigned conversion of sunlight and now ready to meet the roots. He had fallen asleep.
Suddenly bus entered into some region, like Harry Potter movie. He never knew city has such a part. Road was surrounded with old villas, creepers running down from balconies of those villas. Every villa is like age old myth which kept fueling dream of the city into distant minds and made them come here and live. though old these structures are, they have exuberance defying their ages. He felt poisoning by bars hold inside these villas, beauties sketched and carved inside those dungeons of passions, he was getting ultra-conscious, poems vibrating strongly near the skin, blood on the verge of exploding, memories coming out through every breath and occupying empty seats of the bus. He closed his eyes, felt a soothing breeze touching tips of his nose and ears, and open his eyes by a familiar but heard long back voice.
She has come, as if listening to urge. She never came like that before, he thought. Why now? 'I know when I need to come', she answered. His doubt melted away by her smile. He felt security surrounding him as she approached and sat beside him. Nothing changed, except few lines on her faces, which have grown matured now and are adding to her look. He puzzled though, to say or ask her anything. He just kept looking at her, sensing her existence near him, covering his orphan one, pacifying every wave of disturbance. Through glimpses of outside visible through patterns of her hair, he watched moon light touching calm sea surface, reflecting back and shining with sprinkles. Finally, he found route to speak to her and asked, 'why had you come? And, will you leave soon?'
'Life has some points when it comes and asks us to ride it. Question comes in deceiving form, it is asked so humbly that we feel it will stay humble like this forever. We have to humble with that humble moment, we have to understand that there is only infinitesimal distinctness we posses, everything else is continuous journey of impressions. We should see what choices that moment has, and then answer it, whatever our answer is. But we should not be rude with it. That moment disappears, then comes mirages of self search, vacant justifications of survivals and misery of dragged behind life, never living it. We deny destiny even when we are crushed under it, and destiny denies us of single moment of unifying with life that we see it in us, but are not able to live. '
He bewildered by what he heard, but soon he realized he deserved what he listened. 'So how do you see me now? Do you think I have nothing left and I am just getting flown by wind? Do you think all poems are just empty treasures? Is only way to happiness is to discover your madness and leave the world to run on it's own? Is there nothing one gets by watching others' lives and then channelling them into another world of stories and songs? Is it all useless whatever I lived? If it so, why not you just end it? I want one new, untouched by you, untouched by any conclusion of what it can be or should be, and then I will sketch my own. '
She put her fingers in his hairs, pulled his head into her lap and kept running her fingers on his head.
'Once I was sitting in the hospital. waiting for test reports of my father. There was one kid playing there. He was running behind balloon given to him by his mother. Suddenly he put his foot wrongly, foot twisted and he gave a very painful cry. It wasn't a very harsh twist, but that boy started crying as if he was in immense pain. His mother ran towards him, her face was red and worried. She took him in her lap, sat on the coach, removed shoes from the foot which was hurt. That boy had leg deformation. The foot got hurt because it was very weak, almost lifeless extension of ankle. It was that shoe which has supported his weakness, but with twist shoe separated from that ugly deformity and he cried. I was in tears when I saw that such innocent boy and his leg. His mother soothed him, but he refused to get down from her lap. He never really looked at anybody else, not to that balloon which he chased so vigorously few minutes back. His cries were not loud, but he kept sobbing in his mother's lap, his weak leg floating in the air, and show lying sadly on the ground.'
She made nodding sound. He felt very calm, as that child would have felt in mother's arms. He was falling like a leave, who has finished it's assigned conversion of sunlight and now ready to meet the roots. He had fallen asleep.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
City: initial verses
Night has some strange properties. Means everything has some strange capacities, but night is like mother of all miracles. Night is bonsai death. Every day dies in realm of night. Now what one has lived can be seen in many manner. He is seeing it too. He, one who took the bus and put himself into journey of nowhere. He is a bus, yes, he is a bus, which travels different routes, take people to their destinations or non-destinations like offices, rests into yards and then resumes again, but bus doesn't really reach anywhere. It is kind of entity which reaches everywhere without having any dictate. So he resembles to bus, right now he is in the bus....
So much people, he thought. He has been thinking about this huge and growing presence of people around him since long. He hated them and tried metamorphosed them as characters in his poem. But then his poems flooded by diversities this mass easily posses and nobody really understood what he was trying to write by those poems. This is problem when one tries using poem to cure some real problems. Poems are sedatives, so called pain killers, which make us forget pains, strong ache of being crushed under burden of such large scale existences. He got confused. Was he talking to somebody? He always found himself talking to somebody. He never really thought as of his own, but kind of response to questions put on him by somebody in his imaginations. Sometimes, these somebody has faces or at least partial recognitions like textbooks. ' Am I turning schizophrenic', he wondered. He found the thought soothing as John Nash was schizophrenic. There is pinch of joy when any small life event matches with some recorded life event of somebody great. It inflates life and makes it bearable. Even if it is not about resembling with anybody, a complete jump into insanity is always desirable, he thought. Difficulty is being somewhere in the middle.
He found that bus has TV. There was some adds going on. But it's nice, he felt. Sit in the sort of empty bus, run through web of flyovers, watch city transforming into island of shining among dots of darkness and meanwhile when there is still ample time left to meditate on what exactly he is doing, caress the smallest pain and preserve it beyond anything. Camus once said, man either has wife, or he believes in god or at least he keeps the pet. Camus' point was nobody is really lonely. Camus is right, as he is always. His pains, which he has nourished through years has accompanying him like his shadows and he found himself floating into sea of life events, memories, dreams, visualizations and some patches of poems where life kept a bright mark, unforgettable.
So much people, he thought. He has been thinking about this huge and growing presence of people around him since long. He hated them and tried metamorphosed them as characters in his poem. But then his poems flooded by diversities this mass easily posses and nobody really understood what he was trying to write by those poems. This is problem when one tries using poem to cure some real problems. Poems are sedatives, so called pain killers, which make us forget pains, strong ache of being crushed under burden of such large scale existences. He got confused. Was he talking to somebody? He always found himself talking to somebody. He never really thought as of his own, but kind of response to questions put on him by somebody in his imaginations. Sometimes, these somebody has faces or at least partial recognitions like textbooks. ' Am I turning schizophrenic', he wondered. He found the thought soothing as John Nash was schizophrenic. There is pinch of joy when any small life event matches with some recorded life event of somebody great. It inflates life and makes it bearable. Even if it is not about resembling with anybody, a complete jump into insanity is always desirable, he thought. Difficulty is being somewhere in the middle.
He found that bus has TV. There was some adds going on. But it's nice, he felt. Sit in the sort of empty bus, run through web of flyovers, watch city transforming into island of shining among dots of darkness and meanwhile when there is still ample time left to meditate on what exactly he is doing, caress the smallest pain and preserve it beyond anything. Camus once said, man either has wife, or he believes in god or at least he keeps the pet. Camus' point was nobody is really lonely. Camus is right, as he is always. His pains, which he has nourished through years has accompanying him like his shadows and he found himself floating into sea of life events, memories, dreams, visualizations and some patches of poems where life kept a bright mark, unforgettable.
Nowhere: Prologue
He left his room in chaos. Means it is difficult when one enters incomprehensible situation. It is like two sharp edges, touching either side of the neck. Then he walked away, away from familiar space, into something more random and more chaotic, resembling what he is right now.
He thought about drinking. But there is not any sponser who can accompany him at this moment. And, it is really inefficient to drink when you have less money to spend. You need to consume more alcohol when you drink by your own money. A constant worry of out of pocket expenditure slows the poisoning and hence delays journey into terrains of self full-filling narratives, written in first person and decorated with many heartbreaking phrases. He passed in front of bar. There are few drinking inside and same steady face waiters serving them with unsaid pity on their face. He thought positive points of his decision, this is self optimistic mechanism he has with him from childhood. 'Morning will be better if I don't drink now. cheap alcohol causes headaches and expensive causes delayed headache accompanied with financial crisis.' Suddenly, thought of morning caused some sort of aches in some unidentified spot of his mind. Do I really want it till morning? And what sort of night is needed to have one plane vanilla morning? He entered his whirlpools again, sinking into mud of his own cause and effect mechanisms. Conversations started echoing in his head, he started begging and crying for understanding him, mirage which he hasn't understood yet, he explained and got counter explained. He felt tired in middle of the flowing road, sun setting over west, clouds steady in the sky and weaving colors into different contours of illusions, another day passed into piles of unidentified lost days, he cried, tears whose meaning vanished into unnamed sad violet color bordering the horizon.
One mother was teaching her daughter to ride the cycle. As usual in his recent childhood, being exceptional he escaped childhood when it usually happens and he is living it now, he remembered his mother by slight reference. Choked, he kept looking at mother-daughter. He didn't remember anything, any incidence when mother taught him anything, except ordering him to eat all vegetables, keeping shoes in shoe rack and forgetting to keep her own and punishing him for not behaving modestly at her friend's house. Yet, he thought about her as woman of substance and kept choking. Tears have some amplifying mechanism. They kept excavating you deep and some unknown pains grip you and you feel them so familiar.
He felt like sleeping for a while. Where? Thats an old problem. Finding a place to sleep. A place where one can sleep without any feeling of entity called 'others'. Others are dangerous. They just change you. If you look at yourself, by being yourself, it is totally different than what you will look to yourself when you see yourself by becoming others. He has fear about others, especially those who can uproot all superstitions he has kept about himself and make himself unreflected in any mirror of references. Though becoming conscious is gift, he cannot afford it. Somebody said so long back....
Well, he thought, where to sleep. He took bus, against the crowd so that it will be silent, quiet and can provide sort of undisturbed corner to nourish his grief. He took one book out of his bag, Line reads, 'I have and have been committing mistakes.I felt like having chickens inside me. They kept hatching and multiplying themselves. And now they have occupied all the space so that there is no way to keep memories of right thing I did.' Fuck off!! He kept book in his hand and looked outside the window, from edges of flyover to last silver line of the day sky and thought about the line. He is no different that what that line is. So true as like many other things book tell. Only thing is they tell it when things happen first. Theorizing life depends on the next turn life takes. Turn alters and so the theory.
Yet his question of where to sleep for the night is unresolved. He purchased ticket to roam through the city. Night is falling, through yellow sodium vepors, through shines of malls, through scarce breeze of coastal wind and through words, like patternless drums, ringing in his mind. Memories, books, movies, some said and unsaid conversations and deluding silence of meaning... He is the bus, going nowhere...
He thought about drinking. But there is not any sponser who can accompany him at this moment. And, it is really inefficient to drink when you have less money to spend. You need to consume more alcohol when you drink by your own money. A constant worry of out of pocket expenditure slows the poisoning and hence delays journey into terrains of self full-filling narratives, written in first person and decorated with many heartbreaking phrases. He passed in front of bar. There are few drinking inside and same steady face waiters serving them with unsaid pity on their face. He thought positive points of his decision, this is self optimistic mechanism he has with him from childhood. 'Morning will be better if I don't drink now. cheap alcohol causes headaches and expensive causes delayed headache accompanied with financial crisis.' Suddenly, thought of morning caused some sort of aches in some unidentified spot of his mind. Do I really want it till morning? And what sort of night is needed to have one plane vanilla morning? He entered his whirlpools again, sinking into mud of his own cause and effect mechanisms. Conversations started echoing in his head, he started begging and crying for understanding him, mirage which he hasn't understood yet, he explained and got counter explained. He felt tired in middle of the flowing road, sun setting over west, clouds steady in the sky and weaving colors into different contours of illusions, another day passed into piles of unidentified lost days, he cried, tears whose meaning vanished into unnamed sad violet color bordering the horizon.
One mother was teaching her daughter to ride the cycle. As usual in his recent childhood, being exceptional he escaped childhood when it usually happens and he is living it now, he remembered his mother by slight reference. Choked, he kept looking at mother-daughter. He didn't remember anything, any incidence when mother taught him anything, except ordering him to eat all vegetables, keeping shoes in shoe rack and forgetting to keep her own and punishing him for not behaving modestly at her friend's house. Yet, he thought about her as woman of substance and kept choking. Tears have some amplifying mechanism. They kept excavating you deep and some unknown pains grip you and you feel them so familiar.
He felt like sleeping for a while. Where? Thats an old problem. Finding a place to sleep. A place where one can sleep without any feeling of entity called 'others'. Others are dangerous. They just change you. If you look at yourself, by being yourself, it is totally different than what you will look to yourself when you see yourself by becoming others. He has fear about others, especially those who can uproot all superstitions he has kept about himself and make himself unreflected in any mirror of references. Though becoming conscious is gift, he cannot afford it. Somebody said so long back....
Well, he thought, where to sleep. He took bus, against the crowd so that it will be silent, quiet and can provide sort of undisturbed corner to nourish his grief. He took one book out of his bag, Line reads, 'I have and have been committing mistakes.I felt like having chickens inside me. They kept hatching and multiplying themselves. And now they have occupied all the space so that there is no way to keep memories of right thing I did.' Fuck off!! He kept book in his hand and looked outside the window, from edges of flyover to last silver line of the day sky and thought about the line. He is no different that what that line is. So true as like many other things book tell. Only thing is they tell it when things happen first. Theorizing life depends on the next turn life takes. Turn alters and so the theory.
Yet his question of where to sleep for the night is unresolved. He purchased ticket to roam through the city. Night is falling, through yellow sodium vepors, through shines of malls, through scarce breeze of coastal wind and through words, like patternless drums, ringing in his mind. Memories, books, movies, some said and unsaid conversations and deluding silence of meaning... He is the bus, going nowhere...
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Malai Pav
Its about Malaipav. I had one about half an hour back.
Malaipav is nothing great. Sugar layer is put on cream separated from fresh milk and served in soccer. With it, set of two hard to break and hard to bite bread, 'Kadakpav'.Malaipav has time dimension which turns it in a kind of thrilling food. There are lot many other things that adds to it and make it a memorable event.
first thing first, malaipav is served at 3.30 in the morning and stocks are vanished if you reach there at 4.30 am. So there are always 20 men, all who are up throughout the night, gathered near entrance of the shop. then comes a pair of servant and owner, owner always in his stripe night dress, supposedly he has 5 of same pattern, and owner joins group of youngster while servant opens the shop with no hurry. there are few people already inside and they have arranged dishes, prepared few other delicacies like payapav, khima and chicken.
once shop is opened, all people waiting outside run towards shop, even owner. then owner grabs his place near entrance, which is opened to allow just one entry at a time. suddenly place is filled with shouts, fumes and noises of plates, empty and full. kitchen is same for last years, tea pot is of the sort which is easily considered to be antique and service is no doubt prompt, you order and one sitting next to you get served. People come in group and mingle with other groups involuntarily. Hot gravy is served as per demand and you get small drops of that delicious gravy on tiny exposure of your leg skin, between your trouser and sandal and you are sure, its pretty hot. No sorry, No argument, offer document is carefully read before entering.
this shop is situated in Muslim dominated part of the city. however Malaipav and other dishes are secular. there is evident voraciousness in everybody who eats there and it is not ugly. A night reaches a good, fulfilled end with Malaipav. I don't know what these coinsours do after they leave shop. But they must not be sleeping. What I and my friends often do is to take a walk around, walk through empty and somnolent streets, there is nothing to talk about, eyelids are heavy and stomach is full.
I heard about Malaipav from my school. It is kind of teenage legend to boast about visit to Malaipav shop. When I visited first I was expecting some well prepared dish, but I loved the simplest preparation of Malaipav.
Every city has such places, I guess which farm kind of folklore of that city. there are late night tea vendors, burjipav, Paan shops and Malaipav. This makes night worth wasting. Crucial is hour before shop opens, Malaipav shop, around 2.30. you will feel sleepy, feel like there is no point in eating Malaipav when it is just cream and sugar and bread, there is point in waking up on time and everything else which is fine and perfect. Keep yourself up, your home doesn't have such ambiance, you don't really mix cream with sugar and eat with bread loafs, waking up early morning is what most people do most of the days, and more importantly, you will be proud when next day, when your friends ask you reason of swollen eyes, you will have answer and that is too, sugarcoated Malaipav.
Malaipav is nothing great. Sugar layer is put on cream separated from fresh milk and served in soccer. With it, set of two hard to break and hard to bite bread, 'Kadakpav'.Malaipav has time dimension which turns it in a kind of thrilling food. There are lot many other things that adds to it and make it a memorable event.
first thing first, malaipav is served at 3.30 in the morning and stocks are vanished if you reach there at 4.30 am. So there are always 20 men, all who are up throughout the night, gathered near entrance of the shop. then comes a pair of servant and owner, owner always in his stripe night dress, supposedly he has 5 of same pattern, and owner joins group of youngster while servant opens the shop with no hurry. there are few people already inside and they have arranged dishes, prepared few other delicacies like payapav, khima and chicken.
once shop is opened, all people waiting outside run towards shop, even owner. then owner grabs his place near entrance, which is opened to allow just one entry at a time. suddenly place is filled with shouts, fumes and noises of plates, empty and full. kitchen is same for last years, tea pot is of the sort which is easily considered to be antique and service is no doubt prompt, you order and one sitting next to you get served. People come in group and mingle with other groups involuntarily. Hot gravy is served as per demand and you get small drops of that delicious gravy on tiny exposure of your leg skin, between your trouser and sandal and you are sure, its pretty hot. No sorry, No argument, offer document is carefully read before entering.
this shop is situated in Muslim dominated part of the city. however Malaipav and other dishes are secular. there is evident voraciousness in everybody who eats there and it is not ugly. A night reaches a good, fulfilled end with Malaipav. I don't know what these coinsours do after they leave shop. But they must not be sleeping. What I and my friends often do is to take a walk around, walk through empty and somnolent streets, there is nothing to talk about, eyelids are heavy and stomach is full.
I heard about Malaipav from my school. It is kind of teenage legend to boast about visit to Malaipav shop. When I visited first I was expecting some well prepared dish, but I loved the simplest preparation of Malaipav.
Every city has such places, I guess which farm kind of folklore of that city. there are late night tea vendors, burjipav, Paan shops and Malaipav. This makes night worth wasting. Crucial is hour before shop opens, Malaipav shop, around 2.30. you will feel sleepy, feel like there is no point in eating Malaipav when it is just cream and sugar and bread, there is point in waking up on time and everything else which is fine and perfect. Keep yourself up, your home doesn't have such ambiance, you don't really mix cream with sugar and eat with bread loafs, waking up early morning is what most people do most of the days, and more importantly, you will be proud when next day, when your friends ask you reason of swollen eyes, you will have answer and that is too, sugarcoated Malaipav.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Public Sentiments
http://www.dnaindia.com/sport/report_stop-treading-on-india-sports-ministry-tells-ipl_1369173
I happen to read above news at the start of my time. And it talks about 'public sentiments'. And, it talks about 'IPL' which I guess will be ranked as most talked about concept in contemporary discussions. Yet, there not yet much research literature about IPL which seems puzzling to me. May be Lalit Modi doesn't seem to be much fan of the academia or he hasn't purchased it yet.
SP about the article. You might click (it's not clickable here in my blog)the link and have your share of fun.
1. How player running on 'Building India' logo going to harm nation?
2. If one agrees that such act is going to cause harm to public sentiments, then how painting Indian flag on the skin by spectators doesn't harm public sentiments? There can be many other incidents, but let me have only this counter example as it is happening within few meters from 'controversial' DLF logo.
Yet, there is some positive in Sports Ministry's voice against IPL. There should be somebody speaking against, especially a gigantic business plan like IPL. There are numerous cricket pundits who are speaking against or cautioning against IPL as sooner or later IPL is going to harm beauty of Cricket as a game and will convert game into some 'Hit-&-Run' movie. I have curiosity over valuation of franchise and players. I haven't made comparison with English Premier League, but I guess even though EPL is also market based activity, it has much deeper sports and social culture tied with it. It seems daydreaming that over the years IPL will take the same course because it is very difficult to come from bigger level activity to micro social activities while EPL got evolved through village level competitive football and later transformed into commodified event. Though IPL is providing stage to domestic players, there are limitations to penetration of IPL to gully and grounds where cricket originates and is played only as a game.
My greater interest is about public sentiments. If one agrees that public sentiment is harmed and national pride is devalued by running on logo 'Building India' then extending logic to reasonable ends, one must remain conscious of so many visual and other impacts on the values that we face day to day. Are individual's and community's sentiments are so prone to visual and other media impacts?
If not, then why we should worry about where our flags are used or thrown? After all if we are not much driven by symbols, we should not worry what is happening with symbol but should think about what symbol means.
Our courts often produce surprising result and then provoke media debates. The baseline question of what influences what and importantly, to what extent is neglected. With behavioral sciences getting shape and incidence of mass hysteria ubiquitous, this question of roots of our behavior is not just of interest but of importance too.
I happen to read above news at the start of my time. And it talks about 'public sentiments'. And, it talks about 'IPL' which I guess will be ranked as most talked about concept in contemporary discussions. Yet, there not yet much research literature about IPL which seems puzzling to me. May be Lalit Modi doesn't seem to be much fan of the academia or he hasn't purchased it yet.
SP about the article. You might click (it's not clickable here in my blog)the link and have your share of fun.
1. How player running on 'Building India' logo going to harm nation?
2. If one agrees that such act is going to cause harm to public sentiments, then how painting Indian flag on the skin by spectators doesn't harm public sentiments? There can be many other incidents, but let me have only this counter example as it is happening within few meters from 'controversial' DLF logo.
Yet, there is some positive in Sports Ministry's voice against IPL. There should be somebody speaking against, especially a gigantic business plan like IPL. There are numerous cricket pundits who are speaking against or cautioning against IPL as sooner or later IPL is going to harm beauty of Cricket as a game and will convert game into some 'Hit-&-Run' movie. I have curiosity over valuation of franchise and players. I haven't made comparison with English Premier League, but I guess even though EPL is also market based activity, it has much deeper sports and social culture tied with it. It seems daydreaming that over the years IPL will take the same course because it is very difficult to come from bigger level activity to micro social activities while EPL got evolved through village level competitive football and later transformed into commodified event. Though IPL is providing stage to domestic players, there are limitations to penetration of IPL to gully and grounds where cricket originates and is played only as a game.
My greater interest is about public sentiments. If one agrees that public sentiment is harmed and national pride is devalued by running on logo 'Building India' then extending logic to reasonable ends, one must remain conscious of so many visual and other impacts on the values that we face day to day. Are individual's and community's sentiments are so prone to visual and other media impacts?
If not, then why we should worry about where our flags are used or thrown? After all if we are not much driven by symbols, we should not worry what is happening with symbol but should think about what symbol means.
Our courts often produce surprising result and then provoke media debates. The baseline question of what influences what and importantly, to what extent is neglected. With behavioral sciences getting shape and incidence of mass hysteria ubiquitous, this question of roots of our behavior is not just of interest but of importance too.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Restless
I am awake throughout the night. I am restless as if i am ending an age which I lived, like a burden, like a cage and yet i tried to love it as much as i can. I had been through stories for the night. Stories of utmost human courage, stories of brighter life and stories of life unexplainable in any pattern of meanings. Where will be i am tomorrow? Where will be these woods, hiding in the corner of city and displaying whatever they have to offer? I drank one evening last day, i was choked as if all zest i have stored for my actions was leaving me, then suddenly I entered a spell, a lyrical feat, which is carrying me into some unknown rapture, I am conscious that it will be grand fall once this spell ends, but i am helpless as i am enchanted. I am feeling you, I am feeling all those who are shaping my words, i feel these sunrises and sunsets, I feel all colours and vivid expressions of sky, i feel music of all languages and un-languages which kept me warm in dry hours of self search, and i feel futility that my words carry, and yet they are the only thing i have, as my own, unique and without any doubt.
My heartbeats should stop now suddenly. I do not want to creep into future or find myself dragging from the past. I do not want to seek for any listener of these rotten words, which have nothing of their own as they are always carrier of something beautiful apart from them, or i do not wish to dive into bottomless fathoms of myself. I want to end at this moment, when new day is spreading its marvel outside, all the chords of life are ready the echo into their unison and the only secret of existence is now imbibed in my veins. I will be transformed; I will be alive as Rilke says ‘Life is lived in the transformations’, but the form I had before this is decaying, signs are getting lost into this flood of words, tide of expression is occupying all unknown terrain of dreams, I am withering into silence...
I remember poems now, which are carved in my mind. Every poem is same, even though it is knitted into different knots of languages. It has poet’s soul which burns between the lines, which is lost into region which poem explores, buried into meaning where poem signals and alive in the one who carves the poem into one’s heart, mind, soul and remain cursed for all the life after that moment.
My heartbeats should stop now suddenly. I do not want to creep into future or find myself dragging from the past. I do not want to seek for any listener of these rotten words, which have nothing of their own as they are always carrier of something beautiful apart from them, or i do not wish to dive into bottomless fathoms of myself. I want to end at this moment, when new day is spreading its marvel outside, all the chords of life are ready the echo into their unison and the only secret of existence is now imbibed in my veins. I will be transformed; I will be alive as Rilke says ‘Life is lived in the transformations’, but the form I had before this is decaying, signs are getting lost into this flood of words, tide of expression is occupying all unknown terrain of dreams, I am withering into silence...
I remember poems now, which are carved in my mind. Every poem is same, even though it is knitted into different knots of languages. It has poet’s soul which burns between the lines, which is lost into region which poem explores, buried into meaning where poem signals and alive in the one who carves the poem into one’s heart, mind, soul and remain cursed for all the life after that moment.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Stories at evening
The end is not just one time phenomenon. I experience it every evening, when I sit with myself, thoughts and images of past and future lingering around me and there is nothing but a thin membrane of something unknown between me and melancholy of fading day present in everything around.
I have a book in my hand, last few pages left. It is difficult to read stories which pull you inside them and make yourself appear in not just one but many characters of them. You see yourself torn not just this great pull, but by shake of your image you held with yourself, being one, not scattered and repetition of many. I am soaked into floods and storms of the story. I am feeling increasingly tired as story is nearing the climax. And, stories, for they are not like or much alike life, do not have ends, but plethora of nods, each leading to end which you sketch. I will not experience my end. I will experience all the ‘ends’ which hare not mine, but connected to me. Like this day, like this story, like this phase of time, like these words, like this evening, I will be nothing but an observer, helpless and left with some withered expressions.
A strange anaz is in the surrounding. I remember evenings when I used to sit on the shore of creek and similar pale voice used to fill the air from nearby mosque. City has not penetrated all islands of silence then. The sun used to hide into other ends of the water, reminiscence of losses spread over the calm surface of water, boats carrying tired sailors anchored in near-midstream and I, a boy with nothing as guilt or burden of time evidencing this. It was not like this. I never felt evening like this when I was actually there. I am fooling my mind by covering it in nostalgia.
Stories end, but somewhere near the end of one story, other one begins its journey. There is no perfect end or destruction as there is no perfect creation. Everything resembles something previous. That’s how I am able to connect, wit stories happening in space and time unknown to me, with space and time which is never in those stories.
The spell is ending, of the story, of the evening. Now, what I will do? My limbs are weak. I am feeling drained. I will see this story everywhere for few days, until a new story will grip me. it is just crust and troughs of stories, dreams and memories, guilt and prides woven in strange pattern, but with astonishing consistency and appearance which eludes every time and then disappears one day, and then everything is just same, dull and boring as it is for last so many days.
Now poems are rippling on the skin, evening has sunk deep into time and I am watching these lines, passing away, somewhere, nowhere….
I have a book in my hand, last few pages left. It is difficult to read stories which pull you inside them and make yourself appear in not just one but many characters of them. You see yourself torn not just this great pull, but by shake of your image you held with yourself, being one, not scattered and repetition of many. I am soaked into floods and storms of the story. I am feeling increasingly tired as story is nearing the climax. And, stories, for they are not like or much alike life, do not have ends, but plethora of nods, each leading to end which you sketch. I will not experience my end. I will experience all the ‘ends’ which hare not mine, but connected to me. Like this day, like this story, like this phase of time, like these words, like this evening, I will be nothing but an observer, helpless and left with some withered expressions.
A strange anaz is in the surrounding. I remember evenings when I used to sit on the shore of creek and similar pale voice used to fill the air from nearby mosque. City has not penetrated all islands of silence then. The sun used to hide into other ends of the water, reminiscence of losses spread over the calm surface of water, boats carrying tired sailors anchored in near-midstream and I, a boy with nothing as guilt or burden of time evidencing this. It was not like this. I never felt evening like this when I was actually there. I am fooling my mind by covering it in nostalgia.
Stories end, but somewhere near the end of one story, other one begins its journey. There is no perfect end or destruction as there is no perfect creation. Everything resembles something previous. That’s how I am able to connect, wit stories happening in space and time unknown to me, with space and time which is never in those stories.
The spell is ending, of the story, of the evening. Now, what I will do? My limbs are weak. I am feeling drained. I will see this story everywhere for few days, until a new story will grip me. it is just crust and troughs of stories, dreams and memories, guilt and prides woven in strange pattern, but with astonishing consistency and appearance which eludes every time and then disappears one day, and then everything is just same, dull and boring as it is for last so many days.
Now poems are rippling on the skin, evening has sunk deep into time and I am watching these lines, passing away, somewhere, nowhere….
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
The last lesson
Every story generates its listener when that story comes into being, into the mind of somebody or into the surroundings of the one who ultimately tells it. And, stories do not exist without listeners. Even when it is not told to anybody, it is repeated into the mind and heard by the one who tells it too.
It is difficult to live anybody in mid of fiction or reality. Encounters should be without any anticipatory images formed in the mind or anticipations and imaginations should not culminate into anything real and approximate.
I do not know how I will be in the future. I want to submerge into pool of people living continuously around me. I want to watch formations and interactions of personalities. I want to see how people come together, cross initial mud of disbeliefs, form mutual trust and then how uncertainties rolling over them wither all what have been achieved, even with careful and delicate balance of human actions and diverging intentions. It is not I am sadist. But, I am not really ‘optimistic preacher’ which will sooner or later proclaim about some ultimate truth, happy and eternal.
Or I wish I should be just away from them. But, these questions are engrossing. Once one start thinking about them, it is difficult to leave them completely. They haunt, they elude and they keep you in their mystery, almost forever.
The every end generates new possibilities. This is what we hear right from childhood or adolescences when we first experience some end, in family or in school or in relations with people or animal or things with which we live. Soon we forget and jumps into honkey dorey state and feel like ‘life is just happiness’. Then again it goes back to ultimatum, again we console ourselves with age old wisdoms, but we do not really live it. I am writing it, am I living it?
So about the story.
They all have gathered into vast roads of the city. They were not shouting, not crying, and not seeking any familiarities with people of the city. They have brought many creatures with them. They have animals, some of them were declared ‘extinct’ by city scholars with statistical significance, some plants which were not yet listed into piles of Ph.D.s and some smells, voices, touches, none of which are listed into giga or tera storages of information. They are not having any identity cards and they were not filling any applications. They were just standing, chatting with each other in friendly murmur, hugging each other, caressing animals and birds and plants, listening to voices, experiencing touches and just keeping themselves away and yet into shadows of familiarities from city.
News has spread in the city about empty villages and empty fields and empty sanctuaries, museums and empty conservated areas. But, since nobody is elected from empty lands, nobody has asked news channels to cover such ‘emptiness’. The worries have reduced about resources with such vacancies. In the night, some librarians have reported that few books have turned blank. Some of them are travelogues of jungles, fictions about land where people lived with their mystics and symbiosis with something called ‘nature’ and voyages into hitherto unknown then. Since, there is nothing new and unknown left now, nobody is worried about such disappearance. After all, past leaves its relevance quickly these days.
They formed some sort of arrangements, not like marching forces. It is gregarious flock of friends, going for beloved destination. They started walking, towards boundaries of city, near the sea. They walked, in the afternoon gaze of sun, in reflections of them into mirrors of sky-scrapers and through roads full with wonders of automation. They walked, barefoot, bare skin and with tidy nakedness of their unnoticed existence. Soon, some songs flew in the air, whistles of woods, calls of birds and animals and conversations of man with another man.
They reached the shore. Now sea waves are running among their feet. Sun is about to set, but paused momentarily with bemusement. One of them came in front of them. He has rugged smile and enriched years on his face. He said, in soft, unwaving voice,” this is it my friends. This far and no further. Our friends living in the city are in trouble. Their ideas are blocked by our innocent but foolish amalgamations with the land, water and time in which we live. They see much further than what we see. They listen much sharply than we can and more than all this, they cannot come back to us, even though we remember that once they were part of us, we bidded them farewell since they promised to bring back us our dreams in real life. Now space which we have occupied, not on earth but in their conscious and trouble which we are causing, not of adjusting our retarded lifestyle into their, but of making sense of our irrationalities into their perfect system of meaning, let’s give them what we deserve. It is not outrage, anger but simple act of accepting that we do not belong here. See, this huge canvas before our eyes, sea and the beautiful blue limits in which we soon depart.” He smiled, few tears rolled on his otherwise calm face. Others stood metamorphosed for few moments, and then they looked at whatever surrounded them, filled all their senses with memories but no dreams and started walking into depths of sea.
Soon, with last few rays of sun left, they all are peacefully assimilated into sea. Part which cannot be separated from it, part of sea from what once first living being crawled out. They completed the circle.
………. In the night, one child, as child often does what it is not supposed to do, hurriedly wake up mother. “What?” mother said. “I am not seeing any dreams” child said with touch of loss. Mother looked at child, may be helplessly, as answers have submerged and cannot be traced now.
It is difficult to live anybody in mid of fiction or reality. Encounters should be without any anticipatory images formed in the mind or anticipations and imaginations should not culminate into anything real and approximate.
I do not know how I will be in the future. I want to submerge into pool of people living continuously around me. I want to watch formations and interactions of personalities. I want to see how people come together, cross initial mud of disbeliefs, form mutual trust and then how uncertainties rolling over them wither all what have been achieved, even with careful and delicate balance of human actions and diverging intentions. It is not I am sadist. But, I am not really ‘optimistic preacher’ which will sooner or later proclaim about some ultimate truth, happy and eternal.
Or I wish I should be just away from them. But, these questions are engrossing. Once one start thinking about them, it is difficult to leave them completely. They haunt, they elude and they keep you in their mystery, almost forever.
The every end generates new possibilities. This is what we hear right from childhood or adolescences when we first experience some end, in family or in school or in relations with people or animal or things with which we live. Soon we forget and jumps into honkey dorey state and feel like ‘life is just happiness’. Then again it goes back to ultimatum, again we console ourselves with age old wisdoms, but we do not really live it. I am writing it, am I living it?
So about the story.
They all have gathered into vast roads of the city. They were not shouting, not crying, and not seeking any familiarities with people of the city. They have brought many creatures with them. They have animals, some of them were declared ‘extinct’ by city scholars with statistical significance, some plants which were not yet listed into piles of Ph.D.s and some smells, voices, touches, none of which are listed into giga or tera storages of information. They are not having any identity cards and they were not filling any applications. They were just standing, chatting with each other in friendly murmur, hugging each other, caressing animals and birds and plants, listening to voices, experiencing touches and just keeping themselves away and yet into shadows of familiarities from city.
News has spread in the city about empty villages and empty fields and empty sanctuaries, museums and empty conservated areas. But, since nobody is elected from empty lands, nobody has asked news channels to cover such ‘emptiness’. The worries have reduced about resources with such vacancies. In the night, some librarians have reported that few books have turned blank. Some of them are travelogues of jungles, fictions about land where people lived with their mystics and symbiosis with something called ‘nature’ and voyages into hitherto unknown then. Since, there is nothing new and unknown left now, nobody is worried about such disappearance. After all, past leaves its relevance quickly these days.
They formed some sort of arrangements, not like marching forces. It is gregarious flock of friends, going for beloved destination. They started walking, towards boundaries of city, near the sea. They walked, in the afternoon gaze of sun, in reflections of them into mirrors of sky-scrapers and through roads full with wonders of automation. They walked, barefoot, bare skin and with tidy nakedness of their unnoticed existence. Soon, some songs flew in the air, whistles of woods, calls of birds and animals and conversations of man with another man.
They reached the shore. Now sea waves are running among their feet. Sun is about to set, but paused momentarily with bemusement. One of them came in front of them. He has rugged smile and enriched years on his face. He said, in soft, unwaving voice,” this is it my friends. This far and no further. Our friends living in the city are in trouble. Their ideas are blocked by our innocent but foolish amalgamations with the land, water and time in which we live. They see much further than what we see. They listen much sharply than we can and more than all this, they cannot come back to us, even though we remember that once they were part of us, we bidded them farewell since they promised to bring back us our dreams in real life. Now space which we have occupied, not on earth but in their conscious and trouble which we are causing, not of adjusting our retarded lifestyle into their, but of making sense of our irrationalities into their perfect system of meaning, let’s give them what we deserve. It is not outrage, anger but simple act of accepting that we do not belong here. See, this huge canvas before our eyes, sea and the beautiful blue limits in which we soon depart.” He smiled, few tears rolled on his otherwise calm face. Others stood metamorphosed for few moments, and then they looked at whatever surrounded them, filled all their senses with memories but no dreams and started walking into depths of sea.
Soon, with last few rays of sun left, they all are peacefully assimilated into sea. Part which cannot be separated from it, part of sea from what once first living being crawled out. They completed the circle.
………. In the night, one child, as child often does what it is not supposed to do, hurriedly wake up mother. “What?” mother said. “I am not seeing any dreams” child said with touch of loss. Mother looked at child, may be helplessly, as answers have submerged and cannot be traced now.
Before and After
http://www.guardian.co.uk/society/gallery/2008/mar/31/lifebeforedeath?picture=333325401
Got this link with some random search. Google is awesome!!
People with happy faces are dying with sad ones and vice versa for complaining people.
One woman looks like my granny and my granny is still alive...
Does somebody looks familier to anybody known and alive to you? Don't try really!
Got this link with some random search. Google is awesome!!
People with happy faces are dying with sad ones and vice versa for complaining people.
One woman looks like my granny and my granny is still alive...
Does somebody looks familier to anybody known and alive to you? Don't try really!
Precautions
I can’t listen to silence. Silence falls. It doesn’t come or cannot be invited.
The problem in attempt of living stories and poems is simple. They are hardly real. Especially you try to live stories of others; it ends up in misplaced notions about yourself. Either have your own story or just live. No story is needed to live. Life exists and flourishes with itself. This is not i intend to write, but carry on...
From childhood I have been introduced to harmful things. Language and past are most hazardous among them. Language ruined me as I started believing it as cornerstone of interactions. Today only I realized it is the best tool of selfish achievements. Even freeing your own sorrows, tiny or gigantic, are selfish! Past has many burdens. It makes me to have identity. Identity cannot be searched. The more it is searched, the more lost it is. Some people have identity and they are homogeneously tied with it. They are lucky!
One should not learn probability. It doesn’t allow answering in ‘yes’ and ‘no’. Most of the problems do not remain problems if they are put in yes/no framework.
Silence is very illusive. It deceives you very cleverly. It gives you the feeling that you are experiencing a silence. It is just a ploy for next turmoil. Practical way of reducing pains is curtail the happiness which starts them. As example, it means have abortion; it will avoid pains of death for that child in future. But future is again tricky phenomenon. Information is fluid essential for any movement through time or space or people. More information, easy the movement. Future is state for which information can be of many type. Somehow, information is more than required for past sometimes.
Balance is with us from childhood. We get it in our walking by making mistakes, and most of us loose it until they die. This is cycle as every other thing.
This writing is sarcastic and unfortunately, it is or will or was true. Truth is useless if it is time and space independent.
There are always alternate definitions and sometimes more appropriate.
You can listen to songs, birds, vehicles, leaves, yells, tunes, murmurs, whispers, shouts, machines, clouds, animals, yourself, someone else, god, speech, death and many more...
What cannot be listened is silence... what cannot be contradicted is contradiction....
Poems are hazardous. They can cause emotional cancer. It grows and occupies rapidly. There are medicines with simple side-effect- death.
The problem in attempt of living stories and poems is simple. They are hardly real. Especially you try to live stories of others; it ends up in misplaced notions about yourself. Either have your own story or just live. No story is needed to live. Life exists and flourishes with itself. This is not i intend to write, but carry on...
From childhood I have been introduced to harmful things. Language and past are most hazardous among them. Language ruined me as I started believing it as cornerstone of interactions. Today only I realized it is the best tool of selfish achievements. Even freeing your own sorrows, tiny or gigantic, are selfish! Past has many burdens. It makes me to have identity. Identity cannot be searched. The more it is searched, the more lost it is. Some people have identity and they are homogeneously tied with it. They are lucky!
One should not learn probability. It doesn’t allow answering in ‘yes’ and ‘no’. Most of the problems do not remain problems if they are put in yes/no framework.
Silence is very illusive. It deceives you very cleverly. It gives you the feeling that you are experiencing a silence. It is just a ploy for next turmoil. Practical way of reducing pains is curtail the happiness which starts them. As example, it means have abortion; it will avoid pains of death for that child in future. But future is again tricky phenomenon. Information is fluid essential for any movement through time or space or people. More information, easy the movement. Future is state for which information can be of many type. Somehow, information is more than required for past sometimes.
Balance is with us from childhood. We get it in our walking by making mistakes, and most of us loose it until they die. This is cycle as every other thing.
This writing is sarcastic and unfortunately, it is or will or was true. Truth is useless if it is time and space independent.
There are always alternate definitions and sometimes more appropriate.
You can listen to songs, birds, vehicles, leaves, yells, tunes, murmurs, whispers, shouts, machines, clouds, animals, yourself, someone else, god, speech, death and many more...
What cannot be listened is silence... what cannot be contradicted is contradiction....
Poems are hazardous. They can cause emotional cancer. It grows and occupies rapidly. There are medicines with simple side-effect- death.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Dance! Dance!!
Its music penetrating every spot of the skin. whole body is thirsty to get more and more. as every beat hits the skin, it passes through veins and converts into movement of body. I don't know what the song is, I don't who is dancing with me, I don't know what will be after, I don't know what will be before. It is close, close to madness, but not madness as I am able to recall it and write this dance of words. My fingers dancing on keyboard, voices and yells yet loud in ears and asking me, Dance! Dance!!
Brain is confused for the escatacy. It doesn't know it is alcohol ruling it or it is sheer joy of putting all body, all existence to one and one coherent rhythm that makes it go wild. It demands every pleasure that it can have. It demands every wild passion it can experience. It demands this state to be continued forever. Dance! Dance!!
And it is just not me. There are people around me dancing. Walls are dancing. Air is dancing and so the everything that my senses can sense. And above all, past and future are just sublimating into joy of being my own this moment. I feel myself. I feel every action of mine. I feel myself, close to everybody, yet defined uniquely by my own. Dance! Dance!!
You should have been here. No, it's better you are not here dancing around me. It's nice that dream is yet accomplished. Wounds of loss are fresh. They are crying to conquer, to roar a loud and massive cry of victory. And, yet, I am passing quickly to a rapture which will be away from every such counting. It's music, it's that wild thunder-beat which would have made my primitive ancestors dance. It is lightening, it is first rain touching thirsty earth, it is passion which brings a man to a woman and it is bell which tolls for everybody who dreams. It is tolling now, it is calling now, it is asking to submerge into pool of waves of music, music that accompanies us right from our birth and ends into silence forever. Before such silence grips and everything falls into endless peace, Dance! Dance!!
Brain is confused for the escatacy. It doesn't know it is alcohol ruling it or it is sheer joy of putting all body, all existence to one and one coherent rhythm that makes it go wild. It demands every pleasure that it can have. It demands every wild passion it can experience. It demands this state to be continued forever. Dance! Dance!!
And it is just not me. There are people around me dancing. Walls are dancing. Air is dancing and so the everything that my senses can sense. And above all, past and future are just sublimating into joy of being my own this moment. I feel myself. I feel every action of mine. I feel myself, close to everybody, yet defined uniquely by my own. Dance! Dance!!
You should have been here. No, it's better you are not here dancing around me. It's nice that dream is yet accomplished. Wounds of loss are fresh. They are crying to conquer, to roar a loud and massive cry of victory. And, yet, I am passing quickly to a rapture which will be away from every such counting. It's music, it's that wild thunder-beat which would have made my primitive ancestors dance. It is lightening, it is first rain touching thirsty earth, it is passion which brings a man to a woman and it is bell which tolls for everybody who dreams. It is tolling now, it is calling now, it is asking to submerge into pool of waves of music, music that accompanies us right from our birth and ends into silence forever. Before such silence grips and everything falls into endless peace, Dance! Dance!!
To Myself
To myself
Dear,
This is the only time I am using ‘dear’ as you are the only existence which I love most and at the same time, as I am feeling now, I feel bored of and wish to end. There is no great loss, but series of tiny but acute failures which is pushing inch and inch forward, either to break every connection with ‘others’ or on the verge of explode and vanish. It is time, as it was before on many occasions, to put the head down and accept that you are limited, nothing special or gifted but a wayward dreamer and most important, without a useful thing called ‘luck’. Life is nothing but continued boredom when there is no central, burning passion that keeps you restless every moment. You don’t have one. Dear, understand. There is nothing wrong being like everybody else. Remember, you used to run faster among others once. You used to hate and compete everybody who seems to cross you. Where are you now? Looser, you haven’t left the race and you are dreaming to win it when you have been thrown out. Tick, tock, tick, tock, listen, madman, your time is finishing soon. Do you see a laugh on all those faces watching you sunk? Don’t you see pains that you are putting on those who put hopes on you? Your shoulders are down with continued failures to keep yourself on track. You messed up every role, kept running away, faked everybody with ephemeral promises and now, you don’t even recognize yourself.
Looser! Looser!! Down! Down!!
Dear,
This is the only time I am using ‘dear’ as you are the only existence which I love most and at the same time, as I am feeling now, I feel bored of and wish to end. There is no great loss, but series of tiny but acute failures which is pushing inch and inch forward, either to break every connection with ‘others’ or on the verge of explode and vanish. It is time, as it was before on many occasions, to put the head down and accept that you are limited, nothing special or gifted but a wayward dreamer and most important, without a useful thing called ‘luck’. Life is nothing but continued boredom when there is no central, burning passion that keeps you restless every moment. You don’t have one. Dear, understand. There is nothing wrong being like everybody else. Remember, you used to run faster among others once. You used to hate and compete everybody who seems to cross you. Where are you now? Looser, you haven’t left the race and you are dreaming to win it when you have been thrown out. Tick, tock, tick, tock, listen, madman, your time is finishing soon. Do you see a laugh on all those faces watching you sunk? Don’t you see pains that you are putting on those who put hopes on you? Your shoulders are down with continued failures to keep yourself on track. You messed up every role, kept running away, faked everybody with ephemeral promises and now, you don’t even recognize yourself.
Looser! Looser!! Down! Down!!
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Thoughts of a passerby
I am walking and I am feeling this road very diferently. I walk here everyday, but right now I feel the soft and subtle sound of falling leaves, nascent murmur of birds yet hidden in darkness and silent sleeping in all the homes around. It is early morning. I have some sense of satisfaction for rare chain of hours engrossed in work. I am thinking, restless to create my own models of reality and venture into intricasies of human actions as an observer. And, I feel time around me, passing slowly, slower than it usually goes and I see a small window to look into future.
In 50 years, population of earth will be doubled. Currently it is 6000 million. Earth's radius is 6400 Km. So it gives 2 X 3.14 X 6400 X 6400 area which comes as 257228800 square Km. Out of this only 1/4th is available as land. So it becomes 64307200 square kilometers. And, not all this area is available for cultivation or building houses. I can go along to sketch the doom. But thats not the point.
May be we will manage such a doubling. But then what will be this city which is currently overflowing? It will skyscrapers, subways and many things which I am not able to visualise now. But then will there be morning which i feel right now? Will there be a huge tree which is home for birds, shade for passerby and a simple symbol of life which can outweigh all efforts of uprooting? Will there be a place near to home where evening breeze can fly you in nostalgic memories and then moon light will sooth you?
My problem with crowd is of lack of beauty. Silence has many seeds of uncertainities. You cover yourself in the silence and then some seed reaches to flower of creation. Where will it be such silence? Will it become exotic and can be purchased at hoilday destinations? And, with millions of riches travelling around the globe, will we have enough silence hot spots?
the speed takes toll on us. It makes us aggresive. We seek for age old and rubbish identities to secure ourselves in dwindling pace of life. The more life accelerates, the more primitive we are becoming. I do not see any way if we do not seek soome silence in such dynamism.
Aha, I am again getting into philosophy and this beautiful dawn is ageing into yet another reguler morning in this city.
My words, I will sow you inside.
The happiness of being bourn,
pains and gains of being alive
and end, so certain, which is away from everything....
some leaves are falling, and silence is rapidly becoming unknown into dense forests of humans. Do you hear silence?
In 50 years, population of earth will be doubled. Currently it is 6000 million. Earth's radius is 6400 Km. So it gives 2 X 3.14 X 6400 X 6400 area which comes as 257228800 square Km. Out of this only 1/4th is available as land. So it becomes 64307200 square kilometers. And, not all this area is available for cultivation or building houses. I can go along to sketch the doom. But thats not the point.
May be we will manage such a doubling. But then what will be this city which is currently overflowing? It will skyscrapers, subways and many things which I am not able to visualise now. But then will there be morning which i feel right now? Will there be a huge tree which is home for birds, shade for passerby and a simple symbol of life which can outweigh all efforts of uprooting? Will there be a place near to home where evening breeze can fly you in nostalgic memories and then moon light will sooth you?
My problem with crowd is of lack of beauty. Silence has many seeds of uncertainities. You cover yourself in the silence and then some seed reaches to flower of creation. Where will it be such silence? Will it become exotic and can be purchased at hoilday destinations? And, with millions of riches travelling around the globe, will we have enough silence hot spots?
the speed takes toll on us. It makes us aggresive. We seek for age old and rubbish identities to secure ourselves in dwindling pace of life. The more life accelerates, the more primitive we are becoming. I do not see any way if we do not seek soome silence in such dynamism.
Aha, I am again getting into philosophy and this beautiful dawn is ageing into yet another reguler morning in this city.
My words, I will sow you inside.
The happiness of being bourn,
pains and gains of being alive
and end, so certain, which is away from everything....
some leaves are falling, and silence is rapidly becoming unknown into dense forests of humans. Do you hear silence?
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
by death of a person who was poet
Death of a poet is not exactly death of poem. Poem hardly dies synchronously with poet. Its existence is not exactly harmonious with poet. According to its form, it becomes part of poet’s life as a person or encapsulates poet’s life as its larger sphere of manifestation.
Poet expressing delicate and intriguing emotions often find death of his poem in culmination of his youth. Poem, being a very primitive expression, fails to capture dynamics of these human emotions, feelings and desires, and displays ephemeral but memorable play. It has peaks and troughs, each replacing previous rapidly, vividly and in unanticipated manner. It has temporal features and it undergoes evolution speedily. It is inseparable from poet’s surroundings and imbibes history and geography of poet into expressions. Love poems are essentially of these sorts. There are many other expressions, which poet makes as an experiencing individual, which eventually die when poet cease to be the person which he or she was while formation of that poem.
There is other and stronger form of poem and poet, which is collective expression of poet and people around him. This is larger than life form which poet doesn’t create, but finds somewhere in continuous struggle to converge life as an free spirited individual and deeply concerned social member. This form to have local historical and geographical features, but poem grasps them and relates to global references. This poem is joyous expression of extraordinary collective deeds, let out of frustration of declining moralities which poet perceives, call to fight against exploitations forced on some deprived group and a constant urge to see out of our self towards bigger and challenging understanding of humanity. Poet as a person ends, but such poem is passed like a baton to next generation. A thundering call of such vibrant expression, tiring through vagaries of time, keeps igniting consciences to enjoy life in irregular frameworks and put it to hard but unavoidable test of meaning.
Why such philosophical description of lively form of poem and poet? Yesterday, one famous Marathi poet died. He was versatile and epoch making poet. It is not about awards and acclaims he received, but sort of change he brought in perception of people towards contemporary issues and changing form of urban life. There were articles and photographs of him, memories fitted in nostalgic and legendary tones and many expressions of vacuums. Is it so? Who died yesterday? Poet or person who was poet once?
Being poet is not lifelong activity. Poems are those rare moments when one sees something beyond regular and normal happening of life. It is touch to a world which is limit to beauty that we can bring to life. We say ‘picturesque’, but hardly ‘poemesque’. This rare gift comes as dreams that one sees. Dreams change as we go on living. From kissing uncertainties, dreams come to some bare truths as we move in life. Can poem be found in such limited edition?
Poem is short but intense life form. It dies much sooner that person who puts it into existence dies. What remains thereafter is some contradictory effort of that person to establish school of his ‘poetic’ philosophy. Poem laughs silently at such in vain efforts and comes to life through some other mind which starts journey of madness and walks roads not yet formed. Poem is companion of such journeys, not of holiday trip with family and friends.
Aha, poem...
Poet expressing delicate and intriguing emotions often find death of his poem in culmination of his youth. Poem, being a very primitive expression, fails to capture dynamics of these human emotions, feelings and desires, and displays ephemeral but memorable play. It has peaks and troughs, each replacing previous rapidly, vividly and in unanticipated manner. It has temporal features and it undergoes evolution speedily. It is inseparable from poet’s surroundings and imbibes history and geography of poet into expressions. Love poems are essentially of these sorts. There are many other expressions, which poet makes as an experiencing individual, which eventually die when poet cease to be the person which he or she was while formation of that poem.
There is other and stronger form of poem and poet, which is collective expression of poet and people around him. This is larger than life form which poet doesn’t create, but finds somewhere in continuous struggle to converge life as an free spirited individual and deeply concerned social member. This form to have local historical and geographical features, but poem grasps them and relates to global references. This poem is joyous expression of extraordinary collective deeds, let out of frustration of declining moralities which poet perceives, call to fight against exploitations forced on some deprived group and a constant urge to see out of our self towards bigger and challenging understanding of humanity. Poet as a person ends, but such poem is passed like a baton to next generation. A thundering call of such vibrant expression, tiring through vagaries of time, keeps igniting consciences to enjoy life in irregular frameworks and put it to hard but unavoidable test of meaning.
Why such philosophical description of lively form of poem and poet? Yesterday, one famous Marathi poet died. He was versatile and epoch making poet. It is not about awards and acclaims he received, but sort of change he brought in perception of people towards contemporary issues and changing form of urban life. There were articles and photographs of him, memories fitted in nostalgic and legendary tones and many expressions of vacuums. Is it so? Who died yesterday? Poet or person who was poet once?
Being poet is not lifelong activity. Poems are those rare moments when one sees something beyond regular and normal happening of life. It is touch to a world which is limit to beauty that we can bring to life. We say ‘picturesque’, but hardly ‘poemesque’. This rare gift comes as dreams that one sees. Dreams change as we go on living. From kissing uncertainties, dreams come to some bare truths as we move in life. Can poem be found in such limited edition?
Poem is short but intense life form. It dies much sooner that person who puts it into existence dies. What remains thereafter is some contradictory effort of that person to establish school of his ‘poetic’ philosophy. Poem laughs silently at such in vain efforts and comes to life through some other mind which starts journey of madness and walks roads not yet formed. Poem is companion of such journeys, not of holiday trip with family and friends.
Aha, poem...
Friday, March 12, 2010
Drift
you are drifting away, and I am too, either away or down.
I cannot see your face,
I cannot hear what you are saying,
are you smiling? are you crying?
Is your face wearing a silence, deeply hurt inside?
each current of time, is making us older, killing the forces which dreamed to mend the world
you love sea? you love a sky, friend of the sea? you know they meet at horizon which is just the earthly illusion?
the night went mad in partial construction of dreams, day starts berserk with this words...
I cannot see your face,
I cannot hear what you are saying,
are you smiling? are you crying?
Is your face wearing a silence, deeply hurt inside?
each current of time, is making us older, killing the forces which dreamed to mend the world
you love sea? you love a sky, friend of the sea? you know they meet at horizon which is just the earthly illusion?
the night went mad in partial construction of dreams, day starts berserk with this words...
लिहू का नको असं किती वेळ गोंधळ चाल्लय. आणि आता लिहिण्याशिवायाचा पर्याय नाही.
एखाद्या कागदावर चित्र काढायला सुरुवात करावी आणि अनेकदा चित्र बनता बनता काहीतरी चुकून खोडायला लागावा आणि सारं शुभ्र स्वच्छ कागद काळसर, खराब व्हावा आणि नवीन चित्राच्या प्रत्येक प्रयत्नाला अगोदरच एक मळभलाभावं असं झालाय.
का व्हावा असं संवादांच? संवादाला शांत, स्थिर आणि आश्वस्त रूप येईल असं वाटतानाच एकदम असे भोवरे का यावेत? आणि मग त्या न जमणार्या संवादासाठी बाकी सारं सूर हरवल्यागत का वाटावं मला? मी माझाच आहे न, मग हे न उलगडणारा गणित का? हा प्रश्न नाहीये तुला, ऐक फक्त.
खूप काही घडलंय ना अगोदर आणि म्हणून तू आता या क्षणी जाणवत नाहीयेस ह्यानेही तुटून जायला होत नाहीये. एक समतोल साधणारा निर्विकारपणा यायला लागलाय, ज्यात सगळंच हळूहळू समान आपलं आणि समान तटस्थ वाटतं. मला आवडत नाही हा असला शांत समतोल, तोल असावा ज्यात परस्पर विरोधी ताण आहे म्हणूनच आयुष्य स्थिर व्हावा.
पण असं होणारच होतं न. मग शांत राहू? तुझ्यापर्यंत हे काहीही पोचू न देता? तुलाही जे समजतंय त्यावर परस्पर संमतीच्या मौनाचं पांघरूण घालू?
आवेग अजूनही इतका आहे माझ्यात कि तू अशी अबोल, अस्पष्ट झालीस तर समोरच येईन तुझ्या आणि शब्दाने नाही तर त्यापलीकडच्या शरीराच्या आणि सोबत जाणवणाऱ्या एकमेकांच्या निखळ अस्तित्वाच्या संवादानेच सांगेन तुला, कि पोचलीस आहेस तू आता माझ्या शब्दात एवढी, तू त्यातून बाहेर जाण म्हणजे माझ्या शब्दांना अस्ताच्या तीराशी ठेवणं. का जातीयेस?
काहीही म्हण ह्याला... insecurity म्हण किंवा स्वार्थीपणा म्हण. गृहीतच धरतो आहे तुला, आणि सांग तुलाही हवंच होतं न हे कुठेतरी?
तरीही सांगू, बरोबरच असेल हे , ह्यातूनच परत केव्हातरी संवादाच्या नव्या आणि अजून गहिर्या आयामाशी येऊन पोचू. तुझ्यापाशी माझा संवादाची सोबत शोधायचा प्रवास संपलाय. आता एकटा असलो तरी त्यालाही किती समृद्ध केलयस तू.
आता शांतता आहे एक, ह्या शब्दांना माझ्यातून बाहेर ठेवून पाहतोय त्यांच्याकडे. थोड्या वेळाने ते माझे नसतील आणि ते तुला केव्हा समजतील कुणास ठाऊक
माझा आवेग, माझी शांततेची तितकीच गहिरी ओढ आणि त्यातून माझाच माझ्याशी दुरावा , आणि तूही तशीच, आलीस, एकांताच्या आवर्तात दूरच पण माझं चांदणं झालीस, चाललीयेस, तेही अनिश्चिततेच्या आवर्ताचे संकेत जिवंत ठेवून...
अशीच राहा, अशीच तहान राहो, ज्यानं तुझ्या येण्याचा बहर गात्रागात्राने भोगता येईल आणि ह्या एकांतालाही एक मृदू पालवी राहील....
एखाद्या कागदावर चित्र काढायला सुरुवात करावी आणि अनेकदा चित्र बनता बनता काहीतरी चुकून खोडायला लागावा आणि सारं शुभ्र स्वच्छ कागद काळसर, खराब व्हावा आणि नवीन चित्राच्या प्रत्येक प्रयत्नाला अगोदरच एक मळभलाभावं असं झालाय.
का व्हावा असं संवादांच? संवादाला शांत, स्थिर आणि आश्वस्त रूप येईल असं वाटतानाच एकदम असे भोवरे का यावेत? आणि मग त्या न जमणार्या संवादासाठी बाकी सारं सूर हरवल्यागत का वाटावं मला? मी माझाच आहे न, मग हे न उलगडणारा गणित का? हा प्रश्न नाहीये तुला, ऐक फक्त.
खूप काही घडलंय ना अगोदर आणि म्हणून तू आता या क्षणी जाणवत नाहीयेस ह्यानेही तुटून जायला होत नाहीये. एक समतोल साधणारा निर्विकारपणा यायला लागलाय, ज्यात सगळंच हळूहळू समान आपलं आणि समान तटस्थ वाटतं. मला आवडत नाही हा असला शांत समतोल, तोल असावा ज्यात परस्पर विरोधी ताण आहे म्हणूनच आयुष्य स्थिर व्हावा.
पण असं होणारच होतं न. मग शांत राहू? तुझ्यापर्यंत हे काहीही पोचू न देता? तुलाही जे समजतंय त्यावर परस्पर संमतीच्या मौनाचं पांघरूण घालू?
आवेग अजूनही इतका आहे माझ्यात कि तू अशी अबोल, अस्पष्ट झालीस तर समोरच येईन तुझ्या आणि शब्दाने नाही तर त्यापलीकडच्या शरीराच्या आणि सोबत जाणवणाऱ्या एकमेकांच्या निखळ अस्तित्वाच्या संवादानेच सांगेन तुला, कि पोचलीस आहेस तू आता माझ्या शब्दात एवढी, तू त्यातून बाहेर जाण म्हणजे माझ्या शब्दांना अस्ताच्या तीराशी ठेवणं. का जातीयेस?
काहीही म्हण ह्याला... insecurity म्हण किंवा स्वार्थीपणा म्हण. गृहीतच धरतो आहे तुला, आणि सांग तुलाही हवंच होतं न हे कुठेतरी?
तरीही सांगू, बरोबरच असेल हे , ह्यातूनच परत केव्हातरी संवादाच्या नव्या आणि अजून गहिर्या आयामाशी येऊन पोचू. तुझ्यापाशी माझा संवादाची सोबत शोधायचा प्रवास संपलाय. आता एकटा असलो तरी त्यालाही किती समृद्ध केलयस तू.
आता शांतता आहे एक, ह्या शब्दांना माझ्यातून बाहेर ठेवून पाहतोय त्यांच्याकडे. थोड्या वेळाने ते माझे नसतील आणि ते तुला केव्हा समजतील कुणास ठाऊक
माझा आवेग, माझी शांततेची तितकीच गहिरी ओढ आणि त्यातून माझाच माझ्याशी दुरावा , आणि तूही तशीच, आलीस, एकांताच्या आवर्तात दूरच पण माझं चांदणं झालीस, चाललीयेस, तेही अनिश्चिततेच्या आवर्ताचे संकेत जिवंत ठेवून...
अशीच राहा, अशीच तहान राहो, ज्यानं तुझ्या येण्याचा बहर गात्रागात्राने भोगता येईल आणि ह्या एकांतालाही एक मृदू पालवी राहील....
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Roots of Insomania
I am missing you this time. Means I know that there are mediums by which I can make you talk with me. But then that’s not what I wish this moment. I wish you to be here, giving these amalgamations of thoughts, memories and dreams an existence.
I had planned to sleep sooner than my norm these days. I wanted to have early, workable morning. I like to sleep with calm mind where no scratching questions. I am uncomfortable with questions, since they don’t usually have answers and I or somebody else wants them to have one. So I can’t be peaceful if I have question in mind. Usually I cheat myself and run away from question by either cooking up a dreamy, rhythmic world with no uncomfortable details or generating some uncomfortable but invincible and trivial solution. But even such runaway keeps scars and I can’t sleep peacefully. So I avoid conversations when I want new next day, without any signs of yesterday. Somehow my plan failed. I got into the conversation and that too philosophical one.
My roommate is a composed and thinking person. He hardly puts any statement without giving a thought. He has his priors and some strong justifications of these priors. Somehow we got into argument about Amartya Sen’s contribution and Human Development philosophy. I was in my usual iconoclastic role. He defended his argument, I counter argued evoking my favourite ‘limited cognition’ and ‘decision making’ principles. With lot of heat and no real light, argument ended in difficult silence. And, I have lost my sleep.
So I am awake. I know that I will wake up late now. So I will be laggard in this perfectly timed world. I will be following, running after trend setters and will be questioning myself, why the hell I am running like this. I will find myself at undesired places in undesired times. I will wish that I should have slept early. Everything is just cycling.
And, you must be wondering what is really going on. I wouldn’t have been chasing these mirages if I would have defined you uniquely.
Are you listening? Or have you left and I am just feeling your shadow, touches, voice, and words and assuming your existence to keep pieces of my identification together?
Now it is calmness. No untimely cries of crows, nor a cry from a fearful kitten. It’s silence. You are somewhere, sleeping, working, dreaming or thinking. I am here, with these words, with lots of lines extending in pasts and futures, collage of meanings of myself and you....
Thanks for the listening!
I had planned to sleep sooner than my norm these days. I wanted to have early, workable morning. I like to sleep with calm mind where no scratching questions. I am uncomfortable with questions, since they don’t usually have answers and I or somebody else wants them to have one. So I can’t be peaceful if I have question in mind. Usually I cheat myself and run away from question by either cooking up a dreamy, rhythmic world with no uncomfortable details or generating some uncomfortable but invincible and trivial solution. But even such runaway keeps scars and I can’t sleep peacefully. So I avoid conversations when I want new next day, without any signs of yesterday. Somehow my plan failed. I got into the conversation and that too philosophical one.
My roommate is a composed and thinking person. He hardly puts any statement without giving a thought. He has his priors and some strong justifications of these priors. Somehow we got into argument about Amartya Sen’s contribution and Human Development philosophy. I was in my usual iconoclastic role. He defended his argument, I counter argued evoking my favourite ‘limited cognition’ and ‘decision making’ principles. With lot of heat and no real light, argument ended in difficult silence. And, I have lost my sleep.
So I am awake. I know that I will wake up late now. So I will be laggard in this perfectly timed world. I will be following, running after trend setters and will be questioning myself, why the hell I am running like this. I will find myself at undesired places in undesired times. I will wish that I should have slept early. Everything is just cycling.
And, you must be wondering what is really going on. I wouldn’t have been chasing these mirages if I would have defined you uniquely.
Are you listening? Or have you left and I am just feeling your shadow, touches, voice, and words and assuming your existence to keep pieces of my identification together?
Now it is calmness. No untimely cries of crows, nor a cry from a fearful kitten. It’s silence. You are somewhere, sleeping, working, dreaming or thinking. I am here, with these words, with lots of lines extending in pasts and futures, collage of meanings of myself and you....
Thanks for the listening!
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Morning Raga....
Good morning! Yea, yea, I am still little bit bored, but you know new things have some fresh effects. So this morning, which already became old till I got up, making me new, enthusiastic and asking me to do something. So many mornings were like this….
After few tomorrows, somebody won’t be here around. Not in a distance which can be zeroed in few hours. And, it is not just distance between places. What is the probability that we will be meeting again? We will be talking as we are today? Oh, we are or we were? So the morning is turning into some blackening and thickening cloud cover. I don’t have tears and I am choked…
Want a poem? ‘I hate boredom, I will have freedom’ or some free, vibrant expression, which will fade itself soon.
Where? When? What? why? I have questions and you have questions. I have dry, self circulating philosophy too.
Yet, this is new day. There is still hope. There are still ignited interests. And, there are you, yet, waiting, albeit more and more passively, to see me live, not just vegetate.
After few tomorrows, somebody won’t be here around. Not in a distance which can be zeroed in few hours. And, it is not just distance between places. What is the probability that we will be meeting again? We will be talking as we are today? Oh, we are or we were? So the morning is turning into some blackening and thickening cloud cover. I don’t have tears and I am choked…
Want a poem? ‘I hate boredom, I will have freedom’ or some free, vibrant expression, which will fade itself soon.
Where? When? What? why? I have questions and you have questions. I have dry, self circulating philosophy too.
Yet, this is new day. There is still hope. There are still ignited interests. And, there are you, yet, waiting, albeit more and more passively, to see me live, not just vegetate.
Wack....!
I am just thinking of dam angry shit to girl sitting few steps away from me. I will just tell her that you are fat, you are talkative and what you are talking is in some sort of sharp, ugly voice. Should I wish she should shout back at me? What is the point if she starts observing silence once I shout at her? Victory, even a smallest one should have some bloodshed, some wounds. What else will generate songs of glory?
What if she starts crying? Will I enjoy it or will I feel bad about hurting her weak heart hidden under layers and layers of McD fats? She should apologize, humbly recognizing her mistake. Some people, when one shows them their mistake, shrugs shoulder and start doing new mistakes. Nobody points your mistake to improve you, the one with such intention will keep mum till the point you ask him to point out the mistake, but to get some satisfaction of humble apologies. And, some people deny such a pleasure. I wish they should encounter greatest mess in the next task and nobody should be there to show them that they are messing up.
Do you ever feel that you need to have some automatic gun while walking on crowded road? And, then you need to reduce burden of people on that road to certain extent and let the buildings, plants and even road have some breath? No? Don’t you feel that even vehicles are much more breathless these days and keep drinking fuel more and more? Shouldn’t there be some trees left surrounding roads so that our next generations can have pleasure of uprooting trees and having wider roads leading to nowhere? Don’t you feel that you need to have some solution in your hand which you can pour over girls, erode all the colors over their faces and make them realize that colors are beautiful, not they? Don’t feel ashamed, if you search deep down you will find that hatred has been living as neighbor of humanity since long.
You must be thinking what weird writing is this. So what do you need? Sunsets, sunrises, nature unfolding it’s mysteries in some lyrical rhymes, moons and moon lights, Mozart and Beethoven, dreamy travelogues of cities and catchy conversations with people, tales of love and friendship, determinations and challenges and all that which you and me both desire but have in very little quantity. You want that? Then this is not the place right now….
Right now I am in hate mood. Hating myself and everything that is around and not in the way I love to be tight now. Silent….
What if she starts crying? Will I enjoy it or will I feel bad about hurting her weak heart hidden under layers and layers of McD fats? She should apologize, humbly recognizing her mistake. Some people, when one shows them their mistake, shrugs shoulder and start doing new mistakes. Nobody points your mistake to improve you, the one with such intention will keep mum till the point you ask him to point out the mistake, but to get some satisfaction of humble apologies. And, some people deny such a pleasure. I wish they should encounter greatest mess in the next task and nobody should be there to show them that they are messing up.
Do you ever feel that you need to have some automatic gun while walking on crowded road? And, then you need to reduce burden of people on that road to certain extent and let the buildings, plants and even road have some breath? No? Don’t you feel that even vehicles are much more breathless these days and keep drinking fuel more and more? Shouldn’t there be some trees left surrounding roads so that our next generations can have pleasure of uprooting trees and having wider roads leading to nowhere? Don’t you feel that you need to have some solution in your hand which you can pour over girls, erode all the colors over their faces and make them realize that colors are beautiful, not they? Don’t feel ashamed, if you search deep down you will find that hatred has been living as neighbor of humanity since long.
You must be thinking what weird writing is this. So what do you need? Sunsets, sunrises, nature unfolding it’s mysteries in some lyrical rhymes, moons and moon lights, Mozart and Beethoven, dreamy travelogues of cities and catchy conversations with people, tales of love and friendship, determinations and challenges and all that which you and me both desire but have in very little quantity. You want that? Then this is not the place right now….
Right now I am in hate mood. Hating myself and everything that is around and not in the way I love to be tight now. Silent….
Friday, March 5, 2010
Primary opinion about arts
So last two days I had encounters with ‘culture’. These definitions are tricky. If you probe deep, you can understand that they are trying to portray some dynamic thing into static form. There are so many examples, like culture, society, nation where we feel that there are certain fix, eternal elements in these definitions, but on second and deeper examination, we can find that they are dynamic and hence they need evolutionary definitions. Enough for barren semantics!
Arts are interesting. On inner end of artist, they are means of earning livelihood, passion, devotion or best possible form of expression. All these are not separable. But, from artist to artist, priorities to arts characteristics are different. On outer end of receptors, they are entertainment and expression to convey some patterns in fabric of life. The first role is essential. It acts like a glue and complete in itself. There can be mere entertainment, but there is no exchange of feelings without having elements of entertainment. Do not try to see conversations and philosophy as exceptions. They convey feelings and patterns of life, but we do not seek entertainment in them.
Arts get birth, they grow and die. This can be observed for any creation of humanity. But dying is painful. Folk arts are dying. And, they are dying because life is transforming. Basics of life are not like that of folk life. Our myths are changing, values undergoing transition, beliefs are shaken and reformed and more than all these, the pace with which interact with our environment is accelerating. So change is happening in forms of entertainment we seek and patterns of life we need to convey. The standard portrays of battle of good and bad are no longer appealing. Thinking mind has understood that world is gray. Feelings of love and ultra-human devotions and rivalry are no longer assumed, though they are used strategically. But modern human, who is product of loads of information, automation and inquisitiveness needs entertainment and patterns evolving with time. Folk arts are enjoyable as exotic products or vintage cars, but they cannot live by themselves in these times. Either they will die with their purity or they have to evolve in their basics.
There are arts who have kept alive their traditions. But, artist has undergone change. Bhaaratnatyam might have been same as it was 200 years back, but artist values are market driven. Indian classical still has ragas mentioned in Vedic literature, but singer now eyes the shows, not any moksha. And, why should we strive something prisoned in form which it was few years back? Changes brought by time might kill many art forms, make them extinct. But it is as natural as their evolution was. They are product of human beings. Human beings change, so as their creations.
I do not say that past has no useful things for us. It might be treasure. But our mind which has evolved throughout these years of human existence, certainly and surely contain wisdoms of ancients. The dip into these waters of past is refreshing. But trying to hold the flow and trying to revert it is foolishness.
Art is expression when it starts. It becomes business or profession much later. Expressions are not constants. They are very product of time, space and people. They have imprints of these forces on their existence. That’s why western music differs from Indian, salsa differs from tribal dance, paintings has continuum over time and space. Such difference and cycles of births and deaths are what keep beauty in all of these alive and rhythm of life ever flowing.
Arts are interesting. On inner end of artist, they are means of earning livelihood, passion, devotion or best possible form of expression. All these are not separable. But, from artist to artist, priorities to arts characteristics are different. On outer end of receptors, they are entertainment and expression to convey some patterns in fabric of life. The first role is essential. It acts like a glue and complete in itself. There can be mere entertainment, but there is no exchange of feelings without having elements of entertainment. Do not try to see conversations and philosophy as exceptions. They convey feelings and patterns of life, but we do not seek entertainment in them.
Arts get birth, they grow and die. This can be observed for any creation of humanity. But dying is painful. Folk arts are dying. And, they are dying because life is transforming. Basics of life are not like that of folk life. Our myths are changing, values undergoing transition, beliefs are shaken and reformed and more than all these, the pace with which interact with our environment is accelerating. So change is happening in forms of entertainment we seek and patterns of life we need to convey. The standard portrays of battle of good and bad are no longer appealing. Thinking mind has understood that world is gray. Feelings of love and ultra-human devotions and rivalry are no longer assumed, though they are used strategically. But modern human, who is product of loads of information, automation and inquisitiveness needs entertainment and patterns evolving with time. Folk arts are enjoyable as exotic products or vintage cars, but they cannot live by themselves in these times. Either they will die with their purity or they have to evolve in their basics.
There are arts who have kept alive their traditions. But, artist has undergone change. Bhaaratnatyam might have been same as it was 200 years back, but artist values are market driven. Indian classical still has ragas mentioned in Vedic literature, but singer now eyes the shows, not any moksha. And, why should we strive something prisoned in form which it was few years back? Changes brought by time might kill many art forms, make them extinct. But it is as natural as their evolution was. They are product of human beings. Human beings change, so as their creations.
I do not say that past has no useful things for us. It might be treasure. But our mind which has evolved throughout these years of human existence, certainly and surely contain wisdoms of ancients. The dip into these waters of past is refreshing. But trying to hold the flow and trying to revert it is foolishness.
Art is expression when it starts. It becomes business or profession much later. Expressions are not constants. They are very product of time, space and people. They have imprints of these forces on their existence. That’s why western music differs from Indian, salsa differs from tribal dance, paintings has continuum over time and space. Such difference and cycles of births and deaths are what keep beauty in all of these alive and rhythm of life ever flowing.
I read about farmers, their lives and their difficulties.
I read hike in petrol prices.
I read stampede killed 60.
i heard somebody got admission at good place.
I heard somebody claiming that their art is the only one, others are nothing.
I heard somebody saying somebody is just not doing anything. He is fired.
I have home, mother, father and some more relations, by default.
I have few people, I don't know what they are exactly to me. I know myself through them. They serve as connections to me.
And, then I have these thoughts, a future about which I hardly know, fears, insecurities, puzzles, philosophical traumas, failed days, disturbed nights, crash down of own system, recovery for new crash, so much for one brain.
I put in front of some listener, either I imagine or I get one. Listener just listens. Listener is like a large jar in which muddy water is kept. Jar doesn't clean water, it gets nothing on that water or of that mud, it just allows water to calm down, it allows water to reflect in itself and see mud separate from water.Listener does this. I feel settled, not solved. Questions stay away, at bottom, I feel clear, calm, till I try to reach the listener. I cannot. I should not. Listening needs a distance. Listening needs a continuous tension, uncertain but interesting time which will keep current flowing. Move closer, everything turns into nothing.
Sometimes I encounter to strange thing called 'truth'. It is really a funny thing. It exists in contradictions, which is it's twin brother. Inseparable twin.
I told one friend that taking life in thoughts, sketching some definitions and then evaluating own actions with them is not real. Reality is indefinite. What I am doing then? If these words are not sketches of what I dream, what are they? mere fun? Why I end up contradicting even a simplest statement of mine about reality? Is reality not simple at all?
Eternal is something strongly felt at a particular moment. Try feeling a time, many eternals seem ephemerals. Try feeling a space, even own existence seems illusive. Don't try it frequently though.
Writing is putting your turmoils into fictional ones. It is real difficult. Once turmoils are realized, they tend to hide themselves. Story teller must fool himself ( Sorry to feminists, But I am man, can't help, I will use him) while taking those turmoils out and putting them into fictionals. Even a word is recited in mind, fiction seems fiction. Writer has strange sort of disconnection with inner core, cheating that makes writing real. It is not a simple cost. To keep your characters real, exclusion of very real people is needed.
Was it truth? The one I above wrote above? It mostly be illusion. Words often fail to carry burden of meaning. Beautiful words turn into uglier memories.
I have few simple questions for myself:
1. Is there a place where I can sleep with peace?
2. What exactly I do in least boring manner to myself?
3. To what extent I need people and people need me?
There is one hope, one day I will reach where I supposed to be. This is not my finding, I borrowed it from one movie.
I read hike in petrol prices.
I read stampede killed 60.
i heard somebody got admission at good place.
I heard somebody claiming that their art is the only one, others are nothing.
I heard somebody saying somebody is just not doing anything. He is fired.
I have home, mother, father and some more relations, by default.
I have few people, I don't know what they are exactly to me. I know myself through them. They serve as connections to me.
And, then I have these thoughts, a future about which I hardly know, fears, insecurities, puzzles, philosophical traumas, failed days, disturbed nights, crash down of own system, recovery for new crash, so much for one brain.
I put in front of some listener, either I imagine or I get one. Listener just listens. Listener is like a large jar in which muddy water is kept. Jar doesn't clean water, it gets nothing on that water or of that mud, it just allows water to calm down, it allows water to reflect in itself and see mud separate from water.Listener does this. I feel settled, not solved. Questions stay away, at bottom, I feel clear, calm, till I try to reach the listener. I cannot. I should not. Listening needs a distance. Listening needs a continuous tension, uncertain but interesting time which will keep current flowing. Move closer, everything turns into nothing.
Sometimes I encounter to strange thing called 'truth'. It is really a funny thing. It exists in contradictions, which is it's twin brother. Inseparable twin.
I told one friend that taking life in thoughts, sketching some definitions and then evaluating own actions with them is not real. Reality is indefinite. What I am doing then? If these words are not sketches of what I dream, what are they? mere fun? Why I end up contradicting even a simplest statement of mine about reality? Is reality not simple at all?
Eternal is something strongly felt at a particular moment. Try feeling a time, many eternals seem ephemerals. Try feeling a space, even own existence seems illusive. Don't try it frequently though.
Writing is putting your turmoils into fictional ones. It is real difficult. Once turmoils are realized, they tend to hide themselves. Story teller must fool himself ( Sorry to feminists, But I am man, can't help, I will use him) while taking those turmoils out and putting them into fictionals. Even a word is recited in mind, fiction seems fiction. Writer has strange sort of disconnection with inner core, cheating that makes writing real. It is not a simple cost. To keep your characters real, exclusion of very real people is needed.
Was it truth? The one I above wrote above? It mostly be illusion. Words often fail to carry burden of meaning. Beautiful words turn into uglier memories.
I have few simple questions for myself:
1. Is there a place where I can sleep with peace?
2. What exactly I do in least boring manner to myself?
3. To what extent I need people and people need me?
There is one hope, one day I will reach where I supposed to be. This is not my finding, I borrowed it from one movie.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
जळोत माझे शब्द, सरपण बनून एखाद्या शेकोटीत
जिथे चार माणसे हाडे गोठवणाऱ्या थंडीत शोधत असतील
शेवटचा उबारा
बनोत माझे शब्द कच्ची कोरडी भाकरी
भुकेच्या आगीशी खेळ मांडून
असोत माझे शब्द आंधळ्यांचा कंदील
पांगल्याची काठी
अस्तिवाच्या अर्थाची चाल संपू नये
अजून असेन दिसत माझ्या शब्दात मी
तर नाही माझी कविता खरी अजून
मोठी आहे किंमत जिथे
शब्द असतात नियतीचे प्रतिरूप
इतका लागो कस, वेदनांच्या भट्टीत उजळून निघोत शब्द
अक्षरांची लांबी घटो आशयाची खोली वाढताना
माझीच मला पटो ओळख माझे गाणे अंतरात राहो निरंतर
आपल्या आयुष्याचा पडून जावा विसर
माझ्या मस्तीत बनावे मी फकीर
प्रश्न उरू नयेत क्षुद्र त्रिज्यांचे कण कण कुरतडणारे
प्रश्न असोत असे ज्यांच्या उत्तराला असावी
अशक्यातेची परिमाणे
स्वप्नांना असो जहरी दंश
आयुष्याची शांतता वावटळीत फेकणारा
कवितेचा क्षण असो
सार शोषून घेणारा
डोळे मिटोत तेव्हा असावा कृतीचा समाधान
अपूर्णतेच्या शापाताही आनंद असावा अस्सल
दुखे बनोत माझी आयुष्याची कोलमड
व्हावी पडझड सार्याच निवार्याची
अनिकेत असावा चालायचा रस्ता
मान टेकावी तिथे जिथे असेल
अर्थाचा शेवटचा मुक्काम
येवो न येवो बहर डोळे दिपवणारा
नव्या अंकुराची धडपड अखंड रहावी
विजय मिटोत हार करोत राहो डंख
शब्दातली लढाई जिवंत रहावी
जिथे चार माणसे हाडे गोठवणाऱ्या थंडीत शोधत असतील
शेवटचा उबारा
बनोत माझे शब्द कच्ची कोरडी भाकरी
भुकेच्या आगीशी खेळ मांडून
असोत माझे शब्द आंधळ्यांचा कंदील
पांगल्याची काठी
अस्तिवाच्या अर्थाची चाल संपू नये
अजून असेन दिसत माझ्या शब्दात मी
तर नाही माझी कविता खरी अजून
मोठी आहे किंमत जिथे
शब्द असतात नियतीचे प्रतिरूप
इतका लागो कस, वेदनांच्या भट्टीत उजळून निघोत शब्द
अक्षरांची लांबी घटो आशयाची खोली वाढताना
माझीच मला पटो ओळख माझे गाणे अंतरात राहो निरंतर
आपल्या आयुष्याचा पडून जावा विसर
माझ्या मस्तीत बनावे मी फकीर
प्रश्न उरू नयेत क्षुद्र त्रिज्यांचे कण कण कुरतडणारे
प्रश्न असोत असे ज्यांच्या उत्तराला असावी
अशक्यातेची परिमाणे
स्वप्नांना असो जहरी दंश
आयुष्याची शांतता वावटळीत फेकणारा
कवितेचा क्षण असो
सार शोषून घेणारा
डोळे मिटोत तेव्हा असावा कृतीचा समाधान
अपूर्णतेच्या शापाताही आनंद असावा अस्सल
दुखे बनोत माझी आयुष्याची कोलमड
व्हावी पडझड सार्याच निवार्याची
अनिकेत असावा चालायचा रस्ता
मान टेकावी तिथे जिथे असेल
अर्थाचा शेवटचा मुक्काम
येवो न येवो बहर डोळे दिपवणारा
नव्या अंकुराची धडपड अखंड रहावी
विजय मिटोत हार करोत राहो डंख
शब्दातली लढाई जिवंत रहावी
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Turmoil, silence and my words
It is 2 in the night. I am nocturnal since childhood. But, I always try to adjust my schedule where I sleep fairly early and start my day when morning is vibrant and fresh. I haven’t found good reasoning for this sleep late-start day late schedule. I even feel that day should get its own rhythm by whatever work I am trying to do. Exogenous planning doesn’t sustain for long. A work where disciplined is much productive ends up being routine following activity. The work which demands some sort of turbulence on part of doer converts into uncertain one. Where we need turbulence?
Artists, as I can say by my own little exposure to artist within, certainly need turbulence. Even a thinker, philosopher or activist faces such turbulence. I am not just talking about flux of thoughts and drive one faces in one. There is evident chaos in whatever system one tries to understand. It might be named as diversity, but with whatever term we have for it, it does not allow having simple and plausible reasoning about it. As a writer, when I try to portray any individual, even at simplest level I find counter intuitive views. This variance in perception ignites churning machine in our mind. Failures of connection in different events in similar conditions make us think about conjectures of ultimate human similarities. Is there anything, any art, philosophy, religion, society or any human creation, which is simple, far away from complexity?
But with this omnipresence of chaos, so true is the existence of everything amid this chaos. If there is nothing balancing these entropical tendencies, sheer divergence of mutual actions, how can anything exist at all? How some or other way, we connect? There is something like balance, a calm deep silence which governs us too. We even sense it, some rare inward looking moments, when we touch or have glimpse of it.
The pleasure or wonder is this co-existence. I do not want to reiterate it. Its cliché. What I am trying to tell is how artist differs and their arts, by these balancing forces.
The moods, affairs, controversies and tragic ends associate very closely with most of genuine artists. It is not entirely market demand. To a large extent, they have to have them, to generate a necessary imbalance which will force them to express what they end up expressing better that most of us. The cost paid by any artist is this lifelong turmoil. Any art is not an end for artist, but a selfish way to progress in this turmoil. When turmoil reaches its end, either in wild, stormy peak or experience of something great, artist ends too. Then either remains a shadow of him or a suicide note or a silent solitude, awaiting new turmoil.
There are others, rare, who converse even with this turmoil. They form a tune, an unsung rhythm even in the dins of uncertainties. They see world not as product of incoherencies, but creation of utmost intricate connections. When they express these views of them through their art forms, even if we see them near improbable, we cannot discard it. I can’t at least, even when for me, everything is sure journey towards disorder.
Every art form has some stakes in it. The moment artist leaves his connection from it; there comes realization that it could have been even better. What is moment till I should hold it and when I should leave it to live on its own? Not a very simple question. Especially when what you are going to leave is sole steady platform you had beneath your feet. It is survival that has to be challenged to express anything and even after such a stake, what comes is imperfect. Any art should not be judged by the contradictions or imperfections pointed by impotent critics, but by extent of blood, flesh and existence artist have put on stake.
Simple!! I am alive yet mean I haven’t put best of my stakes. Let me play it my friend, wait, game is getting interesting.
Artists, as I can say by my own little exposure to artist within, certainly need turbulence. Even a thinker, philosopher or activist faces such turbulence. I am not just talking about flux of thoughts and drive one faces in one. There is evident chaos in whatever system one tries to understand. It might be named as diversity, but with whatever term we have for it, it does not allow having simple and plausible reasoning about it. As a writer, when I try to portray any individual, even at simplest level I find counter intuitive views. This variance in perception ignites churning machine in our mind. Failures of connection in different events in similar conditions make us think about conjectures of ultimate human similarities. Is there anything, any art, philosophy, religion, society or any human creation, which is simple, far away from complexity?
But with this omnipresence of chaos, so true is the existence of everything amid this chaos. If there is nothing balancing these entropical tendencies, sheer divergence of mutual actions, how can anything exist at all? How some or other way, we connect? There is something like balance, a calm deep silence which governs us too. We even sense it, some rare inward looking moments, when we touch or have glimpse of it.
The pleasure or wonder is this co-existence. I do not want to reiterate it. Its cliché. What I am trying to tell is how artist differs and their arts, by these balancing forces.
The moods, affairs, controversies and tragic ends associate very closely with most of genuine artists. It is not entirely market demand. To a large extent, they have to have them, to generate a necessary imbalance which will force them to express what they end up expressing better that most of us. The cost paid by any artist is this lifelong turmoil. Any art is not an end for artist, but a selfish way to progress in this turmoil. When turmoil reaches its end, either in wild, stormy peak or experience of something great, artist ends too. Then either remains a shadow of him or a suicide note or a silent solitude, awaiting new turmoil.
There are others, rare, who converse even with this turmoil. They form a tune, an unsung rhythm even in the dins of uncertainties. They see world not as product of incoherencies, but creation of utmost intricate connections. When they express these views of them through their art forms, even if we see them near improbable, we cannot discard it. I can’t at least, even when for me, everything is sure journey towards disorder.
Every art form has some stakes in it. The moment artist leaves his connection from it; there comes realization that it could have been even better. What is moment till I should hold it and when I should leave it to live on its own? Not a very simple question. Especially when what you are going to leave is sole steady platform you had beneath your feet. It is survival that has to be challenged to express anything and even after such a stake, what comes is imperfect. Any art should not be judged by the contradictions or imperfections pointed by impotent critics, but by extent of blood, flesh and existence artist have put on stake.
Simple!! I am alive yet mean I haven’t put best of my stakes. Let me play it my friend, wait, game is getting interesting.
कवितेचा ताल हरवला होतं बराच आधी
चाल होती आपल्याच चालण्याची
अर्थाच्या खुणा पुसटच होत्या
संदिग्धताच होती कवितेची ओळख
पुसताना आता आपलीच प्रतिमा
रेष आणि रेष मिसळताना समोरच्या
अव्यक्त अवकाशात
मला माझा आकार जाणवू लागलाय
मला माझा आवाज ऐकू येऊ लागलाय
शहर होतंय वेडसर का मी
हा माझा माझ्याशीच अबोला का?
धावत जातात भविष्याच्या सावल्या
गोंडस आणि भीषण
आठवणीचे व्रण
आणि मी पाहत राहतो त्यांना वेगळं होताना माझ्यातून
आधीचा मी आणि नंतरचा
कुठे आखू रेष
अर्थाच्या जाळ्यात सहज फसला नाद
आवेगात राहून गेला शुद्धीचा निनाद
तरलो त्यातूनही
पोचलो जिथे भाषा फक्त अंतराची
मी आखली नाहीच रेष
तूच एक दिवस सापडून गेलीस मला
माझ्या अविभाज्य एकटेपणाला
केलास तुझ्या अस्तिवाने अधोरेखित
आता नियम आहेत, आहेत शक्याशक्यतेची क्षुल्लक बंधने
पण मला असोशी नाही यापुढे
मी आहे या शहरात, माझाच मी, तुझाच मी
तुझं शहर
पाउस आहे तिथे
आहे निवांत शांत किनारा, माडांच्या सावलीत डोक्यावर निळे मायाळू आकाश
संथ लाटांचे मुग्ध गाणे
पावलांना सुखावणारी वाळू
आणि कवितेचे सारे अर्थ शिम्पलांच्या पोटात उमलणारे
सारे ऋतू बहराच्या उत्सवात
तुझ्या शहरात
चाल होती आपल्याच चालण्याची
अर्थाच्या खुणा पुसटच होत्या
संदिग्धताच होती कवितेची ओळख
पुसताना आता आपलीच प्रतिमा
रेष आणि रेष मिसळताना समोरच्या
अव्यक्त अवकाशात
मला माझा आकार जाणवू लागलाय
मला माझा आवाज ऐकू येऊ लागलाय
शहर होतंय वेडसर का मी
हा माझा माझ्याशीच अबोला का?
धावत जातात भविष्याच्या सावल्या
गोंडस आणि भीषण
आठवणीचे व्रण
आणि मी पाहत राहतो त्यांना वेगळं होताना माझ्यातून
आधीचा मी आणि नंतरचा
कुठे आखू रेष
अर्थाच्या जाळ्यात सहज फसला नाद
आवेगात राहून गेला शुद्धीचा निनाद
तरलो त्यातूनही
पोचलो जिथे भाषा फक्त अंतराची
मी आखली नाहीच रेष
तूच एक दिवस सापडून गेलीस मला
माझ्या अविभाज्य एकटेपणाला
केलास तुझ्या अस्तिवाने अधोरेखित
आता नियम आहेत, आहेत शक्याशक्यतेची क्षुल्लक बंधने
पण मला असोशी नाही यापुढे
मी आहे या शहरात, माझाच मी, तुझाच मी
तुझं शहर
पाउस आहे तिथे
आहे निवांत शांत किनारा, माडांच्या सावलीत डोक्यावर निळे मायाळू आकाश
संथ लाटांचे मुग्ध गाणे
पावलांना सुखावणारी वाळू
आणि कवितेचे सारे अर्थ शिम्पलांच्या पोटात उमलणारे
सारे ऋतू बहराच्या उत्सवात
तुझ्या शहरात
Thursday, February 18, 2010
By those 8
Recently a bomb blasted at German Bakery in Pune. The news which was immediately reported has death of 8 people. I read it. It was somewhere at back of my mind.
I sit at tiny tea-shop with friends. We often have long running philosophical or political or any of that sort debates with cups of teas and smokes. The shop is managed by a old person. He limps but somehow he is able to manage the shop. He seldom talks with us. he offers biscuits whenever he eats. And, he insists that we take it at least one. Apart from that and except some information about his surgery-awaiting knee, I haven’t had many discussions with him.
That day, when my friend and I were having tea over there and our discussions centering on insurgencies and blasts, that person told us about Pune blast. I nodded and said, ‘yea! Only 8 died.” I didn’t feel much about my sentence. My friend later pointed out, though lightly, that I said very casually about those 8 who died. He too felt that this is not very uncommon as blasts are becoming ubiquitous in news. But, I was asking myself, why and how I said that. I ask it even now.
I am not worried about insensitivity. I prefer dry insensitivity that impotent but superficial sensitivity. People caring much about expressions of emotions are often shallow at emotions. I too was like that. But, once I realized that when I response to such a happening, a disturbing one, by my reactions (and mostly inaction), implicitly I care about image of mine in others’ mind and not bother much about truest feelings in myself about it, I prefer to gulp those initial bursts, see how much time they remain active and what shape they take within me. Even if I would have expressed that ‘oh! 8 died!!’, would that have been true reflection of what that incidence meant for me? No. nobody who are important in my life died there. No repercussion of it shakes my dear ones. What makes me connected to it? What makes me feel that whatever I said was not acceptable to myself?
Not so easy questions. None of this is a new question. I swing from end of total disconnectedness to feeling a live connection with those. With whom? With those who are away from my innermost circle of people. With those, whose faces and facts I don’t know but I sense their existence. They affect me as I am not able to build a shell around myself. I talk to myself through my reflections in them. I am one of them and I hate to be so unidentified to myself. I am not one of them, but I try that they should recognize me as one. They are twin to my contradictions.
Am I making this question simple? Will I able to reach a conclusion about my actions towards this distant, faceless existences by any self-search? If I keep searching this unending segregation of similar me’s, will there be any solution emerging?
I don’t like to be a questioner. I like to be an answer. I ask to myself and I answer to those who ask others.
I have answers within me. There is simple way out of such questions. If any action is generating so many storms of self doubts, it is not worth doing. If something is right, it will reconcile with questioning mind. It is not reconciling means it is not what I need to have. Simple!
The only connection I have with someone else is one which cannot be explained. This lack of explanations makes it painful, turbulent; but then my friend, that is how beautiful things are.
I sit at tiny tea-shop with friends. We often have long running philosophical or political or any of that sort debates with cups of teas and smokes. The shop is managed by a old person. He limps but somehow he is able to manage the shop. He seldom talks with us. he offers biscuits whenever he eats. And, he insists that we take it at least one. Apart from that and except some information about his surgery-awaiting knee, I haven’t had many discussions with him.
That day, when my friend and I were having tea over there and our discussions centering on insurgencies and blasts, that person told us about Pune blast. I nodded and said, ‘yea! Only 8 died.” I didn’t feel much about my sentence. My friend later pointed out, though lightly, that I said very casually about those 8 who died. He too felt that this is not very uncommon as blasts are becoming ubiquitous in news. But, I was asking myself, why and how I said that. I ask it even now.
I am not worried about insensitivity. I prefer dry insensitivity that impotent but superficial sensitivity. People caring much about expressions of emotions are often shallow at emotions. I too was like that. But, once I realized that when I response to such a happening, a disturbing one, by my reactions (and mostly inaction), implicitly I care about image of mine in others’ mind and not bother much about truest feelings in myself about it, I prefer to gulp those initial bursts, see how much time they remain active and what shape they take within me. Even if I would have expressed that ‘oh! 8 died!!’, would that have been true reflection of what that incidence meant for me? No. nobody who are important in my life died there. No repercussion of it shakes my dear ones. What makes me connected to it? What makes me feel that whatever I said was not acceptable to myself?
Not so easy questions. None of this is a new question. I swing from end of total disconnectedness to feeling a live connection with those. With whom? With those who are away from my innermost circle of people. With those, whose faces and facts I don’t know but I sense their existence. They affect me as I am not able to build a shell around myself. I talk to myself through my reflections in them. I am one of them and I hate to be so unidentified to myself. I am not one of them, but I try that they should recognize me as one. They are twin to my contradictions.
Am I making this question simple? Will I able to reach a conclusion about my actions towards this distant, faceless existences by any self-search? If I keep searching this unending segregation of similar me’s, will there be any solution emerging?
I don’t like to be a questioner. I like to be an answer. I ask to myself and I answer to those who ask others.
I have answers within me. There is simple way out of such questions. If any action is generating so many storms of self doubts, it is not worth doing. If something is right, it will reconcile with questioning mind. It is not reconciling means it is not what I need to have. Simple!
The only connection I have with someone else is one which cannot be explained. This lack of explanations makes it painful, turbulent; but then my friend, that is how beautiful things are.
Conversations within me
And then it comes,
Through unquenched thirst of yours...
Through the loneliness that is never alone.....
Melt the differences of shades of words
And meaning is still in the balance of breaths
Memories shape dreams and present slowly unfolds in the womb of night
Tears roll and smiles fall, I answer when you never call
Mine senses and touches of yours
My poems have wounds of yours
Though they never plead, though they never bleed
Silence of storm, middle of battlefield
Nothingness of yours that is what I feel
Trying to shape as per my will
Wishing a moment of submerging in you
Either you hold me or let me through....
Through unquenched thirst of yours...
Through the loneliness that is never alone.....
Melt the differences of shades of words
And meaning is still in the balance of breaths
Memories shape dreams and present slowly unfolds in the womb of night
Tears roll and smiles fall, I answer when you never call
Mine senses and touches of yours
My poems have wounds of yours
Though they never plead, though they never bleed
Silence of storm, middle of battlefield
Nothingness of yours that is what I feel
Trying to shape as per my will
Wishing a moment of submerging in you
Either you hold me or let me through....
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Song of nobody
What should of this evening? Or what should I do at this melancholy time? I find all my songs disappearing into scattered flocks of birds. My words are colours spread across this sky, beautiful yet ephemeral. Sky, being eternal has no colour. What should I be? Sky of colours or colours of sky?
What should I make of you? Do you form my words or do my words carve you? You both are so same and I can have only one. You do not recognise yourself in those words and words cannot live in your shade. Whom should I seek? Or should I submerge myself in this evening, ageing speedily into night, mother of all completions?
Reason gives me no space to hold. Desire binds me to stay rooted. Poems blossom, then draught of stale analogies linger. Adventures into unknown end in redefinition of trivial. Losses and gains! Pleasures and pains!!
Night will come soon. Birds are holding this evening in their wings. Colours are converging to silence of dark. When these stars, distant and enlightened, ask me to count starts inside me, will i have moments to cherish? Will I tell them agonies and miseries?
Restless soul I am. I start where way often ends.
What should I make of you? Do you form my words or do my words carve you? You both are so same and I can have only one. You do not recognise yourself in those words and words cannot live in your shade. Whom should I seek? Or should I submerge myself in this evening, ageing speedily into night, mother of all completions?
Reason gives me no space to hold. Desire binds me to stay rooted. Poems blossom, then draught of stale analogies linger. Adventures into unknown end in redefinition of trivial. Losses and gains! Pleasures and pains!!
Night will come soon. Birds are holding this evening in their wings. Colours are converging to silence of dark. When these stars, distant and enlightened, ask me to count starts inside me, will i have moments to cherish? Will I tell them agonies and miseries?
Restless soul I am. I start where way often ends.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Anecdotes
We provide examples when we discuss. It is difficult and boring to talk in general and abstract manner for long time. To make it simple, we use examples. Examples are of crucial importance. Even in established teaching methodology, examples follow theory; I often feel that in process of understanding examples precedes abstraction. Our cognition has many biases or inherent limitation of naivety. One of them is failure to differentiate examples from anecdotes.
In my encounters with people, except those where I was not observer but active participant, what I have really remembered are anecdotes. And I see that I form my cognition of people from those anecdotes. But then they are ‘anecdotes’ is the fact that separates them from being closest approximation of reality. To have such closet approximation, which is aim of much of the social research, one must understand to separate anecdotes from general. My mind confuses me in anecdotes with examples. I consider anecdotes as examples of desired closet approximation and I end up constructing a structure that fails to explain most of the things. It is dull and similar looking general which needs explanation. Anecdotes are simply failure or limitation of explanations. They drive abstraction to misspecification.
How it happens in practice? When I try to evaluate how a government decision had affected group of people, what catches my attention are mostly anecdotes. As a simple onlooker, what I see prominently becomes my initial impression. What I see prominently are people who are able to achieve some distinction. This distinction of them makes them anecdotes. They are useful as tool of falsification but not for positive explanations. What should shape theory is observation of people who are indistinct and constitute larger chunk. This needs time, real excavation and fight with boredom. It is difficult and hence, we are biased toward simple, plausible but wrong theory of anecdotes. Our images are inmost of the case anecdotes. Mumbai is Nariman point or Dharavi, not suburb called ‘Ghatkopar’.
But there are anecdotes or exceptions or outliers or deviations in most of the aces. They are not limiting cases but distinct from theoretical explanations. Should we seek for theory that can incorporate them? Yes! We should. However, that does not make existing theory useless. These exceptions do not undermine existing limited explanations. It is fallacy of one who studies if such undermining happens. There is no complete and consistent explanation of anything. Explanations are approximations. Even our language is an excellent but limited approximation of exchangeable individual ideas or feelings. We often understand these limits. Then why Science can have such a limit? After all, it is creation of human being which itself is incomplete and inconsistent.
Statistics, however criticized for not providing an answer but a confidence interval around any answer, reminds us of these limitations. If we proclaim truth, they have edges of contradictions.
Perfection of explanation is pleasant dream. It doesn’t let me sleep and I cannot live it.
In my encounters with people, except those where I was not observer but active participant, what I have really remembered are anecdotes. And I see that I form my cognition of people from those anecdotes. But then they are ‘anecdotes’ is the fact that separates them from being closest approximation of reality. To have such closet approximation, which is aim of much of the social research, one must understand to separate anecdotes from general. My mind confuses me in anecdotes with examples. I consider anecdotes as examples of desired closet approximation and I end up constructing a structure that fails to explain most of the things. It is dull and similar looking general which needs explanation. Anecdotes are simply failure or limitation of explanations. They drive abstraction to misspecification.
How it happens in practice? When I try to evaluate how a government decision had affected group of people, what catches my attention are mostly anecdotes. As a simple onlooker, what I see prominently becomes my initial impression. What I see prominently are people who are able to achieve some distinction. This distinction of them makes them anecdotes. They are useful as tool of falsification but not for positive explanations. What should shape theory is observation of people who are indistinct and constitute larger chunk. This needs time, real excavation and fight with boredom. It is difficult and hence, we are biased toward simple, plausible but wrong theory of anecdotes. Our images are inmost of the case anecdotes. Mumbai is Nariman point or Dharavi, not suburb called ‘Ghatkopar’.
But there are anecdotes or exceptions or outliers or deviations in most of the aces. They are not limiting cases but distinct from theoretical explanations. Should we seek for theory that can incorporate them? Yes! We should. However, that does not make existing theory useless. These exceptions do not undermine existing limited explanations. It is fallacy of one who studies if such undermining happens. There is no complete and consistent explanation of anything. Explanations are approximations. Even our language is an excellent but limited approximation of exchangeable individual ideas or feelings. We often understand these limits. Then why Science can have such a limit? After all, it is creation of human being which itself is incomplete and inconsistent.
Statistics, however criticized for not providing an answer but a confidence interval around any answer, reminds us of these limitations. If we proclaim truth, they have edges of contradictions.
Perfection of explanation is pleasant dream. It doesn’t let me sleep and I cannot live it.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Conversations and I
Writing after a break, a break which I hope help me to redefine my writing, meaning that I want my words to have and to understand the limits this writing, which is a conversation to myself and with few others has. I keep no hope that somebody will understand what these words and the one who writes this mean or don’t mean. I write because it is becoming impossible to do anything except this writing at this point of time.
Why do I converse? Why do I need or feel like spending my time with someone else when i know that it is just me who actually lives. And, then I pose this question in greater dimension to existence of society around me. The one essential aspect of any conversation, relation or social exchange is giving up something of your own or something which you desired little bit less than what you have gained from that exchange, relation or conversation. There is loss of free and completely own action when one indulges in any interaction. However rude it may seem, a person with good amount of neutral thinking ability will realise that we weigh this in our mind and then decide to go ahead with interaction. Even if such comparison is not evident, a person cannot remain in interaction completely. At some point, one feels boredom, see something important that that interaction or seeks to have change. That change may lead to another interaction or solitude. It seems that we do not accept it easily. We try to eternalise our interactions, sketch them in ultra-human manner and project them beyond human and space-time limitations. This counterfactual observation can vindicate earlier claim of mine that we compare.
On broad sense, people seem to use ‘societal structures’ as risk lowering instruments. Poor people seem more social. As wealth status upgrades, families become self-centric. As this status upgrades even more, family members try to seek their own spheres. To feel it, visit slums and then any metropolitan apartment. A counterargument can be rich or well off have interactions which might not be evident or obvious. But, then most of these interactions are purpose driven or contact making. A poor who faces grave difficulties of subsistence, failures and frustrations seek societal interaction to support emotional losses. By seeing others who face similar or worse situations, he finds some interest in his struggle or continuous problem solving. It is need based largely.
I sometimes wonder why government seems to be essential. Or in general, why large social structures come into existence? It is really a social contract. I see that by altering my free actions to some extent, I am able to generate kind of insurance. Not much of the time we like to obey rules. We accept some inconvenience to get some ‘secured returns’. We are able to cover some fearful uncertainty by accepting the contract. But, when these social structures ask me to curtail my actions for some coverage of uncertainty which is not fearful for me, I hesitate to commit. Our social commitments or concerns are function of our social status.
I understand that what I have written above is not theorem but a statistical fact. There are exceptions and they help to generalise.
There is something else which I think can take someone to interaction with other person. I often find most of my ideas or explanations when I talk with someone. I see my own reflections in my conversations. I find my own unseen regions when I converse. Here, I must say that I do not listen to other person very well. I like to flow uninterrupted. I talk with myself, even when there is someone else who is listening to me.
These words have kind of pains structured in them. After writing, I hate myself sometimes. I might be adding something to pool of knowledge, I do not know and sometimes I do not care. I want to be disconnected with whatever I have written. I want to see it as an observer. They should be so perfect that there need not be anything further.
I get tired. I like to forget my existence once I write. I like to throw myself into something wild and thoughtless pleasure activity.
Incompleteness keeps these words away from expressing exactness. I know it. That is why I go indifferent in writing or not writing.
I understand that I cannot share myself completely and at the same time, I think how I know if there is anyone of this kind unless I seek for it.
Happiness is real when one feels it. One feels it and should learn to share it with oneself. I haven’t learned it yet.
Why do I converse? Why do I need or feel like spending my time with someone else when i know that it is just me who actually lives. And, then I pose this question in greater dimension to existence of society around me. The one essential aspect of any conversation, relation or social exchange is giving up something of your own or something which you desired little bit less than what you have gained from that exchange, relation or conversation. There is loss of free and completely own action when one indulges in any interaction. However rude it may seem, a person with good amount of neutral thinking ability will realise that we weigh this in our mind and then decide to go ahead with interaction. Even if such comparison is not evident, a person cannot remain in interaction completely. At some point, one feels boredom, see something important that that interaction or seeks to have change. That change may lead to another interaction or solitude. It seems that we do not accept it easily. We try to eternalise our interactions, sketch them in ultra-human manner and project them beyond human and space-time limitations. This counterfactual observation can vindicate earlier claim of mine that we compare.
On broad sense, people seem to use ‘societal structures’ as risk lowering instruments. Poor people seem more social. As wealth status upgrades, families become self-centric. As this status upgrades even more, family members try to seek their own spheres. To feel it, visit slums and then any metropolitan apartment. A counterargument can be rich or well off have interactions which might not be evident or obvious. But, then most of these interactions are purpose driven or contact making. A poor who faces grave difficulties of subsistence, failures and frustrations seek societal interaction to support emotional losses. By seeing others who face similar or worse situations, he finds some interest in his struggle or continuous problem solving. It is need based largely.
I sometimes wonder why government seems to be essential. Or in general, why large social structures come into existence? It is really a social contract. I see that by altering my free actions to some extent, I am able to generate kind of insurance. Not much of the time we like to obey rules. We accept some inconvenience to get some ‘secured returns’. We are able to cover some fearful uncertainty by accepting the contract. But, when these social structures ask me to curtail my actions for some coverage of uncertainty which is not fearful for me, I hesitate to commit. Our social commitments or concerns are function of our social status.
I understand that what I have written above is not theorem but a statistical fact. There are exceptions and they help to generalise.
There is something else which I think can take someone to interaction with other person. I often find most of my ideas or explanations when I talk with someone. I see my own reflections in my conversations. I find my own unseen regions when I converse. Here, I must say that I do not listen to other person very well. I like to flow uninterrupted. I talk with myself, even when there is someone else who is listening to me.
These words have kind of pains structured in them. After writing, I hate myself sometimes. I might be adding something to pool of knowledge, I do not know and sometimes I do not care. I want to be disconnected with whatever I have written. I want to see it as an observer. They should be so perfect that there need not be anything further.
I get tired. I like to forget my existence once I write. I like to throw myself into something wild and thoughtless pleasure activity.
Incompleteness keeps these words away from expressing exactness. I know it. That is why I go indifferent in writing or not writing.
I understand that I cannot share myself completely and at the same time, I think how I know if there is anyone of this kind unless I seek for it.
Happiness is real when one feels it. One feels it and should learn to share it with oneself. I haven’t learned it yet.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)