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..”.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
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
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