Monday, May 5, 2008
Bye bye blog.
Saying good-bye is so hard. Especially for someone like me. Me, who is obsessed with the past. Me, who considers the past with the rosiest brush and with the most colourful tunes; A saxophone with mellow notes of yesterday.
I don't think I have a healthy obsession for the past. Too many sights, smells and words remind me of a time I can never get to again. Too many faces, too many dejavus. Stand in a place, close my eyes, rewind the clock, remember the happy days, the people, the conversation, the what-happened-next. At the same time, the all very real fact that it can never again be.
But ah, Kundera has an answer. Friends are our window to our memories. The proof of the past. The warmth in the embers.
School. College. Elections. ACM. 3rd year, ah, 3rd year. TG. 4th year, aha, 4th year.
This would be the inexplicable rant of a geezer for a young one. Many years ago, when in school, I remember a senior who came in to see a teacher. She was a good-looking senior, hence I remember. And she said then, school was the best time of her life. I looked at her disapprovingly. But then she had had her time. And her right to say so.
There must be a balance - between living in the moment, living off the past and living for the future. Sure, you can explain everything with purpose, happiness and such Platonic hogwash. The truth of the matter is not enough people think rationally about life. Most of the time you live life the way you are supposed to. Thus, parents want children to be happy. Children want parents to be happy. Parents ask children to do what they want. Children listen to parents without question. Neither parents nor children think why. Possible result? Neither happy.
Society, religion, money - I don't see the use for all these. That's just me. You do? I am happy for you.
Rant done. Back to this post. My dramatic nod and my over-dramatic bow to this blog. 2 years almost, T, 2 years. Good times. Remember the saturday comedies? I do. And the Peregrine parties? And the time we followed Upma to his house and back? And the time we had a mini-IITM reunion when we moved out? I do, I do, I do. You still have Peregrine and basketball. You still have Bombay. And you're not even the senti one of us two.
Yes, you can flick that drop off your cheek. This is indeed good-bye. A long drawn affair it has been. The good-bye too.
Farewell my love.
T, you agree?
Babe, is this good enough for you? :-)
Friday, April 18, 2008
H sits down on the antiquated archaic bench. The discoloured smell of the breeze from the Worli sea-face disturbs his nose. T sits down beside him. They don't speak; just look out at the setting sun, in its orange-red majestic glory. Joggers pass by, couples amble on. And they don't speak.
"You want to go to Cafe Mocha?" asks T, turning his head towards H, sitting next to him.
"Which one?" replies H, not turning, still looking at the sun. The beautiful sun disappearing under the calm dirty sea.
"Churchgate? Bandra? Whichever?" suggests T. He tilts his head and thinks about which one.
"Does it really matter? I'm not in Bombay anyway," states H, sounding disappointed in what he just said.
"True, in fact I've bought a shisha for my new home. Have I shown it to you?"
"No, I am yet to see your new home."
"Tsk tsk, you no longer visit us."
"True. And you no longer blog."
"I've been rather preoccupied... with life. I can't write anything. The wizard is addled, his wand is shaking. "
"Indeed. He takes on a new craft. So much more to learn, so much more to understand. I see."
"Yes, and I don't want to write anything I don't feel. You know."
"Like, just for writing. Just to fill up the space."
"I could write about my new life. Not now though. When I get the time. Not now."
"Sure, whenever. So, how is S? Is he fine?"
"Yup, he's good. Went to dinner with him last night. He's good."
"That's good to hear. And V? Is he fine?"
"He's fine. Do you realize you ask me these questions every weekend?"
"Yes, I do. That's why I continue asking them."
"Oh. Ok. How's life outside Bombay?"
"It's fine. Not very different if you ask me. Same story, different cast of characters. Makes you wonder about the plot of the story ever so often."
"I see. That's good. As long as you're happy I suppose."
"Of course, as long as one's happy."
"So you'll be coming back when?"
"Soon. Though not sure when and where and how."
"That's how it usually is."
"I know. Learning to live with that."
"Do visit sometime. It's a good city. Its mystical..."
"Good city. Miss it now and then. Just like the insti. "
T smiles. He finally turns away.
H turns toward T and smiles.
"I've got to go. Call you next week then."
"Yes, bye for now."
"Wait, how are you?"
"I'm good. And you?"
"I'm good too."
"Ok then, I'll talk to you later."
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Lavanya smiled. "Thank you", she muttered as she continued her musings. Young child, she thought. If only he understood the real intent of my fictional piece. A tribute to life rather a children's story. But Rosa would understand.
Lavanya was always grappling with idealism and philosophy. She listened to a lot of music and loved to know more about musicians. And she was quite tormented when she realized that a lot of her favourite artists often ended up losing their lives early. Even worse she had once heard a quote that would forever scar her, emotionally - "It is better to burn out than to fade away." - how could someone feel like that.
As she sat in silent reflection, a black raven, which was circling above her, landed silently on a nearby tree. Perched on a branch nearer the top, it looked down, disapprovingly. As if she had done wrong. As if, she had not done something right.
Ever since Rosa came and announced her wish, rare birds and animals had started frequenting their home. Once a large white horse, with an obscure black star painted on its back, had wandered into their farm. And stood there for three days without moving. Just staring at the family. And at Rosa.
Rosa was happy though. She had come looking for something very specific. She had to go through a lot to do this. And finally it was all paying off. It would be only a year before she could begin her journey of vengence. Finally, she could tell him what he had told her that night.
"Speak... or forever hold your peace."
Monday, February 4, 2008
The barbarian bent down on one knee and sniffed the spoor. It was fresh; the beast was nearby, not a half hour away from the spot. But in which direction? And, what was she doing? She couldn’t be hunting for prey this far away from the water hole. The river wouldn’t be flowing at this time of the year; the gazelles wouldn’t be grazing this far north.
He looked around for tracks. They seemed to lead east to the bushes. There were scruff marks on the bark of the betel tree. He wondered if he should pluck any leaves for his daily dessert, but decided against it. The main course is more important than dessert; luxury came last on his list of priorities. Food before luxury; water before food; air before water, and the tribe before air; and for the tribe to survive he had to slay the beast. The Wise woman had told him that in her fevre dream.
“The air smells of drought, Waerjak. I see death and decay all around. A womb plague strikes our women. Our weapons have rusted. The Lady of Destruction walks this land now. All this I see; it is near. But there is one hope.”
“What is it?” asked Waerjak, though he believed in none of this, he knew well enough that his tribe’s future lay in the beliefs of his people. He could see Tarnum again, lecturing by the fireside. The two of us may not believe in what we cannot see, Waerjak. Nature follows her own laws, but they are not the laws of Men. Men see beyond the roaring of the cataract, they hear a different music. The flash of lightning, the rumbling of thunder – they mean much more than rain to Man. To Him, it is the chariot of the Rain God flying across the Heavens. To move Man, you must listen to His beliefs, His hopes, His fears. You may stand on the peak of the mountain and see beyond, to the very Heavens; but Man, Man stands in the trough of the valley. You must start at this nadir before you can take him to the zenith. Belief before Empericism. Mysticism before Science.
“The beast that walks this land, Waerjak - you must slay her to save the tribe!”
Waerjak shook himself from his reverie. He stalked the beast now. He would have to bring her head back with him to wake his tribe from the malaise that had gripped them. From tree to tree, stalked; from paw mark to paw mark, he tracked; from rabbit track to boar path, he ran, till finally he saw her.
Magnificent! She lay on her side looking away from him. He tested the air; he was downwind. Her fur stirred in the air, from nose to tail, she must have been eight feet long. She stirred lazily, like a woman rising from sleep, stretching, thinking of the breakfast she would have to cook for her man. She put out her forelegs, and licked her right paw, a low purr escaped her maws.
Waerjak unsheathed his hunting knife. He rose from his haunches. The kill would be quick, he thought, a strike on the back of the neck would freeze her, before she even turned.
That’s when he saw it, a ball of orange moving beyond the beast. Waerjak froze in his tracks. The ball soon came fully into his view. It made a hissing sound, in mock anger. The beast nuzzled its nose against the furry ball. Soon three other balls came into view, all mewling away in hunger and primordial fury.
Waerjak backed away, without making a sound. Tarnum’s voice sounded in head, playing in contrapunt to the little beasts’ music. Luxury before food; water before food; air before water; the tribe before air; but, Waerjak, remember this, remember this – Life before all else. Life, Tarnum had sighed to him.
Waerjak turned to walk back to his tribe. The quest, a failure, but he would teach his tribe the path to the peak through another route.
Happy birthday, H!