Time to say good-bye

I hated thinking that it would come to this. Should come to this. I didn't want it to come to this. I didn't want this. But I think the best way is to end it thus. Kurt, our close friend, said, it's better to burn out than to fade away. I think its better to fade away than to exist without even fading. Hence this.

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.

Moving on,
H

T, you agree?

Babe, is this good enough for you? :-)

Bombay

Bombay. Mystical magical musical Bombay. Seems like so far away. Well it is right now.

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."

"I know."

"Like, just for writing. Just to fill up the space."

"Yes."

"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..."

"..magical.."

"..musical.."

"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."

"Bye..."

"Wait, how are you?"

"I'm good. And you?"

"I'm good too."

"Ok then, I'll talk to you later."

"Bye bye."

Speak...or forever hold your peace

"That's quite extraordinary Lavanya!", exclaimed Inder, on reading her latest piece. "I really loved the new Barbarian characters. Though there wasn't enough magic...".

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."

Hunt

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!

T

Childhood fantasies and grown-up realities

Rosa was born into a world of opulence. A large palatial home filled with brightly lit chandeliers gifted by her Aunt in Luxembourg and numerous apple orchards that seemed to stretch to the ends of the Earth. Her very early thoughts were about dolls and ponies, like any other girl. She obsessed about chocolates and dreamt about knights on horses.

When she was twelve, her father died of a sudden accident. Ostensibly an accident, she later learnt. Her mother fell into an irrecoverable spiral of guilt and unhappiness. Within days, the ubiquitous familial vultures swooped down to peck away at the hapless mother and daughter. Within weeks, the two were on the streets fending for themselves. Rosa lost her mother to pneumonia that year. She lost her childhood innocence to the big bad world very soon.

It was five years later that Rosa decided to move out of the country. She had saved enough money for an one-way trip to a foreign land. She had also understood the real reason for her father's 'accident'. Avarice had had its inevitable victim. With a little help, of course. They would pay, they who were responsible - so sayeth the Book of Rage.

That was the reason she decided to go to the land of the golden fields of barley and corn. She left that day with no luggage but for the clothes on her body and the black ribbon tied around her waist. She looked odd. She wanted to look odd.

She smiled softly as she recovered from her brief oneirism. "I've come here for a job", she announced to the curious family. She stopped, turned her head towards the grandmother who was staring at her intently and continued with a wry grin, "any job that you can give me. But in return I ask you a favour. Teach me the ways of your people". She loosened her black ribbon and gave it to the father.

The father and the grandmother were taken aback. Time truly does come full cirlce.

Invitation

She sat on the red sofa meant for visitors. No one in the family sat on it because it faced away from the TV. Inder liked to jump on it when no one was watching. They would start shouting at him about springs if they saw him using it like a trampoline. If only one could fly, he thought.

Rosa looked at them out of hazel brown eyes. She had auburn hair, the type you see on ragamuffins on the street because they never oil their hair. Lavanya thought it must be from working in the fields for too long. Atleast, that would fit the story that Rosa had told them. She said it was important for all citizens to contribute to the welfare of the state by spending a year or two farming, fishing or raising poultry or cattle. Only then did one pay off the debt one owed to society by eating the food it created. The other things she said seemed even more confusing.

Rajesh woke up from his reverie to hear Lavanya speaking to Rosa. “And why have you come here, then?” she asked, almost violently.

“Lavanya!” their father warned, in a low commanding tone, “mind your manners!” He turned back to face Rosa. Her large eyes so reminded him of a time past. “So tell me, what can we do for you?”

Introduction

Inder was six. Almost seven. His birthday was a month away. He was short for his age, dark brown hair, black eyes. He was a bibliophile, forever lost in fantasies about those wizards. He had an active imagination. He wanted to grow up.

Lavanya was seventeen. She was finishing school this year. Sinuous jet black hair and a svelte figure to match. Her mother's beatific face. A natural charm which caught every stranger's stare. She wanted to be run away from here and become a writer.

Rajesh was the eldest one. He was twenty three. He lived abroad. He was a software engineer. He sent money home every month like a responsible son. He did not like the foreigners. He wanted to come back and become an artist.

Their father was a hard working blue-collared employee of a large soap manufacturing company. He left for work at 6 am and returned at 10 pm. He had become a widower five years ago. He wanted to meet his wife again, one way or the other.

The children were mostly under the care of Dadima, the maternal grandmother. She was seventy and wore a white saree. She was always chewing paan and looking at the golden fields of barley and corn. She wanted the pain in her back to go away so that she could run across the fields one more time.

It was one dark early morning that Rosa entered their lives. Rosa and her revolutionary ways. Rosa and her new fangled ideas. Rosa and her black ribbon.

Storytelling

“Fire!” shouted Rouge. He didn’t know how it had happened; all he had done was snap his fingers and conjure up an image of Zed in his mind. “Fire!” he shouted again…

“This is rubbish!” cried Inder. “You can’t put me to sleep by boring me to death! That’s not fair at all! You’re supposed to read me a short story, at least. Not use me to test one of your boring essays!”

“Keep quiet and listen, Inder. It gets better than this, I promise,” pleaded Lavanya, “I can’t help it if you have read all the Enid Blytons that Ma has bought for you. You’ll just have to put up with my stories till she or Pa go to Gangarams and bring some more.”

“Ok then. Atleast, add a little proper magic to it. I mean, what kind of magician simply closes his eyes and creates fire by conjuring up images? That stuff is for kids. I’m almost seven, you know!”

“Yes, I know! And it’s almost twelve and way past your bed time. I don’t know why I’m supposed to put you to sleep, in the first place. Now shut up and listen… ‘Fire!’ Rouge shouted again…”

Travelling

He blinked a couple of times. Rouge had reread the letter a couple of times now. He tapped his fingers on his chin in contemplation. He blinked again.

Bleu hadn't been the same since the accident. He was quite funny most of the time. Suffered from wanderlust. Nonplussed by daily routines. Constantly lost in reflection. He hadn't been the same ever since.

Rouge sighed. A long tired pessimistic sigh. He looked out through the grilled windows, at the landscape whooshing past at the lethargic speed the old steam engine was maintaining. The skies were bright and blue. Rouge cringed. He hated the sun.

Supernatural? If only Bleu knew. Rouge would have dismissed the letter as yet another rant of a wandering mind. But then he had met Zed. And nothing was the same again. It was unfortunate that Rouge did not remember the exact incidents that led to the accident. The pouring rain and the crackling lightning had ensured enough distraction. But sub-consciously, Bleu must remember. Somehow must.

Rouge closed his eyes. The train lumbered on. Rouge remembered Zed's red cloak. The fire in his eyes. He remembered how Zed snapped his fingers. And how there was fire.

Rouge snapped his fingers. And there was fire.

A letter

Dear Rouge,

I was walking through the moors the other day when a strange thought entered my head. It was, perhaps, owing to the old highway man setting offered by the place. The moon was a ghostly galleon on shining seas and all that, the road was a ribbon of moonlight tossing and turning and in the distance, I saw this little hut sitting on the top of a little hillock. Next to the hillock was a burial ground, of sorts; however, instead of the usual cross sitting on top of the graves, I saw fantastic designs sticking out of the ground. Some were in the shape of hands, grasping for something, others were lightning bolts shooting up, opposing the sky gods while some looked like weeping willows fortified with the strength of a thousand oaks.

So it was, that this thought began to cross my mind, as is quite natural in such circumstances. Why are our minds so tuned to the supernatural? Is it because we hope to see such a thing exist in an otherwise mundane world, or does our brain naturally reverberate with thoughts of the supernatural for a purpose? Horrible thought, could it actually exist?

Let me know what you think.

Cheerio,
Bleu

P.S. Give my regards to the wife and kids

New Year Blues

A long time ago now, we had a party at A's place for A's (another A, also known as S) b'day. It was quite a lovely party filled with some friends we had not seen for quite some time. It was also filled with others I had never seen in my life. Soon, two distinct groups were formed and it is quite strange how social dynamics work. Even in the corporate world, it would appear, there are people who have made it, amongst those who have made it, amongst those who have made it and so on and on ad infinitum, ad nauseam, like the new RP ads - this on, josh on, something on, power on, India on, nausea, nausea.

Anyway, we realised something very important in that party - it would appear that words in different languages that relate to the word "yes" are somehow connected to different types of wood - for example, OK is related to the word, oak; Teek hai, in Hindi, relates to teak; fine is to pine, seri (in Tamil) is to sal (if you stretch your imagination a little) and so on and on. The theory isn't perfect yet - we're still looking for global examples (in true M fashion - global best practices) and for an actual story to concoct to explain the apparent similarity. If you, our knowledgeable reader, have anything to share on the subject, do write in.

In other news, life seems to have turned quite blue - there seems to be this lingering feeling in the air. I don't know what is lingering, nor do I care and I don't know what it is lingering for, so don't ask. Lingering, lingering, why is it lingering? Lingering, lingering, I don't know.

I've also come to realise how useless we all are. The only reason we seem to be where we are (in terms of our social standing, jobs, degrees and the like) is because others are more useless than we (some of my less educated brethren will now point out that it should have been - "more useless than us"; I beg to differ, it is "more useless than we are" and our good friends, the grammaticians, permit us to drop the "are" and call it "implied verb" or some such nonsense; it is also "I am taller than he (is)" and not "taller than him"). Hmmm. Quite a gloomy outlook, I agree, but true, nonetheless.

Finally, the Aussies have proved that they are poor winners, yet again. First, they cheat, then, they cheat, then they get the umpires to cheat, then they claim racial abuse, then, surprise, surprise, they cheat. The only person racially abused in this whole mess is dear Bhajji who has been racially discriminated by the match referee by having his word shown less regard as compared to the Australians'. Sheesh.

Anyway, Happy New year everyone. May you find joy and all that jazz that you got in your lovely mushy messages from your friends. If you don't, I'll provide you a shoulder to cry on.

Cheers, (yeah right),
T