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

Bad Bad T, no donuts for you

When Santa Uncle visited us this Christmas, T did not get any gifts. Rather, he got a rap on his knuckles. For he was being an ass.

A month of procrastination, sprinkled with many fervent reminders, riddled with false promises of completion. Sigh. Will the young boy ever learn?

I even helped him come up with a post! Imagine. The jackass even had the content. All he had to do was to wake up before 10am one of these beautiful days and pen the post. But nooo, that was too much for him. Sigh. Will the young one ever learn?

The post was a humourous one. One that was sure to make you laugh. It was centered around wood. Isn't that funny already? And it had various characters involved. A scientist and an author to start with. It reminds me of the all-time rib-tickler of a joke, dubbed the 'Tree joke'. This is it:
Me: Ask me whether I am a tree
You: Are you a tree?
Me: No.

I know that was funny. But the latest story is definitely as, if not, much funnier. So stay put and stay tuned and hope to God (and anyone else), that T gets off the excessives of his posterior and puts finger to keyboard. Sigh. Will the young kid ever learn?

Hoping against hope,
H

Golden Mean

I was walking up the 3 floors of our apartment building. It was a lazy saturday morning. It had just rained. The scintillating smell of the wet earth still lingered on. "T, I'm home! What's for breakfast?", I asked, bringing in fresh supplies of bread and milk. T was still in bed, or so I thought.

"H, meet S...", started T, as he was laying down on the mattress in the main hall, in front of the television, flipping channels. S was a young man, dressed in a saintly orange T-shirt and a light blue jeans. "Greetings H", S saluted with folded arms.

"Hi... I have a feeling I've met you somewhere before, S", I continued. "Anyways, good to meet you. And T, did you think about what I had asked you? About science and religion?"

"No. I was watching the Bold and the Beautiful. Couldn't concentrate.", explained T, nonchalantly.

"You wanted to know the relevance of science and religion in an ideal world?", asked S. "You want to understand."

I nodded, rather confused. I wasn't sure when S had heard this. Or had T told him.

"Science helps Man. Science reduces time, reduces pain, increases productivity, increases comfort..."

"But war..."

"Well, that is inevitable. Because of the over-dependence on science. We find too much pleasure in losing ourselves in technology. Too much is as dangerous as too less, young man."

"Wait, you, you, remind me of ... ", I smiled. "You are the founder of one of the religions of the New World. He who preaches the golden mean. With the smiling face and the non-violent religion."

S opened his lips, sorry, His lips but only to be interrupted.

"Then I'm more curious to know the role of religion in the ideal world. An ideal world with happiness for all. Peace and prosperity. Where the significance of religion as a source of inspiration and support for those without happiness is superfluous. Where science will be but for the intellectual masturbation of the elite. Where everyone is born happy, lives happy and dies happy."

His open lips gracefully transformed into a beauteous and benevolent smile. "Yes. But I have two caveats. One, your ideal world is like the theoretical Carnot engine. It exists but in the mind of the unignorant. Two, every human being has the fundamental right to unhappiness. It is with that unhappiness that one gets to appreciate happiness. You can't quite judge that something is hot until you have touched something that is cold."

"Well, yes. But..."

"It's time for me to go. My flight is an hour's time and God knows (smiling), the traffic between here and the Bombay airport at this time of hour."

He came forward and touched my forehead with His palm, but it felt as though a warm breeze was blowing snugly on the temple of my face. I closed my eyes.

"Your colour is blue, child. You have much to learn. And T, that woman dies in the next episode."

"What!?!", shrieked T, spilling his popcorn and drink.

"Yes, and you are red. You are like me. You two have much to do in this world... things to do, people to see and miles to go before you sleep..."

H

What comes before...

Here I am again, sitting at the Café Ankh. The smell of beer permeates the atmosphere like the morning mist over the canal by the side. Beer so bitter and black that Guiness looked like white wine. I was thinking again; the Café Ankh always brings out the best in my thinking, the raucous crowd hollering along the latest about what the lady wished to do to her man, the buxom waitresses hinting at darker secrets, the mysterious, cowled patrons sitting off to a side by themselves and the harsh liquor squatting on my table in front of me, all contribute to the deadening of my brain enough to actually start thinking.

What comes before. What comes before. What comes before determines what comes after. I wonder if it’s that simple. To determine how a person would react to anything that you do or say, do we just need to understand the circumstances that come before? I was reading a book by a very good author, named Scott Bakker, and he seems to think so. The beer goes flat and I gulp it down to the chorus of `My mother was a farmer’s daughter’. Excellent stuff. The song. Not the singer. Not the beer. This is the Ankh, after all.

What I’ve also come to learn is that there are different types of people and that those types determine what they do. What comes before. Ah! very insightful stuff indeed. There are different people. And they do different things. Quite. There’s a brawl starting in front of the stage; looks like two of the sailors in here want to know more about the farmer’s grand-daughter. So, as I was saying, there are different types and if one wishes, one could provide a more grandiose name to it and call them arch-types and each of these arch-types has a core need to that they ache for with their very soul. There is a void that they wish to fill up, as it were and it determines every move they make. Freedom, Duty, Power or Knowledge and Self.

Who’s this I see? It’s the Hermit coming to sit at my table. Young, of marriageable age and, to my knowledge, seeking knowledge, the Hermit has fascinated many of the regulars of our little coffee shop. He drinks more than he can pee, he talks more than he can breathe and he thinks more than he can sleep. It doesn’t make sense to me either. As he drinks his beer down, I think about this latest trend he’s showing. Memory, sorrow and thorn. Clinging on, like Klingons, to the past. Is it to see what comes before? Is there some answer that this miserable creature in front of me sees in his ravings for the past? Or is he trying to clutch onto it instead.

I know not. He drinks on without lifting his head. The piano has begun playing in the background. The music is clear and lilting. This is the part most of us come for. After the beer has sunk has pirates, after the ruffians have been rounded down, after, for what comes after. The chords play slowly out reminding one happy times, of hopes and fears and of my sassy girl. The Hermit looks up and looks out of the window. He sees something in the distance and his eyes light up once again. The music soothes the storms in our souls and places them in tea cups. This is not profound any longer. I am jaded.

ADaSK

Blast from the past

I remember one Calvin & Hobbes strip in which Calvin receives a letter from his past - warning him of impending doom (or school, I forget). I felt like that recently when I was mailed a copy of a note I had to write during my BAT (Business Analyst Training - glorified name for week of fun in Singapore). The note, which is supposed to carry my key takeaways (I am beginning to abhor all these jargons... grrr) from my training, was highly confidential and for my eyes alone. Guess what it said?

I must be smart. And oh-so-profound. For it flirted with some gibberish about feedback (no, you don't need to know). And it had two wonderful - nay, beautiful - pearls of wisdom.
1. Be yourself - You are you and I am I.
2. Always remember about happiness and slowness.

Sounds silly, but when I read thus, I was amused. Amused that this was so important to me then that I had to write myself a note - from the past - to remind myself of its import. Having reflected on this, I have decided to mail this back to myself of the future yet again - how do I do this though?

Which reminds me - einmal ist keinmal. Once is nonce. Rummaging through the multitude of abandoned books at home, I chanced upon a sepia-tinged version of The Unbearable Lightnes of Being. Probably my mom's, from the 80's or even earlier. Feeling victorious at striking gold in a coal mine, I read a few pages of Kundera's masterpiece. And then tried explaining the beauty of those three words to my grandmother. Either she was impressed by its meaning or the way she likened it to 2 vernacular names, she seemed to like it a lot. Oh, the everyday impact I have on people.

"Why don't we seem to enjoy the simpler things in life? Why are we so connected that Mush calling Emergency somewhere far far away should seem to affect us?" asked L. "No no, I am very much still enjoying the smaller things in life." I replied. Like crosswords and poker. The glorified past haunts us time and again. If there is one true obsession for every human, irrespective of caste, creed, language, country, religion, sex and age, it has to be our unified love for that repainted version of our past - the best days of our lives - that which is over.

There's nothing wrong in keeping memories snug in your mind. Or slightly colouring it a happy hue. But you must remember - einmal ist keinmal - and move on.

Recently one of my wiser friends (or so I consider him), compared me to Will Hunting from Good Will Hunting. I felt great. Will Hunting (and a few others from more obscure movies like Dazed and Confused) are truly legendary characters in my life - inspirations. They are kindred souls of a life that was not to be - or perhaps was, in a different dimension. They are the closest I can get to defeating Nietsche and Kundera at their irrepeatability of the human life. They are my closest parallels to immortality.

That reminds me - T, give me that book man.

Happy Diwali folks - and children, play safe but play. You'll want these memories later on...

Cracker,
H

Abusage

The more I learn the English language, the less I know of it. It is, apart from German, the most worthless of wanton languages that I've seen. And I've seen many, I just don't know any of them. While it waxes eloquent about its rules and structure, about how and 'i' always comes after an 'e', it drops an exception in - ("except after 'c'" you've heard in class, I'm sure, from the nerdy looking guy sitting on the first bench - that would be me, yes) and, promptly, makes it the rule.

Let's take a for example, the word usage. I have no idea what its usage is. That is exactly the point, the previous sentence is grammatically wrong. It is supposed to be, and I quote (as someone I know used to say, I never could figure out why he quoted so much, did he not have anything original on his mind, eh?) "I have no idea what its use is". My English teacher told me that. So where exactly is usage used? No clue. It is, I'm sure, a much abused word. Ah yes, there's another for you, how exactly does one abuse another word, or a substance for that matter? One may misuse it, of course, but abuse? I can just about hear an Atkinsonian voice hollering, "What a *#$%@$ %&@$%& of a word! Why if I had the chance, I'd %&^*&@# you."
My teacher would also rap me on my knuckles, or mark in red ink on my answer scripts every time I wrote "due to" instead of owing to. Go figure.

On a final note, this clockwise-anti-clockwise thing is very strange. I stared and stared at the girl (I know what you're thinking, oh you of vulgar mind) and found that I could not, for the life of me, change the direction from clock-wise to anti. And once, all of a sudden (what a phrase), I look at it in the evening and suddenly find that it is anti clockwise and find myself unable to turn it the other way around this time. What worsht! So what? I think your natural side gets tired as you work and the other lobe begins to take over, which explains why you don't feel like yourself when you're tired. Aha!

New suggestion: we should ask each other very difficult questions, the answer of which, the other should provide in the next post. So H, what is the purpose of meaning?

Falsely,
T

Wise - clock or anti-clock

It's been a long time since we wrote something fun. Lets see now - what constitutes fun. This could be a good start - http://www.news.com.au/heraldsun/story/0,21985,22556281-661,00.html

Now, what do you see? Clockwise or anti-clockwise? I, for one, can see nothing but clockwise. It's a bummer especially since the article says that you would normally see anti-clockwise. No matter, some elitist ego boosting. Moving on, it says one can concentrate and change directions. I concentrated. I can't change it. There were two of us who couldn't change and so we decided to use a mirror to explain to our brains the difference between clockwise and anti-clockwise. He found it useful. My brain can see only clockwise. Even in the mirror image!

The article says that those who see clockwise use their left brain more than their right. As L said, I, who cannot see any anti-clockwise action, must have a dysfunctional right brain. No math and science abilities! Makes sense. The corporate world has killed the scientist inside me.

Anyways that was a good laugh. Atleast for all of us. Some distraction from the otherwise real world. Or as T would put it, an escape from the realities of the mundane world. And what we need is such distractions - the simple distractions.

Do tell me if there are other ways - crosswords? I don't know what else.

But till then, please concentrate and prove that your brain works much better than mine - stupid big picture, fantasy-focussed, present-future emphasising brain of mine (ahhh, rationalization - that sounds good).

Smiles,
H

Most boring post of the year

H's and my posts have increasingly become about ways and means to find happiness. Starting from my age old adage that happiness is a hammock to Her assertions that happiness is a goal that is too difficult to reach, our thoughts have turned more and more to the future and to the darkness shrouding it.

And with the future, comes the difficult question surrounding what one "really" wants from life. Does one follow the path of profit and become a private equity professional, continue in consulting because it is nice and comfortable or even find a new interest in the social sector?

How is this connected to happiness and meaning in life? Well, the two are deeply entangled with no hope in sight to cut through the knots; because deciding the path to take finally boils down to choosing between happiness and purpose, and if one fails to find happiness even after choosing it, because it chooses another, then settle for contentment.

H has often said that he wishes to screw all of this and become his own man, to be father to his own initiative that he can nurture, can see grow from the smallest seed to a full grown oak. However, the problem is one of choice – not between issues that one wishes to solve, or more succinctly, between careers, but between lifestyles – an entrepreneur forever strives to see his business grow, his every though surrounds the fact that his business is encumbered by this or that issue, that his workers have gone on strike, that a client has refused to pay and his cash is being strapped – there is no holiday – and one doesn’t remain one’s master even then. While on the other hand, when one is an employee, one has holidays, atleast officially declared and one can go back to the confines of one’s castle and feel secure in the fact that it might be business as usual in the morning – but one is still not one’s own master eh?

I don’t do this well, I think. I should stop writing about our choices and futures and stick to fiction – so much nicer, to use writing to escape the mundane world, rather than use it as a tool to force your thinking. However, my point is this – whatever one chooses, one first chooses the way one wishes to live – the rules are defined there before going into subtleties of choice of career and the like. All that becomes clear (I hope) once one decides what one wants out of life. That is where one decides between happiness and purpose, or atleast, contentment and purpose. But for all of the choice one can make for peace, for harmony in our own world and for congruency (like in triangles), (now that I’ve got bored writing the post), the dark side shrouds everything.

Peace is a lie, there is only passion,
Through passion, I gain strength,
Through strength, I gain power,
Through power, I gain victory,
Through victory, my chains will be broken,
The force will set me free

Remember, remember, the 2nd of october?

T writes good epilogues, doesn't he? Now that's a specialization. Kudos. Reminds me of the movie Closer and hence, the Blower's daughter. Also reminds me of an epitaph - 4th wing, 2003-2007. Later replaced by 4th wing, forever. The senti bastard D.

R,T and I were having lunch - a rather extended session at that. Multiple desserts and new-fangled pastas. At the end of it, at the rather uncomfortable moment of tipping, that too apart from being taxed 12% for some value addition which resembles the value allusion of consultants, we were left with a 50, 20 and 10 as change to the cash tendered. I reach for the 50 and the 10 as T looks at me, squinting one eye, with a capitalist look on his face (no no, don't ask), and says, "H, that 50 looks old. Don't take it. Just take the 20, that looks reasonably new. " And I accede. (Later on, the 20 is lost as another dessert's tips - the life of an unwanted currency note must be fascinating...)

Magic for beginners and Endless night. Put fundaes. Rather difficult to crack. Perhaps a clue. Where T would be like a young child with a sweet-tooth in a candy shop. Nothing sensational. J hasn't changed much from college. Still looks unkempt. He talked of almost being stabbed as he left office on his bike the previous week. Stabbed. Certain events in another's life can help bring perspective to yours. Unconnected as you were to those events. A young man and a life lost early. Human beings are not meant to survive, merely to exist.

"Its not about happiness silly... its about contentment. Atleast that's what I think. If you try to solve for such an optimistic target, you will neither be happy nor content." Makes sense. I suppose. Later, green peppermint. Fancy-shmancy. "You can't change yourself and it's not worth it." Fair enough. There is magic in the world. She's proof enough.

Mahatma Gandhi lived a long and fruitful life. Filled with myriad colourful incidents. All of which are now talked of in a legendary sense. And positive light. To rise above mediocrity. I pity the soul. Souls. Mediocrity is bathed in such negative hues. Much like ignorance and indolence. Yes, misconceptions. All of them. Mediocrity, by choice, is snug comfort, ignorance, when premeditated, is bliss and indolence, without denying one's responsibilities, is nonpareil delight. And yes, I know.

Most national holidays are dry days, the concept of which baffles me no end. There exists our wonderful democracy which believes that alcohol corrupts the gullible individual and hence celebrates days of patriotic importance in ostensible sobreity but is otherwise lax and even prodigal (no no no, nothing to do with prodigies - sheesh) in disbursing spirited consumables on all other days. Why?

Sometimes I wonder very meaningless things. Like why are there 7 days in a week? No no, I'm not asking you for the random trivia like Augustus Caesar's favourite number was 7. I mean, what if there were more days in the week - would that be better or worse? What if the weekday:weekend ratio was different? What if the weekday:weekend distribution was 2,1,3,1 instead of 5,2. Just meaningless what ifs which might one day fuel my big idea. My big idea with which I would earn lots of money and not need to work any more. Atleast the latter. Like early retirement. Pearls of young childish wisdom.

October 2 was interesting.

Connect,

H

Weeping for Manetheren

James Oliver Rigney, Jr. (October 17, 1948 - September 16, 2007)







This past week has been one of terrible sadness. It is with great grief that I inform my small world, albeit late, that Robert Jordan, that writer of writers, that raconteur of raconteurs, has passed away.

Robert Jordan, as most of you must know wrote the Wheel of Time series. It is one of the most marvelous series that I have ever read. I began reading the Wheel of Time in the 8^th standard, 10 years ago. It has probably shaped my life and the approach to it more than any other book I’ve read. I’ve written about this before and I fear that I’m going to write a post that is exactly the same. I am the same person, however, and though water has flown under tons of bridges and has gone on to the sea, the river remains the same, the man remains the same, the book remains the same.

RJ showed me the grandeur of his mind and, through it, the grandeur of the world. The world was brighter owing to him and my dreams turned to colour when sleeping after reading WOT. My cycle turned into a stallion on my way to school, sticks turned to quarterstaff, plastic to burnished gold. Rainbows inevitably appeared when the rain storm ended. But, it was all much more than this, wasn’t it? RJ showed me what it meant to be a knight –that duty was often heavier than mountains, that death was lighter than feathers. That dreams have meaning beyond measure.

And who can forget his characters – persons who became my brothers, sisters, lovers. Who went to sleep with me at night and woke in the morning. Characters that shared with me their deepest sorrow, their profound happiness, their hopes, their fears, their love. Goodbye, Mat, Goodbye Min. You whom I once loved. Goodbye, Thom, Moridin, Demandred. And Rand… and Moiraine. Goodbye.

Thank you, RJ and Goodbye. May you shelter in the palm of the Creator's hand, and may the last embrace of the mother welcome you home. God bless Harriet, Brother Wilson and the rest of the family. May the Light protect all of us.

…and the raven said, “Strew a handful of seed around the stones so that there will be life here again.”