Blood Sweat and Tears

Its been long since I last posted, and now its necessary, not that my opinion would make a difference to the world at large but that if we don’t speak today, It might be well worth to stay zip-lip all our lives.

This very minute as I type my words out, I can hear Sagarika Ghosh, Arnab Goswami, Srinivasan Jain and the like, the top brass of the reporting world, letting the world know that scores have died, Mumbai’s heritage, its history has been burning and that officers have paid the ultimate price for valor. And then we also have the elite, the intellectuals sitting and debating. Debating in A/c rooms on how things could be better. One young lady blurting out clichés, one after another, as politically correct as they get, “We have got to be more cautious and its our collective responsibility.” Tell that to Hemant Karkare, tell that to Akshok Kamte, tell that to Vijay Salaskar, tell that to their children and tell that to a young 20 something men who bled for debates such as these and tell that to their mothers whose tears have no end.

So after over a hundred have died and a manifold more injured, what does the PM say, “We condemn this act of terror.” Mister Prime Minister, who does not..? “We shall consider larger funds for the police department”. After what has happened, all of these dastardly acts, the government shall only consider. This is the value for men of greatness, their lives and their death. Knowing this, the fact that India as a nation is under siege; does it make you even a touch surprised….?

For years on end now, the poor and the downtrodden have suffered the scourge of terrorism. Kashmir has been at proxy war for years now. I guess the PM could send some of his fund there. We wake up only when things go out of hand. Terrorism is no exception. Its like the terrorist are begging for attention now. For when the aam Indian died, in Assam, in Delhi, in Bangalore, in Varanasi, in Akshardham, in buses and in by lanes not many pay heed. I’m happy that there are rich in the world.

Islamic fundamentalist Jehads, such as these, need to be uprooted with the severest of action plans. Afterall, we always have one of these two to wreak havoc, the terrorist or the politician. The Purohit, the Sadhvi, the Mullah or the Jehadi, bottomline is, our nation is falling into tatters. It’s a shame and the government has been shameless. Shameless to ‘condemn’ the acts of terror, again and again and again. I wonder when it would be for the last time they ‘condemn’. For god’s sake, innocent people are dying on the streets of India’s most cosmopolitan city. Ah..! And what do they say, it for God’s sake. Jehad. Huff..! If killing the innocent is the confirmation to a ticket to jannat; I’d have to say, Allah needs to raise some standards.

It’s not just a sorry picture; it’s a grim one too. And to make dying people sound patriotic, we use phrases such as ‘spirit of the nation’, ‘India will be united’, and ‘we shall not go down’. Well, if India is limping, it has to use crutches. Its not about its mighty spirit, its about that fact that its spirit is bruised. To a point where, it has become susceptible ever more to fall under its own callous greatness. It’s easy to put on rosy glasses and say ‘East or west India is the best” or “Mera bharat mahaan”. Only hope that by the time, I’m 40 year old middle aged man, I’d belong to a faction of men who could proudly say, “Yes, India has risen. Mera Bharat mahaan”

The Interpretation of Dreams

Under the spell of Sufi strains, I soaked in; the melodious tales of both, new found love and long lost ones. In its intoxicating ecstasy I soon found myself transported to the underworld of dreams. Some beautiful, some, not as much.

Amidst an alien crowd of people I was gazing at an unfamiliar face. Swooned in it, my days seemed to fly past, etching indelible pictures on the Wall of memory. Time warped and to that face, I felt belonging, more than to the one I saw in my own mirror every single day. Her old metallic watch, the brown earring and the purple hair band; inanimate objects found place in the inside of me, in the most animated way. Her fingers were warm to touch, warmth that shunned the chill of lonesome existence. Rapture and elation filled my slumber the way it never had.
My dream found me new found love. It was beautiful.

The night moved on, slowly revealing its sly conspiracy. The now familiar face that I so cherished, waned in its oneness with me. The needle stopped and I saw the watch being consumed in rust and the earrings were brown no more. The warmth of her fingers was there, but only to a sense in reminiscence, not to feel the palpable touch. It was no longer mine. Someone else, now, owned the metallic watch, the brown earring and the purple hair band. But the pictures on the Wall still remained, they were never erased.
And now, my dream had found me lament. It was grief; grief that had stealthily settled in me.
With a heavy heart I turned the morning alarm off. I rubbed my sleepy eyes, perhaps only to find them moist.


Maybe, not everything in life is a dream.

Love-ly tears

I do not have a sister. Neither a younger one to cuddle, nor an elder one to feel cuddled. Sadly, hence, I may never understand the mysterious equations of sisterly love. Its Raksha Bandhan today and…
For a friend who cried for her bro-

Her voice sounded a heartfelt choke;
Teardrops they where,
In which her eyelashes seemed to soak.

In the last hour of the day,
Under blurred stars and a sullen dark sky;
Yearning for her brother’s presence,
A lonesome heart sobbed into I lonesome cry.

Thinking of a pastry or a plum,
Sharing its sweetness, well, fighting over some.
Stuffed teddies to a laser gun,
They brawled over them, with others they had fun.

Underneath the torn quilt of rivalry,
The warm sense of belonging grew.
Streams of recollection rolled down,
Before her dampened eyes ever knew.

And my heart sunk into its melancholic depths,
Depths of unimaginable gloom.
But sadness never spoke to me so gentle,
Strangely it spread Love’s perfume.

Realization had struck me now,
Struck me with a decorated thread.
A craving sister in my bosom’s fairyland,
But its splendor I may never understand.

The Indian Cow.

Note: Laughing without reason is said to be a sign of madness. You'll find enough reason here..!
This is the essay on "Cow" which was (supposedly) written by some student in the course of completing the "Indian Civil Services Examination" :-)


"The cow is a successful animal. Also he is quadrupud, and because he is female, he give milk,but will do so when he is got child.He is same likeGod,sacred to Hindus and useful to man.But he has got four legs together.Two are forward and two are afterwards."His whole body can be utilised for use. More so the milk. What can it do?Various ghee, butter,cream, curd, why and the condensed milk and so forth.Also he is useful to cobbler, watermans and mankind generally."His motion is slow only because he is of asitudinious species. Also hisother motion is much useful to trees, plants as well as making flat cakes inhand and drying in the sun. Cow is the only animal that extricates his feedingafter eating. Then afterwards she chew with his teeth whom are situated inthe inside of the mouth. He is incessantly in the meadows in the grass."His only attacking and defending organ is the horn, specially so when he is got child. This is done by knowing his head whereby he causes the weaponsto be paralleled to the ground of the earth and instantly proceed with great velocity forwards."He has got tails also, but not like similar animals. It has hairs on theother end of the other side. This is done to frighten away the flies whichalight on his cohoa body whereupon he gives hit with it.The palms of his feet are soft unto the touch. So the grasses head is notcrushed. At night time have poses by looking down on the ground and he shoutshis eyes like his relatives, the horse does not do so.
"This is the cow."


P.S.: We are informed that the candidate passed the exam.

Mechanical Love: Blind Deaf and Dumb

For a mechanical engineering student, workshops are what a public loo is to a person in need of it. An unavoidable obligation to say the least. The usual Wednesday post lunch workshop returns you in post mortem status: Ghosts. Pale, exhausted, livid with life and its choices. The walk back to the room is not easy…especially when there are a whole bunch on non-mech ‘humans’ roaming around hissing at us, khakhi clad ghosts, and announcing, “Boss, T.C. chalega..?”The slow march back, under trembling thigh bones and unsteady calf muscles is just as pitiable as it sounds. The world does not seem to matter and it gets quiet when all seems futile: I could hear even the rubber sole under my canvas squeak. A feeble female count in the department and our behavior towards that small number, have rightfully earned us some queer titles. But Wednesday evenings, even our fundamental traits seem to lose vigour. As we pass by the 13th block; like Pavlov’s dog, our heads swivel around towards what normal guyz call eye candy. But mathematically, figuratively or genuinely Mech ≠ Normal.
And as we inch our way towards our shelters, the want for a soft comfy bed consumes our physical self. Climbing stairs is never more difficult. The knock on my door is then attended to. The door swings open and my roomie welcomes me with a smirk, gazing at my sweat drenched khakhi. A normal reaction in college life. I have done it too and hence shall not hold him guilty. After traversing 4 meters of my room in 20 seconds I look at the shelf, second one from the top. A piece of cast iron, once cut with a hack saw in my hand…
I turn a blind eye to my wet shirt, I turn a deaf ear to the mockery 15 minutes ago and I become speechless. I hold the piece in my palm and sit on the bed. With my back rested against the wall, my eyes plunge into sound slumber.
For all the blisters it presents me and all the joys it denies. I was blind deaf and dumb. I was in love, with gears, casting moulds, nuts and bolts. Love nonetheless.

Desolation of Loss

Its been more than a month i presume since i last posted... amidst the chaos of examinations and the lure of slumber ... the blog was left alone for a lonely walk.
This one is a sonnet.
College life has brought forth a variety i had never seen before... most pronounced being the variety of natures people can possess. The friendly and the indiffernt, the boasting and the lowly, the smart and the "not so smart", the lovable and the backstabber. The canon can go on and on ... but then have to mention, the last one of them all is one which spears you the most.
Dedicated to myself ... lying in the thought of a friend who was not one..!

In the desolation of a solitary loss,
Past glories I see;
Cloaked under murky green moss,
Its a distant wrench I hear,
From the depths of my inward self,
Chained yelling, in voices gross.
In its deep trenches,
I have found none but myself,
A friend that does not lie,
Wiping the tears of my lonesome cry.
The souls of mere mortals,
Look down from their triumphant height
Indifference they met out,
At a companion’s painful plight.

Fragrance of Heaven

The recent spell of rains after the blistering heat inspired me to jot down a few lines... nothing great, but then... thats me and my thing ... nothing gr8...!!

Sitting by the window
Gazing into sombre sky
The world is a joyful bliss
Testifying its beauty
The winged ones fly.

As the gods begin their heavenly chant
Sounding their rumbling drum
Thunders are what I here,
Intoxicating majesty, as if ageless rum.

Through my hair the winds tunnel through,
Magnificence incomprehensible,
Explanations I have few.

Failing in my quest,
In search of nature’s soul.
So opulent, so divine.
With joyful disbelief in my chest
I shun my weapons of intellect
Only do I watch
Satiated, I take my rest.

And solitary drops fall
Tears from clouds above
Parched and dry, for rescue they call
Answering the prayers of the land
To be seen is no more the sand.

Now, the slaked earth breaths out,
Its a warm sigh of relief.
As raw as dough unleaven
My senses drown in a blissful swoon,
Wet mud afterall, is the fragrance of heaven.

Melancholy Shall Flee...

When the mind journeys,

Through sylvan gardens and deep dark trenches;

Its my soul that sobs,

In silent, cold and unseen wrenches.

In the cloak of a simple smile,

Fate devices conspiracies vile.

It has been revelry for matter,

Joy for the mind is far,

Far away, many a mile.

Tongue tied is my grief,

From green to yellow to crimson;

Fading colours, of life as a leaf.

My mind travels through the doldrums,

Thirsting for the light of glee;

But I shall pick up the scattered crumps,

Hopeful of the sylvan gardens,

I shall ask Melancholy to flee!!

Music: Linguistically challenged..!!

It was perhaps when I was a four year old boy and Doordarshan, probably the only channel on TV. Coming back from the Sunday morning mass at church, I stood in front on the scooter as dad drove through the congested roads of the early ninety’s with mom sitting at the back. Feeling the cool morning breeze on my face, I believe the only thing that I thought about was ‘Jungle Book’, ‘Bible ki Kahaaniya’ and ‘Mahabharat'. With no offense to my Hindu friends, I never did like the latter of the three much. I found it confusing with so many characters, chariots and strange looking arrows that blew up in mid air. But, more than anything else, more than Mongli, Noah’s ark or Sri Ram, what I remember the most was a string of contemporary musicians and vocalists... Lata Mangeshkar, Shiv Kumar Sharma, Bhim Sen Joshi, Bala Murali Krishna, you name it, all singing or playing what one would call the essence of diversified unity, “mile sur mera tumhara, to sur bane hamara”. It was then, when I first happened to hear the phrase... “Music has no language”, from a person I blindly believed, my father.

For these many years, I have been an admirer of music. And when I say music, it ranges from the droning of a bumble bee to the rhythmic clattering of the railways; from the khyaals and the taanpura to the opera and the cellos. The mysticism of Indian classical music has no rivals, nor do the enigmatic overtures of the Western classics. Be it Tansen, Bhatkhande, Beethoven or Byrd, they all have been proofs enough for me to believe what my father had said. As the years rolled by, with maths, science, social studies and language...the one thing that grew along with my age was the frequency of a few words... why, what, where and the like. Looking back, it is no surprise to me now. After all, the whole world follows the same path to greater knowledge. Nevertheless, the latest in the list was a question that came to me a week or two before, that does music really have no language..!!

It suddenly popped into my mind after I was taunted by someone about my choice of music. For those who do not know my choice, here is a crash course and it’s a crash course because its one line long. “I like anything that is melodious”. I believe it was Pt. Jasraj singing Raag Bhairav. He was a lean fair dude, pale would be a more appropriate word, hair grown out and wore a black Nirvana T-Shirt with Kurt Cobain written on it. He said, “Dude, what the f*** is that madcap singin? And by the way, how the f*** can you listen to this nonsense?” An argument broke out, more out of insult and anguish than anger. The argument may have had no outcome but surly it gave me something to think about.

So, while we know exactly that Mike Shinoda was the one who put Linkin Park together, very few of us know the difference between a sarod and a saarangi. When I type Elvis with a small ‘e’... MS Word tells me its “Elvis” and not “elvis” with that irritating red line beneath it. But when I type Jasraj, I need to right click and “add to dictionary”; even Microsoft does not know who Pt. Jasraj is. Its not that I have something against western music, its that I cannot comprehend as to why it should be hailed so high that we treat our own tradition “unclool” and if I may take the liberty to say it ... even uncouth. We love and revere Jim Reeves, how many Texas guys would know about Kishore or Rafi. Too much for “Music has no language”.

I may be right, I may be wrong, but for the time being, that’s my stand. Music has a language; which one, I know not but surely as an Indian I can see clearly, it is none of the tongues we are born with. To some extend I presume even we need to do some introspection. After all, for me it goes beyond just music, its national respect at stake, not just a language.

Oblivion Forever….?
India my Land,
A land of an everlasting spring,
Where soaring above the skies,
Here the Kokilas chirp and sing.

Where with its glorious glory,
The liths of time stand still;
Singing your praise the rivers roll,
Testifying your might,
Are high the hills.

Here is where the monsoons knock,
At the gates of a garden;
Where feeling the mounts, it could walk.
How nature’s Beauty herself, spies at her,
With the eyes of a Hawk.

Here is where knowledge found a glass,
For herself to look at,
Gazing at such splendour,
Here is where she found her throne,
Here where she sat.

But why do I speak in tenses of the past…?
Why do these lines crowning you,
Seem not sturdy enough to last.

Poets in the past,
Termed you many a time, a Harp.

Why, but today, thou art,
Unstruck forever, Unsung forever,
Speak if not sing,
What is it that I may do?
From you being forgotten in Oblivion forever.