People, Crowd and Me

I know the date but I don’t know when I was born.

Its been a long time since I had water bottles round my neck, since we all fell down with “Ring-a-Ring o’ Roses” and since I wrote my exams through “four plus fives” and “three into twoes”. But who cares about it now anyway. It’s a mad rush and sometimes I wish I were Thomas Hardy. I’m not brilliant enough to write a book such as his, but “Far from the madding crowd” couldn’t be a better option.

I see people; people who’ve come here to be the solution to their family woes and people who’ve come over coz … well, they had nothing else to do; People who are dressed up in nothing less than Puma shoes, Nike socks, Levis Jeans, Reebok T-Shirts, Fastrack watches and Jockey under wear and people who write on their hostel wall, “Fuck this money culture”; People who would shoulder a tearful soul or would give it all for a smile on her face and people who walk hand in hand to advertise their pseudo-romanticized chivalry. People who would hang on to a charming departed past to fuel their hopes for tomorrow and yes, people, for whom departed is no better a word than non existent itself; some, for whom dad is the any time money, for some the hare-lipped kite runner and for some, “who gives a f**k”. I’ve seen by this time, ‘The genuine friend’, ‘The outright enemy’ and also the ‘The benign backstabber”.

So compelling is the intensity of this madding crowd that new men are forged every single day; some for the better, others, well … they just cease to be them. Its not too difficult to foresee the change, it’s the acceptance of it that is tricky; Many of us refuse it, others I guess get forged into new men themselves. Men designed to be efficient and just that, no emotional hangovers, no sentimental backlog.

Its a strange place; or maybe it’s just an instance of the terrible face of “The beautiful world” I’ve never seen or I guess I’ve never foreseen. I find it uneasy. Probably I’m just too young to grasp the complexity or probably I’m just too old to be comfortable with this transformation or maybe I just want to be reborn. Afterall, I know the date but I don’t know when I was born.

Malady of Discontent

• My skin's changing hues every other moment watching random males and females exchanging RED roses, teddies, chocolates and objects of eternal, perpetual, everlasting, undying, ceaseless and timeless fondness. (Yeah, i copied it from an online thesaurus)
• I watched for the n-th time Tom Hanks standing on the cross-roads in Cast Away.
• I fretted at my exam time table for the 253th time. Yeah, again..!
• Bit Torrent’s f****d up … [shout]I want my downloads [shout]
• I’ve got a tooth ache
• I wanted to kill someone today but its both illegal and being Valentine’s week m not too sure…!
• I got rated an average of 2.5/10 on looks… [scream]/[sob]/[beating my chest]

If you’ve read Gandhi’s talisman, you know now whom to picture..!!

A Trip in Time

I now come to know, from a needle on my wall,
Seconds, days and years have passed.
Longing for the times I love,
A picture, a postcard and now myself at last.

In fond recollections of days gone by,
And thumpings of a reminiscent heart;
A breathless gasp and a saline stain,
For sure they reveal ; fate’s pungent tart.

I remember, innocent eyes that glowed,
And yes, the tiny nails I mowed;
I remember, inseparable sharpeners and broken pencils,
And also, feigned cries over fantasy tonsils.
I remember too, those colored school bags,
And skinned knees on spirited crags.

From days when my head was high
At a better toy or a flashing shoe,
Time has flown on fleeting sails
Now, toward forlorn lands I do not construe.

Forlorn lands they are,
Although here, a multitude is alive;
Each one in happy memories,
Holding on to shreds, of their childhood jive.
For we all, move on and march away,
But the eyes, the crags and the cries;
Immortal always and life itself, they always outplay.

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”

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.

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.