Most religions have a ladder of ascension:
The Hindu has the concept of rebirth until one becomes part of the paramatma.
The Muslim has the stages of going from non believer to finding a place by God's side at judgment day. The Christian has a similar schema.
The remaining religions, I am sure have something similar.
Let me propose a new religion. Wait, first let's name it. Naming is an integral part of setting up religions. The name has to be logical. Let us call this new religion Pissenpush. Why such a strange name, you may ask. See, this new religion is based on pissing and pushing away maximum number of people belonging to other religions. So, the better you are getting someone's temples hot, or greater your skill of pushing peoples' patience over the hill, the higher you get to the God, similarly named, Pissenpushamma.
Takers anybody? Anybody? Come one... don't be shy, come forward, sign up for a pie of bliss. Speaking of pie, this religion does not have a heaven, it has the concept of pies. Higher one gets in its echelon, bigger the pie. Pissenpushamma has an entire pie to itself. The God is asexual, therefore the use of the word, "it". Let's go for the show of hands once more people. Tick tick one tick tick two tick tick three...and we have the first member of our religion!!! Let me see...ah...Mr. Rushdie welcome to our sanctified brother/sister hood. Hello!!! Another member! Mr. Hussain... ah... your pie is much bigger than Mr. Rushdie's. Btw...don't you think "Rushdie" is an intriguing name....he's got the speedway to the entire pie spelt out in his name. A third? Not a single another one... any sisters out there ready to kick up a point? Yes yes...raise your hands a little higher... no no... you are not scratching your head with, you are raising it. There is no shame...Ms. Taslima... there we go... the first trio. Now we have three brand ambassadors .... this is where we employ them in our worldwide recruitment policy. The way it works it the quickest and most powerful method used by any religion as of yet--- yes, we throw them at your face via the television.
See how simple it is to set up a religion. Now coming to the purpose...Errm... to piss you off?
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Friday, October 26, 2007
Taking Sides
Karan Thapar spoke. The conversation broke. And Narendra Modi went up in smoke. It was a Houdini act. The leftist folks joked about how Thapar had tingled Modi's chords. And the right wing scoffed at Thapar's puppy dog "please don't screw my interview" expression. I belong to the junta on the left. I am not for marveling present development and forgetting past crimes. And I am not for promoting one sect that is a minority just to boast about our secularism. Lives were lost. Lives that belonged to both Musalman and Hindu faiths. Statistically many more Muslims were killed. But can one look at loss of life statistically? Ask the relatives and friends of those who died (both Hindu and Muslim) does it matter if 1000 or 50 were butchered or burnt? For them that one dead body made all the difference.
It is sad that in times of man made and natural calamity we look towards statistics. Thing is, not everything is cricket. Not everything is entertainment on the television set. And surely not everything is forgettable and material for the census books.
I am not sure what it takes to live with blood on your hands. Shakespeareans would quote Macbeth here, but I'll disagree. Macbeth was weak. Modi and his band are not. Even if they regret they do not show it. Hopefully they will truly feel sorry someday for all the lives that were lost. And hopefully someday we will understand that it does not matter if 50 or 1000 died, but that even one person was killed in the name of God.
Throwing in a bit of sentimentality...What would Bapu, the father of our nation, have to say? Would he too shrug, and scratch his bald head as we do?
It is sad that in times of man made and natural calamity we look towards statistics. Thing is, not everything is cricket. Not everything is entertainment on the television set. And surely not everything is forgettable and material for the census books.
I am not sure what it takes to live with blood on your hands. Shakespeareans would quote Macbeth here, but I'll disagree. Macbeth was weak. Modi and his band are not. Even if they regret they do not show it. Hopefully they will truly feel sorry someday for all the lives that were lost. And hopefully someday we will understand that it does not matter if 50 or 1000 died, but that even one person was killed in the name of God.
Throwing in a bit of sentimentality...What would Bapu, the father of our nation, have to say? Would he too shrug, and scratch his bald head as we do?
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
The Alley
Of cigarette packet silver rangta foils
And many sugar coated sandesh spoils
This is a tale of our very own Manik’s alley
Flat but picturesque as the terrorized valley
We begin with the stop where buses stop
A temple where mothers pray and hop
And move towards the roadside food stalls
Where fried black oil flows like Niagara falls
Dhrubo has been selling his brick and bracs
Cursing the day he emigrated with two sacks
His smuggled goggles reflect the cinema shop
That pays Rs. 5 homage per seat to many a flop
Dulled eyes look towards the psyche asylum
From the press that presses Daily Bengali Ghum
Which has fueled the innumerable paper boat
Sailing open drains which make mosquitoes gloat
Right outside the display Benares Mithai Bhandar
A quintessential shop for a thriving Bangla sansar
Who build their dreams from their second floor
Which holds five houses all with a green door
But before we move into their detailed specific
Lets walk down to the bazaar quite prolific
There’s wear and tear on all kinds of sale
Fish of all kinds but the humongous whale
The chicken seller is busy with his feathers
Tying bird legs to keep them in tight tethers
Potato and onions heaped on top of mounds
Of course there’s a whole frequency of sounds
The sky above is cloaked with colored sheets
Beneath which one sees million and one feats
This market has one peculiarity to offer
It has shops tailored for the prince to pauper
Above the market are the matchbox homes
On whose porches the women sit with their combs
Children both naked and not conjure adventures like Sinbad
Their devilish shrieks could even turn Lucifer mad
Armed with a plethora of grandmother’s tales and whim
The grandfathers take their progeny on a wild spin
Fathers cozy cocooned in their unperturbed shell
Puff as they dream of where mystic fairies dwell
The older children from class eight and onward
Scheme get rich technique to take them forward
So untamed and peculiar is this world they live
One couldn’t separate chaff no matter how fine the sieve
These eccentricities are essential for Maniktalla
For without them there wouldn’t be a mohulla
Wait! There’s much to be wrote and read
This not being the end of what’s been said
Tales of lives lived within stuffy brick quarters
And individuality of Bengali women for starters
All that is left for us to later diligently extract
Turning common knowledge into poetic fact
Hear ye hear ye I’ve one final thing to say
Hope you all enjoyed this nostalgic word play
And many sugar coated sandesh spoils
This is a tale of our very own Manik’s alley
Flat but picturesque as the terrorized valley
We begin with the stop where buses stop
A temple where mothers pray and hop
And move towards the roadside food stalls
Where fried black oil flows like Niagara falls
Dhrubo has been selling his brick and bracs
Cursing the day he emigrated with two sacks
His smuggled goggles reflect the cinema shop
That pays Rs. 5 homage per seat to many a flop
Dulled eyes look towards the psyche asylum
From the press that presses Daily Bengali Ghum
Which has fueled the innumerable paper boat
Sailing open drains which make mosquitoes gloat
Right outside the display Benares Mithai Bhandar
A quintessential shop for a thriving Bangla sansar
Who build their dreams from their second floor
Which holds five houses all with a green door
But before we move into their detailed specific
Lets walk down to the bazaar quite prolific
There’s wear and tear on all kinds of sale
Fish of all kinds but the humongous whale
The chicken seller is busy with his feathers
Tying bird legs to keep them in tight tethers
Potato and onions heaped on top of mounds
Of course there’s a whole frequency of sounds
The sky above is cloaked with colored sheets
Beneath which one sees million and one feats
This market has one peculiarity to offer
It has shops tailored for the prince to pauper
Above the market are the matchbox homes
On whose porches the women sit with their combs
Children both naked and not conjure adventures like Sinbad
Their devilish shrieks could even turn Lucifer mad
Armed with a plethora of grandmother’s tales and whim
The grandfathers take their progeny on a wild spin
Fathers cozy cocooned in their unperturbed shell
Puff as they dream of where mystic fairies dwell
The older children from class eight and onward
Scheme get rich technique to take them forward
So untamed and peculiar is this world they live
One couldn’t separate chaff no matter how fine the sieve
These eccentricities are essential for Maniktalla
For without them there wouldn’t be a mohulla
Wait! There’s much to be wrote and read
This not being the end of what’s been said
Tales of lives lived within stuffy brick quarters
And individuality of Bengali women for starters
All that is left for us to later diligently extract
Turning common knowledge into poetic fact
Hear ye hear ye I’ve one final thing to say
Hope you all enjoyed this nostalgic word play
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Red and Blue
The Indo- US nuclear deal ought to be spelt with a "k", nuklear. And "US" should be typed up as "Yoo Es". Both these changes combined make it sound more rustic as well as Communist. Here's the deal, naming is important. See if US wasn't named a "red and blue" nation our Yechuris and Karats probably wouldn't have any beef with them. Remove the blue and leave the red, then I am sure our brothers at CPI(M) wouldn't have raked up this issue. But here's another deal. The reds aren't playing too fair. The reds are crawling up our necks. The reds don't mind helping the shooting of monks. Incidentally the monks too were clothed in red- haha...dressed to kill (their claim?).
Some say color should be overlooked. I am not talking about skin color. That's a whole different issue. But the color red. Intriguingly we have shades of both these red and blue spectrum on our national flag. So we are caught smack in the middle. What does India do? As the Priminister said, and paraphrasing him, India is not a one track nation, although at times it gives such an impression. Maybe we will move onto better things from here on. Only thing is...if the reds still keep poking at India and keep threatening to strangle any progress they should be given the blues.
Clearly I am a supporter of the nuclear deal. And clearly I harbor little love for the present Reds. Why, you ask? In all their years of "rule" in West Bengal they really didn't get too far. The Bengali junta might throw tomatoes at me but that will surely not make me incline towards their redness.
Just a thought: English needs to be revised...it paints Red in the wrong light often. OK...call it yellow.
Some say color should be overlooked. I am not talking about skin color. That's a whole different issue. But the color red. Intriguingly we have shades of both these red and blue spectrum on our national flag. So we are caught smack in the middle. What does India do? As the Priminister said, and paraphrasing him, India is not a one track nation, although at times it gives such an impression. Maybe we will move onto better things from here on. Only thing is...if the reds still keep poking at India and keep threatening to strangle any progress they should be given the blues.
Clearly I am a supporter of the nuclear deal. And clearly I harbor little love for the present Reds. Why, you ask? In all their years of "rule" in West Bengal they really didn't get too far. The Bengali junta might throw tomatoes at me but that will surely not make me incline towards their redness.
Just a thought: English needs to be revised...it paints Red in the wrong light often. OK...call it yellow.
Monday, October 08, 2007
3P's
We’ve heard of three rivers, threesomes, triangles…but what about three P’s? What is this 3P that is sweeping our nation from corner to corner like the bucket full water that cleans every aangan in many Indian homes? 1 P is the smallest denomination of the Indian currency system that can be held on one’s palm and be seen. 2 P is an act most people engage in throughout the day. 3 P? Bolo bolo kuch to bolo.
“Hare Ram Hare Krishna” (a topic worth a blogpost separately specially after Akshay Kumar’s cheeky smile for the music video kickoff)…Ley bol diya.
Politics
Lord Macaulay, now deceased unlike the immortal Ashwatthama, also liked challenges and probably sparked off today’s political fashion in India. Macaulay stated, “I do not think we would ever conquer this country, unless we break the very backbone this nation, which is her spiritual and cultural heritage.” It took two centuries for the British to realize their fallacy in assuming that any foreigner can truly rule another people- but the adoption of certain values did bring in much humanism in our culture that had been spread thin like butter over bread and left to the exploiters to exploit. Thank you Macaulay Sahib…shukriya indeed. For a non participant, Desi politics seems to be based on the constant tussle between forces that wish to force policies of “humanism” and the traditionalists. Since I am not too keen on the rat race that is today’s politics I won’t drool on this subject. Although I would like mention my curiosity- What is the difference between a politician and a statesman and why aren’t today’s political leaders “statesmen”?
Publicity
Post all our Chak De’s…T20, Asian Cup, Nehru Cup…the only one that still gets swarmed by tabloid makkhis (flies) is the first. Without our tele, press, radio, internet, cricket would be yet another improvised form of gulli-danda. So lesson to be learnt is simple: Want fame, fortune, frolic? Get the second P covered first.
PaRhai
Being a child of a Humanities family and a student in pursuit of science I often meet persons who often think aloud, “Arey tu wrong field mein hain. Tujhe to…” Sorry to disappoint, I am definitely not in the wrong field. The divide between Humanities and Science in the Indian education system can be stretched to be compared to the Hindu- Muslim communal divide (a reality that we shall overcome?). Our education system is very strong in most aspects of parting knowledge and ploughing old information for new information, but lacks in imparting the cross cultural bridge between the Humanities and the Sciences. Maybe someday we’ll teach our children the art and science of science and art respectively. Why do I say this? If anybody studies any elegant derivation of physical law with the usage of mathematics, it’s parallel to any beautiful painting or music. And good music of course has acoustics built into it.
Ooops...almost forgot the other set, "Punya, Paap and Paschyataap."
“Hare Ram Hare Krishna” (a topic worth a blogpost separately specially after Akshay Kumar’s cheeky smile for the music video kickoff)…Ley bol diya.
Politics
Lord Macaulay, now deceased unlike the immortal Ashwatthama, also liked challenges and probably sparked off today’s political fashion in India. Macaulay stated, “I do not think we would ever conquer this country, unless we break the very backbone this nation, which is her spiritual and cultural heritage.” It took two centuries for the British to realize their fallacy in assuming that any foreigner can truly rule another people- but the adoption of certain values did bring in much humanism in our culture that had been spread thin like butter over bread and left to the exploiters to exploit. Thank you Macaulay Sahib…shukriya indeed. For a non participant, Desi politics seems to be based on the constant tussle between forces that wish to force policies of “humanism” and the traditionalists. Since I am not too keen on the rat race that is today’s politics I won’t drool on this subject. Although I would like mention my curiosity- What is the difference between a politician and a statesman and why aren’t today’s political leaders “statesmen”?
Publicity
Post all our Chak De’s…T20, Asian Cup, Nehru Cup…the only one that still gets swarmed by tabloid makkhis (flies) is the first. Without our tele, press, radio, internet, cricket would be yet another improvised form of gulli-danda. So lesson to be learnt is simple: Want fame, fortune, frolic? Get the second P covered first.
PaRhai
Being a child of a Humanities family and a student in pursuit of science I often meet persons who often think aloud, “Arey tu wrong field mein hain. Tujhe to…” Sorry to disappoint, I am definitely not in the wrong field. The divide between Humanities and Science in the Indian education system can be stretched to be compared to the Hindu- Muslim communal divide (a reality that we shall overcome?). Our education system is very strong in most aspects of parting knowledge and ploughing old information for new information, but lacks in imparting the cross cultural bridge between the Humanities and the Sciences. Maybe someday we’ll teach our children the art and science of science and art respectively. Why do I say this? If anybody studies any elegant derivation of physical law with the usage of mathematics, it’s parallel to any beautiful painting or music. And good music of course has acoustics built into it.
Ooops...almost forgot the other set, "Punya, Paap and Paschyataap."
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Nameless
We do not name the dead
They die without a name
That is the fate of the dead
A nameless sort of suffering
Like the empty cry of a belly
Or the want of fresh blood
That never quenched thirst
Which is a nameless death
Killing, names trying to live
Turn them into many a dead
All…all nameless corpses
Bodies dead without a name
Such is the fate of us dead
Us who have not a name
They die without a name
That is the fate of the dead
A nameless sort of suffering
Like the empty cry of a belly
Or the want of fresh blood
That never quenched thirst
Which is a nameless death
Killing, names trying to live
Turn them into many a dead
All…all nameless corpses
Bodies dead without a name
Such is the fate of us dead
Us who have not a name
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Intimacy
The intimacy of bricks and earth
Farther the bricks attempt to distance
sooner they fall
And those reared in mother’s affinity
remain strong
The intimacy of bricks and earth
is strange
Father the bricks make their distance
still hear her call
is strange
Farther the bricks attempt to distance
sooner they fall
And those reared in mother’s affinity
remain strong
The intimacy of bricks and earth
is strange
Father the bricks make their distance
still hear her call
Monday, September 03, 2007
Saucers in the Sky
We Asians love our tea. It's a matter of pride and distinction. The better people opt for Darjeeling's best hand picked, hand wrapped, hand shaked and hand bought in store close to Darjeeling or expensive shops with mirrored walls in the far far West. For the other lot, tea bags would do. We Asians really do love our tea... from black, red, green... to herbal, diabetic, heart control...ayurvedic...all sorts of teas. We Indians amongst us Asians have ours with a good quantity of milk brewed with tea and sugar- In Bombay they add mirch masala to it, in the hills its that fresh aroma of ginger, and in my hometown (Calcutta) the disposable earthen cup adds earthen flavor to the roadside chai. Despite our exuberant enthusiasm towards chai we Indians amongst us Asians are not too fond of saucers in the sky.
Why is Area 51 in New Mexico and not in Rajasthan? I am sure the aliens are clever... given that they've crossed oceans of time and space to bring us their first hello. They're mission is always behind closed closets. They are either too shy or too clever to come out in the open- yet they go and park their vehicles in United States... those guys there are obsessed with little men who are green... and they've got radio and radar sweeping the skies for them...If the aliens truly wanted some lone time before they began eating us up- India would be the best place to begin. Where else could they find a billion strong food storage with a protection agency that provides "sticks" to their police. Further more, given that we like our tea so much... we are bound to adore them saucers in our sky. Imagine, if one of these saucers tipped... all of us would look up and open our mouths with hopes of tea drops falling and wetting our throats... the aliens could take advantage of our love for anything that is free and deliver their man eating spawns through their tea shower.
Sadly Area 51 is not in India. And sadly Area 51 is off limits to Indians... if not at least us expatriates could catch a plane to the saucers and have our fill of space age tea. But no...we have to be content with "Wah Taj boliye".
To end this- ever realized how ugly those aliens look. They are mean and green. Now, ever think how truly disgusting we look? I mean common... blonde and brunette...awwckh!
Why is Area 51 in New Mexico and not in Rajasthan? I am sure the aliens are clever... given that they've crossed oceans of time and space to bring us their first hello. They're mission is always behind closed closets. They are either too shy or too clever to come out in the open- yet they go and park their vehicles in United States... those guys there are obsessed with little men who are green... and they've got radio and radar sweeping the skies for them...If the aliens truly wanted some lone time before they began eating us up- India would be the best place to begin. Where else could they find a billion strong food storage with a protection agency that provides "sticks" to their police. Further more, given that we like our tea so much... we are bound to adore them saucers in our sky. Imagine, if one of these saucers tipped... all of us would look up and open our mouths with hopes of tea drops falling and wetting our throats... the aliens could take advantage of our love for anything that is free and deliver their man eating spawns through their tea shower.
Sadly Area 51 is not in India. And sadly Area 51 is off limits to Indians... if not at least us expatriates could catch a plane to the saucers and have our fill of space age tea. But no...we have to be content with "Wah Taj boliye".
To end this- ever realized how ugly those aliens look. They are mean and green. Now, ever think how truly disgusting we look? I mean common... blonde and brunette...awwckh!
Thursday, August 30, 2007
I Love Spam
This spam is no pig meat and all other unwanted piggy parts mashed into a tin can product. And no- it does not have any expiry date either. But yes, it does fry my space...and sometimes my humor.
I am talking about cyber spam.
"From the nation of Independent X Nation of Africa."
or
"engrogivosilificus temperamentalati erectoinstantati penesylium"
and the new
"you've won and apple 4 gig Ipod Nano"
Spam humors me. I know I am not supposed to like it. I've got spam filtering arsenal all loaded and gungho on my gmail, but I read them anyway. Just cause they are so darn funny. I mean, where else, in what kind of literature would you expect some African dude from some impoverished African nation that has only bones and archeology to offer wanting to thrust a million bucks in your account. Most often than not its the widow of a deceased high ranking official or bank manager in the bargain. For solo folks like me that adds some spin- who doesn't like a tall dark damsel in despair? Yet, I haven't replied to any... cause I know these damsels aren't really damsels, they are men in disguise. I go to Africa, sipping on my mineral water, and perusing the landscape of Sahara with my binocs and I spot my Mrs. X in Mr. X's clothes... only men are capable of causing and falling for such antiques. Women are the brighter species... they don't send no mails to do their job- they'll come themselves... and men wouldn't even know that they've moved on.
Now the second...with their claims that medicine, or miracle drug would turn me into Ricky Ponting's best guarded secrets- his darned wickets. I'd have Shoab charging at me and Kumble throwing me guglis. Basically, I'd be stumped in no time. Or whacked before by Ponting and his Aussie mates. Only if their claims had been in moderation.. I'd subscribe to the wonder pill. I'm no dog but who doesn't want to be bigger, longer and uncut...South Park?
Free apples...even Sir Newton didn't have those!!! It caused a dent in his head that sent physics all over its head. It was never the apple but the effect of the thump on his head that got his eyes rolling all over scientific stardom. And Stevey, yeah, I call him that... that .... that little cool cat is a shrewd businessman in all the positive of senses... how could he part with his products without a price? We know he's never going to become a Gates in his lifetime... cause Gates loads his customers with free stuff for which you need to buy 3 year warranties and wait on hold to a certain Monica, Jenny, Amanda... oooooooo...... Nancy over the phone for three fuming hours before they say in some foreign language, "Arrey baba... kis c**tiye ne yeh lene ko bola thaa.... mein sirf higher secondary pass huun... tumko babysit woh bhi telephonically kaise karoon."
Yup! I can proudly say, "I LOVE SPAM" whether tinned or untinned.
I am talking about cyber spam.
"From the nation of Independent X Nation of Africa."
or
"engrogivosilificus temperamentalati erectoinstantati penesylium"
and the new
"you've won and apple 4 gig Ipod Nano"
Spam humors me. I know I am not supposed to like it. I've got spam filtering arsenal all loaded and gungho on my gmail, but I read them anyway. Just cause they are so darn funny. I mean, where else, in what kind of literature would you expect some African dude from some impoverished African nation that has only bones and archeology to offer wanting to thrust a million bucks in your account. Most often than not its the widow of a deceased high ranking official or bank manager in the bargain. For solo folks like me that adds some spin- who doesn't like a tall dark damsel in despair? Yet, I haven't replied to any... cause I know these damsels aren't really damsels, they are men in disguise. I go to Africa, sipping on my mineral water, and perusing the landscape of Sahara with my binocs and I spot my Mrs. X in Mr. X's clothes... only men are capable of causing and falling for such antiques. Women are the brighter species... they don't send no mails to do their job- they'll come themselves... and men wouldn't even know that they've moved on.
Now the second...with their claims that medicine, or miracle drug would turn me into Ricky Ponting's best guarded secrets- his darned wickets. I'd have Shoab charging at me and Kumble throwing me guglis. Basically, I'd be stumped in no time. Or whacked before by Ponting and his Aussie mates. Only if their claims had been in moderation.. I'd subscribe to the wonder pill. I'm no dog but who doesn't want to be bigger, longer and uncut...South Park?
Free apples...even Sir Newton didn't have those!!! It caused a dent in his head that sent physics all over its head. It was never the apple but the effect of the thump on his head that got his eyes rolling all over scientific stardom. And Stevey, yeah, I call him that... that .... that little cool cat is a shrewd businessman in all the positive of senses... how could he part with his products without a price? We know he's never going to become a Gates in his lifetime... cause Gates loads his customers with free stuff for which you need to buy 3 year warranties and wait on hold to a certain Monica, Jenny, Amanda... oooooooo...... Nancy over the phone for three fuming hours before they say in some foreign language, "Arrey baba... kis c**tiye ne yeh lene ko bola thaa.... mein sirf higher secondary pass huun... tumko babysit woh bhi telephonically kaise karoon."
Yup! I can proudly say, "I LOVE SPAM" whether tinned or untinned.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
The Weather
I live in Pittsburgh now. It is an ancient American city in the state of Pennsylvania. I’ve heard myself say, “The weather is unpredictable in Pittsburgh.” Others have said this too. Statements about the weather are no revelations. They are mere fillers in silent soliloquies in the midst of strangers. It is something we residents of this land partake in. It might not run in our blood, this talk of weather, but it surely rubs onto our skin. I’ve lived in the free land for long enough to have this weather- talk sink deep into my epidermis. My conversations begin and end with the forecast, four days prior and two days hence, thereby covering a weeks estimation. The forecasters do their arduous job with any available honest effort. Proof of this being the truth in my small talk at bus stops, and smoke pit stops.
I am not expert on weather forecasting but have read a little into it. As Lorenz discovered, the weather is a dynamic, deterministic yet unpredictable problem. From him we get a convection model for gases in our atmosphere. And from his research the world coined the science of chaos. I am no specialist in Chaotic Systems. At best my understanding of this physical and mathematical concept is sketchy. I can write bits here that talk about chaos only superficially- but its God lies in the details, and I shall pretend to be no saint seeking him. I am a writer not a mathematician and will leave the mathematics up to the theorists. But I know this, flapping wings sometimes do cause tidal waves- in this case, the flapping being the movement of tectonic plates, and tidal waves being the harbingers of tsunami.
Maybe it is fear that has persuaded millions of Americans to stick to home runs, touchdowns, basket assists, and the weather in their casual conversation. No matter how tough a society one makes, its people remind themselves that all they have come to represent can be washed away in one breath stroke of Nature. She has the upper hand with her element of surprise. Therefore it is always comforting to know that man has been able to read her motives, thereby always keeping an eye for her unpredictability.
Continue your weathered small talk…it keeps me informed.
Providing you humor is not my job; it’s Letterman’s. This is a message to remind myself how important the weather is. It is no laughing matter. It is not a strange tale of pink cows grazing on blue fields. It is not abstract. It is real- if that is hard to believe ask a survivor of the Saharan Tsunami. It was no laughing matter.
I am not expert on weather forecasting but have read a little into it. As Lorenz discovered, the weather is a dynamic, deterministic yet unpredictable problem. From him we get a convection model for gases in our atmosphere. And from his research the world coined the science of chaos. I am no specialist in Chaotic Systems. At best my understanding of this physical and mathematical concept is sketchy. I can write bits here that talk about chaos only superficially- but its God lies in the details, and I shall pretend to be no saint seeking him. I am a writer not a mathematician and will leave the mathematics up to the theorists. But I know this, flapping wings sometimes do cause tidal waves- in this case, the flapping being the movement of tectonic plates, and tidal waves being the harbingers of tsunami.
Maybe it is fear that has persuaded millions of Americans to stick to home runs, touchdowns, basket assists, and the weather in their casual conversation. No matter how tough a society one makes, its people remind themselves that all they have come to represent can be washed away in one breath stroke of Nature. She has the upper hand with her element of surprise. Therefore it is always comforting to know that man has been able to read her motives, thereby always keeping an eye for her unpredictability.
Continue your weathered small talk…it keeps me informed.
Providing you humor is not my job; it’s Letterman’s. This is a message to remind myself how important the weather is. It is no laughing matter. It is not a strange tale of pink cows grazing on blue fields. It is not abstract. It is real- if that is hard to believe ask a survivor of the Saharan Tsunami. It was no laughing matter.
Monday, August 06, 2007
The Theory of Darwinian Natural Selection
He combed his brows
And laid his eyes to rest
The spectacles dropped
His nose bridge was marked
Fingers clasped plastic
And put glass in its position
Eyes had a knowing gleam
Spectacles stayed their own
The bridge let waters run
Fingers felt thin paper
As he read in a fixed pose
A window- framed world
Looked back at him, stared
As he did gaze at the trees
If they had voices they’d say,
“Please do not look so strange.”
Now so naked in disarray
Pondered their existence
What they could do,
Given the situation -
Never truly functional
Never truly useful, now old
And ruddy in the middle
Drew air into an old body
Such times require contemplation
So he did; thinking very hard
The wavered brows indicated
Pain pilled in difficult capsule
He combed his brows
And laid his eyes to rest
The spectacles dropped
His nose bridge was marked
Alas his eyebrows felt useful
They’d caught his forehead’s tear
And laid his eyes to rest
The spectacles dropped
His nose bridge was marked
Fingers clasped plastic
And put glass in its position
(a sure obstruction otherwiseEye brows turned crooked
if it were not for his need)
Eyes had a knowing gleam
Spectacles stayed their own
The bridge let waters run
Fingers felt thin paper
As he read in a fixed pose
(a trance of sorts, meditativeLooking up; he did do so
if it weren’t for moving eyes)
A window- framed world
Looked back at him, stared
As he did gaze at the trees
If they had voices they’d say,
“Please do not look so strange.”
(but trees have no voicesHis once combed brows
we know of, but imagine they did)
Now so naked in disarray
Pondered their existence
What they could do,
Given the situation -
Never truly functional
Never truly useful, now old
And ruddy in the middle
(they did not respect natureAn eighty five year old soul
for nature had been meaningless)
Drew air into an old body
Such times require contemplation
So he did; thinking very hard
The wavered brows indicated
Pain pilled in difficult capsule
(they said he was useless
that’s what was said, useless)
He combed his brows
And laid his eyes to rest
The spectacles dropped
His nose bridge was marked
Alas his eyebrows felt useful
They’d caught his forehead’s tear
(they held the moisture
and didn’t let go until it dried)
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Wonders of India
The world seems to be discovering its heritages with urgency. The new seven wonders few days back, and now the wonders of India...All that is good. But all the emblems of humanity, and culture are old. Maybe one could come up with Modern Wonders... and not necessary splendors carved in stone or sand.
Here's my list of seven (concerning India).
Bombay's Dharavi Slum-
Dharavi is the living emblem of human struggle. The conditions are poor, and the atmosphere over it is worse, yet the men, women and children in it, live as family units, and share a laugh when they can. Such a remarkable feat of courage and strength ought not to be overlooked.
Calcutta's Shonagachi Harem-
While walking past Rabindranath Thakur's kindergarten school, my cousin's friend pointing to the right side of the road and sniggered, "Shonagachi" and for the first time I saw the sex workers waiting along a stairwell for business. They were not heinous as people might want to portray them in our section of society. These girls painted faces, and broad lipsticked lips, that hid their tired countenance. But we could see their bruised mind... yet their eyes had a limited amount of glitter- maybe that's the gift of hope.
Delhi's Jama Masjid-
Situated in the heart of busy business ventures, this mosque has given me calm that I have seldom found elsewhere. Although I am not a Muslim...his presence seemed to speak for itself in the quiet air, surrounded by the hodgepodge of Delhi life.
Hyderabad's Hitech City-
I lived in Hyderabad when nobody would dare to build a house near Gacchibowli. Now, this once neglected rural area has turned into the limelight of a city that has seven universities. It shows us that if the people want development they can strive to get it...something other cities might profit from.
Benares-
Do I need to explain why so? Think not.
Mattur village-
Sanskrit being the source of most Indian languages has always been close to our hearts but not our tongues. Most Indians do not speak it. We might chant a prayer or two in this language because the old Hindu scriptures were "written" in Sanskrit, a language now almost extinct from practical usage. But the town of Mattur has fought for Sanskrit by having it spoken everyday, as if it were Hindi, Tamil or English.
The Brahmaputra-
Even though our border issue has not be solved since the days of the British Raj we continue to drink the waters of the same river flowing through our countries. We might have the occasional bickering at foreign policy tables, and scant transaction of gunshots, yet we drink from the same river, and it would do both nations good to remember that.
Here's my list of seven (concerning India).
Bombay's Dharavi Slum-
Dharavi is the living emblem of human struggle. The conditions are poor, and the atmosphere over it is worse, yet the men, women and children in it, live as family units, and share a laugh when they can. Such a remarkable feat of courage and strength ought not to be overlooked.
Calcutta's Shonagachi Harem-
While walking past Rabindranath Thakur's kindergarten school, my cousin's friend pointing to the right side of the road and sniggered, "Shonagachi" and for the first time I saw the sex workers waiting along a stairwell for business. They were not heinous as people might want to portray them in our section of society. These girls painted faces, and broad lipsticked lips, that hid their tired countenance. But we could see their bruised mind... yet their eyes had a limited amount of glitter- maybe that's the gift of hope.
Delhi's Jama Masjid-
Situated in the heart of busy business ventures, this mosque has given me calm that I have seldom found elsewhere. Although I am not a Muslim...his presence seemed to speak for itself in the quiet air, surrounded by the hodgepodge of Delhi life.
Hyderabad's Hitech City-
I lived in Hyderabad when nobody would dare to build a house near Gacchibowli. Now, this once neglected rural area has turned into the limelight of a city that has seven universities. It shows us that if the people want development they can strive to get it...something other cities might profit from.
Benares-
Do I need to explain why so? Think not.
Mattur village-
Sanskrit being the source of most Indian languages has always been close to our hearts but not our tongues. Most Indians do not speak it. We might chant a prayer or two in this language because the old Hindu scriptures were "written" in Sanskrit, a language now almost extinct from practical usage. But the town of Mattur has fought for Sanskrit by having it spoken everyday, as if it were Hindi, Tamil or English.
The Brahmaputra-
Even though our border issue has not be solved since the days of the British Raj we continue to drink the waters of the same river flowing through our countries. We might have the occasional bickering at foreign policy tables, and scant transaction of gunshots, yet we drink from the same river, and it would do both nations good to remember that.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Legal Bite
I was reading a Sanjay Dutt article on TOI's website. The article was run of the mill. It's "user comments" were not. Comments showed that there were fans, critics, stoics, law abiding citizens etc. letting a bit of their opinion grace the graceful space left by TOI. There's one guy who wrote, "There is no one above the law." That comment caught my attention.
Truly, is there nobody above the law? What if the law makers and the pronouncers of lawful edicts begin wearing leather hats, carrying colts, and smoking cigars with a badge on their breast to flaunt their legality in matters? Would nobody be above them? Would nobody stand up? Wouldn't anybody dare to say, "Enough's enough, and its time for the law to do for the people what it was meant to do in the first place"... I guess not. A large chunk want "Sanju Baba" in jail, and rightly so. He did buy guns from those who used cheap deceit to claim innocent lives. The law says, such a man should be put behind bars. And he, Mr. Dutt knew it. Maybe a bit of Gandhigiri did rub onto his skin...maybe he had understood the Mahatma's saying, "The biggest strength lies in knowing and acknowledging your flaws." (paraphrased) Now let me go back to the statement which was most amusing, "There is no one above the law." It is easy to say that. It is especially easy to say that when law's hands have not put us on the balance. Only when on the balance do we know how precariously the blind lady's "tarazu" swings. The same law that has put a screen actor for buying guns, whether knowingly or unknowingly, from Bombay's bombers (400 life killers and so much more injurers), does not recognize the crimes of the people who are the real threats to our society- Us, common folk- We are the origins of cowardice that feeds terrorism within our domain- but we do not want to hear of that. We are the swindlers without any scruples. We are the criminals. I am not being inspired by Gandhi here- his era has passed. His thoughts are still golden, but the thoughts that he professed are not his alone- those thoughts of love and honor, belief and courage, are immortal ideas of man... but the Mahatma preached them to us in a form the people of his time could understand and associate with... Starving to death will not quell our blood thirst...no wonder the new breed of leaders take to "fast until death" dharnas only to munch a sandwich in a posh hotel once their resolution is passed in the house... Let us now put a common digression into politics aside and look at ourselves. While pretending to be citizens with the belief that nobody or no people is above the law, we are the ones who run lights and pay bribes. We are the ones who know best how to hide our money from the taxman. We are the people who burn our own for the sake of dowry money. We are the people who drown innocent girls to make life "better". The law we speak of- does not touch us then- what use is such law that cannot lift the morals of its own people... isn't the justice system a ground for morality to bloom? Where is our law then? Where is that sacred law of our democratic nation? Is it dead? If it is... why is it still dispensing judgment on others. Let the lawmakers for once, begin by judging themselves... Hopefully they will inspire us to spark some dignity in ourselves by way of which we might strive to become better citizens of this land of ours.
"There is no one above the law"- I say nay! Law ceases to be a prudential tool for its people when people themselves are lost... otherwise we are left with a legal system that becomes a stage for disgraceful wolves to usurp greater power by putting the meeker lot of their kind to the gallows, thereby giving the lambs of society a fattening fair. One should remember that a wolfish pack feeding the lamb cannot have good intentions for the thirst on their tongue is too, simply put, bloody.
To end this, let me quote Mahatma Gandhi, "In matters of conscience, the law of the majority has no place."
Truly, is there nobody above the law? What if the law makers and the pronouncers of lawful edicts begin wearing leather hats, carrying colts, and smoking cigars with a badge on their breast to flaunt their legality in matters? Would nobody be above them? Would nobody stand up? Wouldn't anybody dare to say, "Enough's enough, and its time for the law to do for the people what it was meant to do in the first place"... I guess not. A large chunk want "Sanju Baba" in jail, and rightly so. He did buy guns from those who used cheap deceit to claim innocent lives. The law says, such a man should be put behind bars. And he, Mr. Dutt knew it. Maybe a bit of Gandhigiri did rub onto his skin...maybe he had understood the Mahatma's saying, "The biggest strength lies in knowing and acknowledging your flaws." (paraphrased) Now let me go back to the statement which was most amusing, "There is no one above the law." It is easy to say that. It is especially easy to say that when law's hands have not put us on the balance. Only when on the balance do we know how precariously the blind lady's "tarazu" swings. The same law that has put a screen actor for buying guns, whether knowingly or unknowingly, from Bombay's bombers (400 life killers and so much more injurers), does not recognize the crimes of the people who are the real threats to our society- Us, common folk- We are the origins of cowardice that feeds terrorism within our domain- but we do not want to hear of that. We are the swindlers without any scruples. We are the criminals. I am not being inspired by Gandhi here- his era has passed. His thoughts are still golden, but the thoughts that he professed are not his alone- those thoughts of love and honor, belief and courage, are immortal ideas of man... but the Mahatma preached them to us in a form the people of his time could understand and associate with... Starving to death will not quell our blood thirst...no wonder the new breed of leaders take to "fast until death" dharnas only to munch a sandwich in a posh hotel once their resolution is passed in the house... Let us now put a common digression into politics aside and look at ourselves. While pretending to be citizens with the belief that nobody or no people is above the law, we are the ones who run lights and pay bribes. We are the ones who know best how to hide our money from the taxman. We are the people who burn our own for the sake of dowry money. We are the people who drown innocent girls to make life "better". The law we speak of- does not touch us then- what use is such law that cannot lift the morals of its own people... isn't the justice system a ground for morality to bloom? Where is our law then? Where is that sacred law of our democratic nation? Is it dead? If it is... why is it still dispensing judgment on others. Let the lawmakers for once, begin by judging themselves... Hopefully they will inspire us to spark some dignity in ourselves by way of which we might strive to become better citizens of this land of ours.
"There is no one above the law"- I say nay! Law ceases to be a prudential tool for its people when people themselves are lost... otherwise we are left with a legal system that becomes a stage for disgraceful wolves to usurp greater power by putting the meeker lot of their kind to the gallows, thereby giving the lambs of society a fattening fair. One should remember that a wolfish pack feeding the lamb cannot have good intentions for the thirst on their tongue is too, simply put, bloody.
To end this, let me quote Mahatma Gandhi, "In matters of conscience, the law of the majority has no place."
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Why I shot the alien who said, "Hello, how do you do."
The alien could say “Hello, how do you do” in seven languages and a total of thirty five dialects, none known to me. So I shot him in the head before picking up a box that seemed like a bomb but was indeed his method of tongues. With the alien dead I have gained thirty five separate dialects comprised in a seven suite language pack. Heavy!
PS: word count= 66.
PS: word count= 66.
Hangman 2
Sometime back I had written...a game ending with the conclusion of a prisoner's hanging. The man had bombed the Indian Parliament. I am not sure what happened to that man. If he was pardoned, the news would have shown up in the papers. All the hoopla of reporting exists before the neck is strained and the limbs stop shaking. At least that's how it seems. Today the same media that tries so very hard to get balance of justice to hang heavier on a certain "mediated" side showed me a photograph- a simple snapshot of an accused bomber's sister, caressing the death row man's mother. The women were wearing scarfs. A fraction of their face was visible. Yet that little visible nature was gut wrenching. The bombers have a family who were probably not aware. The bombers probably have children who have just begun going to school. Maybe the bombers never got the red tri-cycle of their dreams.
Do we provide a free ticket to heaven or hell to these bombers? These are the same persons who took the above mentioned sentiments away from hundreds of others because they believed in a cause that required them to blow up children, women, men, vegetables, and dreams. Is then the bomber's mother's tears justified? Absolutely, yes. Wouldn't any mother weep if her government were putting a stopper to his "life"?
I must ask you, "Should our Democracy hang men?"
Do we provide a free ticket to heaven or hell to these bombers? These are the same persons who took the above mentioned sentiments away from hundreds of others because they believed in a cause that required them to blow up children, women, men, vegetables, and dreams. Is then the bomber's mother's tears justified? Absolutely, yes. Wouldn't any mother weep if her government were putting a stopper to his "life"?
I must ask you, "Should our Democracy hang men?"
Monday, July 23, 2007
Harry et al
I think I was young back when the first Harry Potter came out. The world was reading it. I did not. I was an idiot. I picked up HP in grad school. The world hadn't read Sorcerer's Stone for a while. I had begun flipping through it. I felt like a bigger idiot. All those years of vehemently attacking the Harry Potter world without actually reading through the pages seemed a waste of energy. What an idiot!...The seventh book drove up to my mailbox on saturday (21st). The book ended on sunday. It is monday today and I feel a great void. The thing is, if I had been my old self (the self who hadn't read it and b*tched about it) I could have picked up copies to read. But alas...the story has ended.
Will I be following Quidditch anymore? Will Expeliamus excite me when directed at Snape's chest. Will the Patronus bring forth awe? I hope so...I am darn sure they will, but I know now what Snape's dying thought was, and why Voldemort could not overcome Harry James Potter...the end is empty. Truly empty. I feel like I am at King's Cross, with no baby shrieking and no Dumbledore to shed tears- just me. But this cannot be about my overwhelming sense of loss.....neither about how brilliant the last installment was...nor the humorous "19 years later"...its got to be about what remains of Harry Potter- the films.....and one in particular- The Order of the Phoenix (which I've seen a couple of times). Nope, sorry to dissappoint, its not film review... if you want the review, visit IMDB. This is about film making...it is a confession of sorts, without the priest in flesh.
I love films. I would put on a T that read, "I (heart) films". This is quite something for me because my T's don't say much- they are just colored, and have patterns here and there. Yup...I love films. I began loving films because of the actors.....I was never too fascinated with the actresses in my younger years of film loving, because the actresses didn't seem to be doing much (except the Alien series). Nobody could talk like Peck- Very few could deliver justice from the barrel of a 44 magnum like Eastwood- Morgan Freeman had redifined the term "black gold"- and Terminator....ooo....I won't touch that realm of hypened excitement here. But then, the stardom of actors lost some of its spark...like every star, the one's in my mind began losing their energy. They began dwarfing... It all seemed to be up to the director. He was the unsung hero...he was the magician in charge of all others who had to perform tricks for the culmination of the final show. And this is where Order of the Phoenix comes in...given that Radcliffe, Rupert, Emma etc. have aged- given that Fienes is more solid- given that the enterprise (not star trek) has got loads of dough- given all that- David Yates changed the way I look at Harry Potter movies. I had enjoyed the movies previously with the exception of Prisoner of Azkaban, because they were cute, silver screen versions of the book. But this one---Oh hohoho.... this was far more... far far more. The camera moved with jerks. The camera was synced with the lead character's turmoil. The cuts were not smooth- just as his emotions- when Voldemort invaded his mind- the scened jumped- the expressions were not always face on... they were not sideshots to beautify the actors' Roman nose...sideshots were taken, often with the face cut off from the main screen to play the battle from all sides. I just loved the camera in David Yates' version of Potter. Ron was reserved.....many kudos to Rupert, although I think, Yates did have a say in it.
So much for the camera...what about the first scene? It looked like farmland/wheatland to me, sawying, dolling on the prospect of inevitable depression... the clouds were murky, and their shadows played shades on the broken faces of the actors. The film was not glossy. The props were tarnished---the tunnel lights (dementor attack scene) were dirty, and so were the unused windows of 12 Grimauld Place.
And finally the graphics input...Yes, Buckbeak was friendly and all laughs, but the Thestrials were haunting... they were as Luna put it, "different" for the better of all things. In short Order of the Phoenix has kept my hopes alive for Half Blood Prince and ofcourse Deathly Hallows. Yates is making HBP... and I hope he gets the final one for himself...He'll do it greater justice.
To end it.
There are some who do not like Harry Potter on principle. The principle being- Rowling becoming the richest lady in England and all from writing childrens' books. Such principle, although I held them once, is weak. Do dislike and critisize only after you've had your share of her words...otherwise it would be like saying, "I do not like chicken stew" without actually having it. And if principles mean too much to you....say this, "I will not read it" on principle.
Will I be following Quidditch anymore? Will Expeliamus excite me when directed at Snape's chest. Will the Patronus bring forth awe? I hope so...I am darn sure they will, but I know now what Snape's dying thought was, and why Voldemort could not overcome Harry James Potter...the end is empty. Truly empty. I feel like I am at King's Cross, with no baby shrieking and no Dumbledore to shed tears- just me. But this cannot be about my overwhelming sense of loss.....neither about how brilliant the last installment was...nor the humorous "19 years later"...its got to be about what remains of Harry Potter- the films.....and one in particular- The Order of the Phoenix (which I've seen a couple of times). Nope, sorry to dissappoint, its not film review... if you want the review, visit IMDB. This is about film making...it is a confession of sorts, without the priest in flesh.
I love films. I would put on a T that read, "I (heart) films". This is quite something for me because my T's don't say much- they are just colored, and have patterns here and there. Yup...I love films. I began loving films because of the actors.....I was never too fascinated with the actresses in my younger years of film loving, because the actresses didn't seem to be doing much (except the Alien series). Nobody could talk like Peck- Very few could deliver justice from the barrel of a 44 magnum like Eastwood- Morgan Freeman had redifined the term "black gold"- and Terminator....ooo....I won't touch that realm of hypened excitement here. But then, the stardom of actors lost some of its spark...like every star, the one's in my mind began losing their energy. They began dwarfing... It all seemed to be up to the director. He was the unsung hero...he was the magician in charge of all others who had to perform tricks for the culmination of the final show. And this is where Order of the Phoenix comes in...given that Radcliffe, Rupert, Emma etc. have aged- given that Fienes is more solid- given that the enterprise (not star trek) has got loads of dough- given all that- David Yates changed the way I look at Harry Potter movies. I had enjoyed the movies previously with the exception of Prisoner of Azkaban, because they were cute, silver screen versions of the book. But this one---Oh hohoho.... this was far more... far far more. The camera moved with jerks. The camera was synced with the lead character's turmoil. The cuts were not smooth- just as his emotions- when Voldemort invaded his mind- the scened jumped- the expressions were not always face on... they were not sideshots to beautify the actors' Roman nose...sideshots were taken, often with the face cut off from the main screen to play the battle from all sides. I just loved the camera in David Yates' version of Potter. Ron was reserved.....many kudos to Rupert, although I think, Yates did have a say in it.
So much for the camera...what about the first scene? It looked like farmland/wheatland to me, sawying, dolling on the prospect of inevitable depression... the clouds were murky, and their shadows played shades on the broken faces of the actors. The film was not glossy. The props were tarnished---the tunnel lights (dementor attack scene) were dirty, and so were the unused windows of 12 Grimauld Place.
And finally the graphics input...Yes, Buckbeak was friendly and all laughs, but the Thestrials were haunting... they were as Luna put it, "different" for the better of all things. In short Order of the Phoenix has kept my hopes alive for Half Blood Prince and ofcourse Deathly Hallows. Yates is making HBP... and I hope he gets the final one for himself...He'll do it greater justice.
To end it.
There are some who do not like Harry Potter on principle. The principle being- Rowling becoming the richest lady in England and all from writing childrens' books. Such principle, although I held them once, is weak. Do dislike and critisize only after you've had your share of her words...otherwise it would be like saying, "I do not like chicken stew" without actually having it. And if principles mean too much to you....say this, "I will not read it" on principle.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Sivaji
I have not seen the movie and I am pretty sure I will not view it in the near future. You may ask why? Please do. Well, I will not because I am not a Rajni fan. But thisi post is not a review of the movie, rather its a spin off of the humor Sivaji brought into my online existence. How so, you may ask once more. Please do. I like question and answer sessions- makes me feel political, which I am not otherwise.
This is the bit where I introduce the snippets-
A Marathi friend asked me, "Have you seen Sivaji?"
I said, "Why should I?"
He said earnestly, "It is Sivaji!"
I said, "Not your Sivaji...but a software Sivaji."
He said, a bit disgruntled, "Oh...not my Sivaji...I thought well..."
I found this regionalism humorous. Now there are people who tell me to take matters such as capitalism, communism, regionalism, socialism and all other isms seriously, including jisms that is, but for the life of me, isms tickle my funny bone.
If my friend was a Southie and had come across a Northie's Sivaji, he would have probably delivered similar sentences..."Oh...not my Sivaji..." I am not supposed to use slang. Well, I was never supposed to call myself a Bengali, but I do, and you call me a bong.
Now, the second story line- this is more serious. I am a tentative blogger. People do not often read my blog. And if they do, I do not come to know that they do, because nobody seems to be leaving any message, but what if I was a serious blogger with a blogfull of followers who blogged in and out of my blog and I had my firm nose grinding through the blogosphere in an attempt to outsmart others in my blogathon? Would I have the permission to make fun of Sivaji- the movie? The many bloggers who commented on this article did not find the blogger's blog humorous- they found it insulting (reference a thesaurus for better words please). Here's my beef- I am not supporting the blogger or her blog, neither am I discrediting it- now to my beef (yum yum?): Why do we as a people get hurt so darn easily. Somebody calls Gandhi a stick figure and we go all ballistic. Somebody claims the Taj Mahal isn't anything better than its Jamuna backdrop, and we start a petition in its support. A few others beat our cinematic sense and we begin calling them "immature" and comment, "Hey in our films we sell dreams. But you wouldn't understand." WHY THE HELL ARE WE SO DAMN NAZUK? So what if a Calvin Clein wearing idiot calls Gandhi a stick figure (just making it up)... its more important to let him do so. In the long run, after the sticker on his garment has faded he'll come follow our line of people who honor a stick figure and have come to call him the Mahatma. And so what if the Taj isn't pretty anymore- its memory is, and that memory is for us, those who love it. Finally coming to our films- enjoy what you enjoy and let the critiques, or in this case, the blogger say anything they want to...one shouldn't give a hoot.
To end this let me say, long live Sivaji and Rajni.
This is the bit where I introduce the snippets-
A Marathi friend asked me, "Have you seen Sivaji?"
I said, "Why should I?"
He said earnestly, "It is Sivaji!"
I said, "Not your Sivaji...but a software Sivaji."
He said, a bit disgruntled, "Oh...not my Sivaji...I thought well..."
I found this regionalism humorous. Now there are people who tell me to take matters such as capitalism, communism, regionalism, socialism and all other isms seriously, including jisms that is, but for the life of me, isms tickle my funny bone.
If my friend was a Southie and had come across a Northie's Sivaji, he would have probably delivered similar sentences..."Oh...not my Sivaji..." I am not supposed to use slang. Well, I was never supposed to call myself a Bengali, but I do, and you call me a bong.
Now, the second story line- this is more serious. I am a tentative blogger. People do not often read my blog. And if they do, I do not come to know that they do, because nobody seems to be leaving any message, but what if I was a serious blogger with a blogfull of followers who blogged in and out of my blog and I had my firm nose grinding through the blogosphere in an attempt to outsmart others in my blogathon? Would I have the permission to make fun of Sivaji- the movie? The many bloggers who commented on this article did not find the blogger's blog humorous- they found it insulting (reference a thesaurus for better words please). Here's my beef- I am not supporting the blogger or her blog, neither am I discrediting it- now to my beef (yum yum?): Why do we as a people get hurt so darn easily. Somebody calls Gandhi a stick figure and we go all ballistic. Somebody claims the Taj Mahal isn't anything better than its Jamuna backdrop, and we start a petition in its support. A few others beat our cinematic sense and we begin calling them "immature" and comment, "Hey in our films we sell dreams. But you wouldn't understand." WHY THE HELL ARE WE SO DAMN NAZUK? So what if a Calvin Clein wearing idiot calls Gandhi a stick figure (just making it up)... its more important to let him do so. In the long run, after the sticker on his garment has faded he'll come follow our line of people who honor a stick figure and have come to call him the Mahatma. And so what if the Taj isn't pretty anymore- its memory is, and that memory is for us, those who love it. Finally coming to our films- enjoy what you enjoy and let the critiques, or in this case, the blogger say anything they want to...one shouldn't give a hoot.
To end this let me say, long live Sivaji and Rajni.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Paper cuts Letters Love
Paper cut pain licks
In blue felt ink remain
Unanswered by love
Do paper cuts bleed?
Letters’ fading memory
Crimson stain bordersDo paper hearts ache?
Where edges blurredIn blue felt ink remain
Unanswered by love
Is silence love’s tongue?
Words now like bone
Dust into fading sand
Dust into fading sand
Paper cut pain licks
Do paper cuts bleed?
Crimson stain borders
Filling empty white
Do paper hearts ache?Where edges blurred
In blue felt ink remain
Unanswered by love
Is silence love’s tongue?In blue felt ink remain
Unanswered by love
Tears become text
Friday, May 11, 2007
Teaching History
Many newspaper websites were flooded with pictures of persons taking part in the commemoration of 1857's mutiny. Yes, those men and women who braved death sparked the first fires of our independence. We ought to be proud of their bravery, but does that mean we consider everybody and everything that "our side" did during that period "saintly"? Do we now, this day, have the courage to accept that killing women and children in British safe- houses was not very honorable?
I am not one to say that all that the East India company did was correct. Often their acts were heinous. But should we, as so called children of the Mahatma, neglect one of his greatest teachings...the teaching being, having the boldness to understand one's own flaws first before pointing out the flaws in others. History can be like an euphoric drug...indulge in it, and one forgets the truths lying deep within. Let us not partake in such dishonesty. Let us not say that all that our forefathers did was right. Let us not scribble every act of murder into our historic records as heroism.
If all this reads too negative, let me pose you a question, "How do you think the British should teach the history of the British Raj in Britain?" Should they teach history as we do? Should they transcribe every historic crime into sweet cream?
I am not one to say that all that the East India company did was correct. Often their acts were heinous. But should we, as so called children of the Mahatma, neglect one of his greatest teachings...the teaching being, having the boldness to understand one's own flaws first before pointing out the flaws in others. History can be like an euphoric drug...indulge in it, and one forgets the truths lying deep within. Let us not partake in such dishonesty. Let us not say that all that our forefathers did was right. Let us not scribble every act of murder into our historic records as heroism.
If all this reads too negative, let me pose you a question, "How do you think the British should teach the history of the British Raj in Britain?" Should they teach history as we do? Should they transcribe every historic crime into sweet cream?
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Migration
Most Indians from India come to this foreign land with a conviction that they will return home. Their conviction fails... they end up staying in a "foreign land". Every summer, or winter, when it get's too chilly in say New York or Chicago, we pack up our bags, suitcases with dollar tags, hop onto planes and fly home. Birds do that, so do fish, and many other beings. Like them we return, as our ticket is always round trip. (Probably the only one way ticket was bought, the first time we came here with a dream of returning with....please do fill in here). The difference between the birds-fish-etc and us is that we still call this land, "foreign".
Why is it foreign?
Heck, what is foreign?
As a curiosity, the Indian National Students (INS) has termed all Indians from India, "Desis". We call each other Desis. We eat Desi food. We watch Desi movies. We wear Desi clothes on special occassions- Desi stuff is fun. Our attitude begs the question, "What is Desi?"
Growing up on Hollywood pop, and Springsteen/Beatles/Adams/Collins/Doors/etc I had come to believe that my "foreign" land was truly a backyard of them Hollywood studios. Everybody was either a Willis or a Stone. How wrong...how wrong...yet the attitude, "this is a foreign land" did not subside.
Is this a foreign land because I choose not to let it become my home despite having an aalishaan bungalow on it (I don't have one, most others do)? Why do we become so damn desperate before boarding that plane back to Bombay, Calcutta, Bangalore or Delhi?
In the true Desi spirit I would answer the above by quoting soem obscure lyric from some equally obscure song, "Des ki mitti ke jaise koi mitti nahin...uski mehek...uski ..." Stepping away from our Desi overdrive, I ask ourselves, "How many of us have tried to find the khushboo in America." We still think it is about research, economics, business, opportunities... everything barring the simple happiness of living. Say, like flying a kite in the outdoors with friends and family, or blending cricket and baseball into one game? How many of us call a gathering with friends from American and Non American origin? We might invite John Doe and his wife for dinner, but do not do so when Champaklal Desi and his Misses are around. Weird eh?
So what is foreign?
Probably foreign is what we make of it. Until I learn to understand this soil... and it is rubbish to cite the ancientness of India... for America has an equally lengthy history... it had people, and persons, who until this day speak in Native American tongues so old.
As a conclusion, I tell myself, let's learn the art of migration from the birds and the bees.
Why is it foreign?
Heck, what is foreign?
As a curiosity, the Indian National Students (INS) has termed all Indians from India, "Desis". We call each other Desis. We eat Desi food. We watch Desi movies. We wear Desi clothes on special occassions- Desi stuff is fun. Our attitude begs the question, "What is Desi?"
Growing up on Hollywood pop, and Springsteen/Beatles/Adams/Collins/Doors/etc I had come to believe that my "foreign" land was truly a backyard of them Hollywood studios. Everybody was either a Willis or a Stone. How wrong...how wrong...yet the attitude, "this is a foreign land" did not subside.
Is this a foreign land because I choose not to let it become my home despite having an aalishaan bungalow on it (I don't have one, most others do)? Why do we become so damn desperate before boarding that plane back to Bombay, Calcutta, Bangalore or Delhi?
In the true Desi spirit I would answer the above by quoting soem obscure lyric from some equally obscure song, "Des ki mitti ke jaise koi mitti nahin...uski mehek...uski ..." Stepping away from our Desi overdrive, I ask ourselves, "How many of us have tried to find the khushboo in America." We still think it is about research, economics, business, opportunities... everything barring the simple happiness of living. Say, like flying a kite in the outdoors with friends and family, or blending cricket and baseball into one game? How many of us call a gathering with friends from American and Non American origin? We might invite John Doe and his wife for dinner, but do not do so when Champaklal Desi and his Misses are around. Weird eh?
So what is foreign?
Probably foreign is what we make of it. Until I learn to understand this soil... and it is rubbish to cite the ancientness of India... for America has an equally lengthy history... it had people, and persons, who until this day speak in Native American tongues so old.
As a conclusion, I tell myself, let's learn the art of migration from the birds and the bees.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Saturday, March 31, 2007
LULLABY
Evil sees right through me with a smile
How long can you pretend to play good?
Smile broadens as I keep feeding on guilt
The clock strikes one…no mouse runs down
I observe the cat purring by my empty feet
You know it will surely scratch you someday
My feet jerk nervously, deciding upon a kick
The cow jumps over the moon…now foggy
Flesh perched on a cool metal trigger, toying
You will resign as all the others have done
Fingers shivering with the cold metal touch
Bah-bah black sheep…that’s being racist
Evil sees right through me with a smile
How long can you pretend to play good?
Smile broadens as I keep feeding on guilt
How long can you pretend to play good?
Smile broadens as I keep feeding on guilt
The clock strikes one…no mouse runs down
I observe the cat purring by my empty feet
You know it will surely scratch you someday
My feet jerk nervously, deciding upon a kick
The cow jumps over the moon…now foggy
Flesh perched on a cool metal trigger, toying
You will resign as all the others have done
Fingers shivering with the cold metal touch
Bah-bah black sheep…that’s being racist
Evil sees right through me with a smile
How long can you pretend to play good?
Smile broadens as I keep feeding on guilt
To The Shelter of Trees
Take me to the shelter of trees
Where I might taste an orange
Freshly fallen from the branch
Take me to the highest clouds
Up on which the orange grow
Setting to the dew all the nigh’
Take me to the farthest fire
That refuses no fuel we pour
Ne’er bowing to blowing wind
Where I might taste an orange
Freshly fallen from the branch
Take me to the highest clouds
Up on which the orange grow
Setting to the dew all the nigh’
Take me to the farthest fire
That refuses no fuel we pour
Ne’er bowing to blowing wind
Ink
How blue the ink stain
has deepened on still
paper lettered to anon
I mus’ to heavy spots
clear scratches aback
my body does hurt
not more than a thin
paper cut through me
where word lies lost
without its lost limb
once so blue withstaen’
Fade away, fade away
my faraway memory
for what use are you
as a memoir undone
whisper myself to wind
harsh beating my chest
plays the distant drum
and sings me his song
“how brave mans’ heart
faces howling canons
fearing his love gone”
paper lettered to anon
I mus’ to heavy spots
clear scratches aback
my body does hurt
not more than a thin
paper cut through me
where word lies lost
without its lost limb
once so blue withstaen’
Fade away, fade away
my faraway memory
for what use are you
as a memoir undone
whisper myself to wind
harsh beating my chest
plays the distant drum
and sings me his song
“how brave mans’ heart
faces howling canons
fearing his love gone”
Feet
TWENTY FEET
I am sitting on a ledge, about twenty feet from the ground. I have not measured the fall with a tape measure. And I do not intend to jump. Twenty feet will not work. Such less heights never work. At most they break bones. But I do not want a broken bone. I want myself broken, and that is not merely bones.
The wind is cool. The sun has set. The park is filled with people. I can see those people. Have they ever sat on ledges? Does sitting on a ledge and contemplating mix well. Can I think here? I guess I can. Therefore I am writing these on a ruled piece of paper in a spiral bound notebook. The binding is metal. It hurts the skin. Yes, it does hurt. The sharp end pierced into my skin once. That is why I choose to write in this book, not any book, but this one, which has tasted my blood. I am kin.
A bird sits on a higher ledge. The bird is a better thinker at its height. It does not fear a fall for it can pick up a flight midair. I cannot fly. I do not have wings. Yet, the ledge does not scare me. I might go higher up, to begin fearing.
FORTY FEET
The window ledge was stuck. I struggled with its rusty edges. But metal gave in. The iron bolts were red. They have colored the jeans I am wearing. My shirt is white. I have been careful not to mar it with odd stains. I am now sitting forty feet above the ground. The bird that was over me is now below. It did not choose to fly away when my ground touched the ledge beneath the window on which I sit staring at it staring at me. We have understood this height together, although the bird got here before I. Would I let it stay in my place of reign if I had come here first? Maybe the bird is a better creature. Maybe the bird is wiser as it has rested on higher rises.
The people that were in the park have left its lamps shining on empty space. There are still a few dogs running around. The dogs have soft tennis balls clutched in their mouths. I know they hold tennis balls as their fluorescent glaze is bright beneath the electric lamps. I can smell the oncoming rain. It is a peculiar scent when earth begs for water from the clouds above. They have a amicable relation. It is a relation of giving and taking that remains dynamic all year round. The relation is never unfair to either.
My ledge- mate has sought higher altitude. I see it fly away. Its black feathers blend into the black sky above me. There is always something higher than my height. I do not fear the forty feet drop beneath me. The ground does not invite me yet. I am different from rain. Rain is many. Rain is particulate. I am one. I am whole. But I need to be broken. I desire shattering and this height will not do.
EIGHTY FEET
The roof is home to pigeons. An old lady on the first floor who uses a cane to hobble about in the apartment leaves a dish of cooked rice on the roof. The cook white rice is left in an open plastic plate. The birds eat from it. They enjoy her rice. I have not known persons before who cook rice for birds. She is the first of this thoughtful lot. Maybe she learned her truthful method the hard way. Maybe she had given uncooked rice to the pigeons in her childhood and watched the pigeons pop as the grains bloated in their belly and eventually burst their digestion red on the ground. I watch the pigeons pecking away gaily at the rice behind me. That dish is not for me. I am nobody’s responsibility.
My legs dangle over the rooftop ledge. I can feel the low density of air here. I can feel the heat from rising smoke here. I can hear the television blaring a floor below. Someone’s watching a comedy. Or maybe the television has been turned on high to cover up whatever that someone is up to.
A jet plane flies over me. It has a tail. Monkeys have tails. But monkeys do not fly as cousins to clouds and children to stars. Monkeys fly tree to tree but their flight is short lived for they, like me, do not have wings as the birds behind me. A crow is eyeing the pigeons’ gathering from atop a water tank. The crow is alone. It is black. It is dark. My jeans are black. The white cement powder has stained them again. The red of the rust has been overcome by white.
Sitting eighty feet above ground is a giddy act. Remember Hitchcock’s Vertigo?
GROUND FEET
I have tasted the giddiness of heights. It feels safer on ground. The park is now exceptionally empty. The odd couples still linger. There are no dogs anymore catching fluorescent green tennis balls. Animals must eat. Animal food comes packed in all sizes of packets. I do not like dogs. For that matter I do not like pets.
A hoard of mosquitoes have gathered around a muddy puddle. I watch them. They watch me with their mosquito eyes. They do not come to me. I am bloodless. My blood belongs to my book that I have tucked beneath my arm pits.
Zero feet above ground. My feet touching the ground. This reality is most fearing. Higher heights did not scare me. This reality shivers. The cold wind blows. The distant scream. The television soap blaring in the background of a sobbing woman. The drunken walk of a penniless beggar. My walk. My thoughts. My height. My feet. My steps. I fear them all. This is the realm that I fear most…just as the birds who fear the skies most and therefore come to a ledge, twenty, forty, eighty feet from the ground to rest.
I am sitting on a ledge, about twenty feet from the ground. I have not measured the fall with a tape measure. And I do not intend to jump. Twenty feet will not work. Such less heights never work. At most they break bones. But I do not want a broken bone. I want myself broken, and that is not merely bones.
The wind is cool. The sun has set. The park is filled with people. I can see those people. Have they ever sat on ledges? Does sitting on a ledge and contemplating mix well. Can I think here? I guess I can. Therefore I am writing these on a ruled piece of paper in a spiral bound notebook. The binding is metal. It hurts the skin. Yes, it does hurt. The sharp end pierced into my skin once. That is why I choose to write in this book, not any book, but this one, which has tasted my blood. I am kin.
A bird sits on a higher ledge. The bird is a better thinker at its height. It does not fear a fall for it can pick up a flight midair. I cannot fly. I do not have wings. Yet, the ledge does not scare me. I might go higher up, to begin fearing.
FORTY FEET
The window ledge was stuck. I struggled with its rusty edges. But metal gave in. The iron bolts were red. They have colored the jeans I am wearing. My shirt is white. I have been careful not to mar it with odd stains. I am now sitting forty feet above the ground. The bird that was over me is now below. It did not choose to fly away when my ground touched the ledge beneath the window on which I sit staring at it staring at me. We have understood this height together, although the bird got here before I. Would I let it stay in my place of reign if I had come here first? Maybe the bird is a better creature. Maybe the bird is wiser as it has rested on higher rises.
The people that were in the park have left its lamps shining on empty space. There are still a few dogs running around. The dogs have soft tennis balls clutched in their mouths. I know they hold tennis balls as their fluorescent glaze is bright beneath the electric lamps. I can smell the oncoming rain. It is a peculiar scent when earth begs for water from the clouds above. They have a amicable relation. It is a relation of giving and taking that remains dynamic all year round. The relation is never unfair to either.
My ledge- mate has sought higher altitude. I see it fly away. Its black feathers blend into the black sky above me. There is always something higher than my height. I do not fear the forty feet drop beneath me. The ground does not invite me yet. I am different from rain. Rain is many. Rain is particulate. I am one. I am whole. But I need to be broken. I desire shattering and this height will not do.
EIGHTY FEET
The roof is home to pigeons. An old lady on the first floor who uses a cane to hobble about in the apartment leaves a dish of cooked rice on the roof. The cook white rice is left in an open plastic plate. The birds eat from it. They enjoy her rice. I have not known persons before who cook rice for birds. She is the first of this thoughtful lot. Maybe she learned her truthful method the hard way. Maybe she had given uncooked rice to the pigeons in her childhood and watched the pigeons pop as the grains bloated in their belly and eventually burst their digestion red on the ground. I watch the pigeons pecking away gaily at the rice behind me. That dish is not for me. I am nobody’s responsibility.
My legs dangle over the rooftop ledge. I can feel the low density of air here. I can feel the heat from rising smoke here. I can hear the television blaring a floor below. Someone’s watching a comedy. Or maybe the television has been turned on high to cover up whatever that someone is up to.
A jet plane flies over me. It has a tail. Monkeys have tails. But monkeys do not fly as cousins to clouds and children to stars. Monkeys fly tree to tree but their flight is short lived for they, like me, do not have wings as the birds behind me. A crow is eyeing the pigeons’ gathering from atop a water tank. The crow is alone. It is black. It is dark. My jeans are black. The white cement powder has stained them again. The red of the rust has been overcome by white.
Sitting eighty feet above ground is a giddy act. Remember Hitchcock’s Vertigo?
GROUND FEET
I have tasted the giddiness of heights. It feels safer on ground. The park is now exceptionally empty. The odd couples still linger. There are no dogs anymore catching fluorescent green tennis balls. Animals must eat. Animal food comes packed in all sizes of packets. I do not like dogs. For that matter I do not like pets.
A hoard of mosquitoes have gathered around a muddy puddle. I watch them. They watch me with their mosquito eyes. They do not come to me. I am bloodless. My blood belongs to my book that I have tucked beneath my arm pits.
Zero feet above ground. My feet touching the ground. This reality is most fearing. Higher heights did not scare me. This reality shivers. The cold wind blows. The distant scream. The television soap blaring in the background of a sobbing woman. The drunken walk of a penniless beggar. My walk. My thoughts. My height. My feet. My steps. I fear them all. This is the realm that I fear most…just as the birds who fear the skies most and therefore come to a ledge, twenty, forty, eighty feet from the ground to rest.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Ratri, a Woman
Let me become your mirror,
Holding only an image, enough
To shimmer my desire afloat.
How carefully you hide in veil,
Dark calligraphy around twinkling
Mirrors reflecting your gentle light.
Sindur trailing into dusts of distance
And the bold forehead’s medallion
For lovers to witness in your aanchal.
Let me be a lake filled with still water
To catch your image in my tranquility
For the lives swimming within me.
The Lotus Man
The lot of the muddy pond
Blooms alone in the morn
Hidden to the dimmed eyes
The lotus eater swims on
Unaware of the thousand
Flowers to appear in time
In memory of that one lotus
That stood ground amidst
Dirt, deluge, suffering, pain
Of the chocking black lake.
The man brings back the lotus
Before the temple gates open
And factories begin churning
Smoke towards a drowning sun.
Blooms alone in the morn
Hidden to the dimmed eyes
The lotus eater swims on
Unaware of the thousand
Flowers to appear in time
In memory of that one lotus
That stood ground amidst
Dirt, deluge, suffering, pain
Of the chocking black lake.
The man brings back the lotus
Before the temple gates open
And factories begin churning
Smoke towards a drowning sun.
The Red Frocked Toad
A red frocked toad
Leaped onto my broken boat
and told the tale of the one legged goat
soon enough my eagle got very bored,
How quickly she went through frogged hoard!
Leaped onto my broken boat
and told the tale of the one legged goat
soon enough my eagle got very bored,
How quickly she went through frogged hoard!
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