Friends and Strangers

So this one was a draft for quite some time, and so, perhaps, stinks stale. 

Until recently, I did not know that friendship came with a best before tag - a tenure, best defined by what frame of mind one is in; a friend for every mood, if I may. Now, whenever I am sad, I have a particular person (read friend?) to go, talk to; whenever I am happy, I have another person or set of persons who I call up. A great way to organize you contacts, isn't it, instead of the usual Friends-Acquaintances-Colleagues-Bullshit-Who Cares-Stranger segregation, except that barring the first category, all would still hold good. My bad. And of course no, I have not had a brush with a bad friend. Just a few instances when I have been at the receiving of the tantrums these friends throw, and no prize for guessing. Friendship day and the social networks littered with friendship dumps goad me into thinking all this pointless stuff. But that is exactly why I would write a blog.

I was loitering around in the office corridor, unconcerned with whether or not I have a companion when someone calls from behind. I look back; force a smile and wave at that person. “So, Sharmaji, what’s up?” was the question, with an ugly smile and a bad breath, almost suffocating me to death.

“Dude, step back can you please, and God! Are you some scavenger, with that awful stink of yours.”

Now this is one question you cannot possibly escape in the office atmosphere. And perhaps this is one question I can give multiple answers to. “Whatever concerns you?” with a smug, condescending look or “I am good” with a pleasantry exchange or “What left to be up dude, Deloitte downs everything, from our spirits to our career graphs” with a dry grin. The noticeable part is that neither party is remotely interested in this conversation. I once remember a manager asking me, in the same vein, “Hey, hi, how are you?” and I was taken aback. The previous day we had a workshop by the same man-age-r, and I think I said a few noteworthy things as a contribution; yeah, whatever. So, the next day when I saw him, I just threw a cursory glance, a customary smile and got back a question in reply. I was actually taken aback, and for a moment, kept looking at him, all the time, continuing on my way, and then, with a quizzing look, turned away. He still had that transgender smile on his face, expectant. And not long after, I learnt that people feel it is difficult entering into a conversation with Sharmaji.

I am not sure how I got this name, yeah, but it was definitely my office friends. I think they deserve at least one mention in my blog. So, we are five analysts who joined in the Strategy & Operations group in Deloitte. One among them, born and brought up in Mumbai, is from my college and we did not quite know each other until we came here. He thinks he is cynical, pragmatic and understands music. I would quite agree with the last one, before adding that I think he is quite earnest, at least when he attempts to start a conversation, in trying to ensure that the other party to the conversation feels wretched and miserable for being a part of this world. But he is a good chap. The other guy has quite the flair for gossip. Now there are things perhaps the EA to the partner would not know, and you would be ears-full of what is going to happen in the firm and who joins and who leaves and who has what background. One of those who boast a claim, with pride, of being a rascal. Methinks…well, there always is fire for a smoke. The third one is perhaps the most networked analyst in the firm, and perhaps the one who feels the need to stress upon the “friendship” thing every now and then. ‘Course, you have to talk to be networked, right. I have not had much of an interaction with the fourth one of us to write about, except that he goes out for lunch with a different chick every day, has a real passion for chatting and enjoys office parties (read sharaab and shabaab), however few they are, more than the others, I guess. Anyway, this was about the office atmosphere.

I think I have been fortunate enough that people still hang around me, in the office or otherwise, despite my crass, unapologetic and rather indifferent attitude. I somehow have cultivated this feeling that maybe I do not need anyone, maybe I already all by myself and all those sorts of ideas. I even try to be an iconoclast, questioning the very idea of friendship and companionship, demanding a checklist for a qualification and all that heretical randomness. So one day this person asked me if I deliberately chose to be a rebel, trying to create an image for myself to gain some distinction or was it the natural me, and you would have guessed by now my response. Looking back upon it, “Whatever it is, should not concern you, right, because it has nothing to do with you” is perhaps not the kind of response I would have appreciated were I as the receiving end, when I am generally a skeptic. I call people varieties of names, with or without any reason, form premature opinions about people. Sometimes, I question myself about this disdainful behavior and then brush it aside with “This is what it is” trash. I have been criticized by my friends for calling a spade a spade, but again, sometimes it has meant humor and more often, it has been matter-of-factly. I think I can cite one interesting incident here. Someone once asked me who would I call a friend, and rebuking, I said we are not children to call someone a friend and leave the others out; that everyone we know now becomes a friend, everyone we have talked to, even once, is now a friend.

That was meant to be a mean reply to a stupid question. But upon retrospection, I feel somewhere that I might just have spoken something of great consequence. Not everyone is a friend, not everyone you like to talk to might want to be friends with you. Again, I am straddling the fence of “friendship” here, but let’s leave that for later. I have a great friend who I talk to only when we meet; I would not share a great camaraderie with someone, but still have a lot to talk about with that someone. I have, myself, taken one time contacts too seriously for friends, only to realize the contrary. More often, I remain all too consumed in myself and have found myself wanting in making efforts to make new friends, and often trying to wriggle away from any eye contact with most people I know. And sometimes, I have to prepare myself for an animated conversation. Lately, I have been thinking about escaping into some world where I live all alone.

And still, I have so many people around me, providing me with hope, asking me to hang around for the better, lending ears to whatever I might have to say and patiently filtering out the trash, people who have exulted with me and sulked with me. So I think it is high time I cherish my friendship with people, gems of individuals, who have stood by me in times of joys and distress, in passages of needs and celebrations, through successes and misfortunes, in egoistic overtones and in careless mirth, in mischievous winks and gargantuan anxieties. I have been blessed to have people I can count on, and in great numbers; people who I can call friends. 

No Title

It is really difficult to find a title for every post and "Untitled" sounds so very uncool.


So it is another Sunday and just about a month and a half since the last post. That sucks. The other day I was wondering what would inspire me to write something. Yesterday did. At the Bandra station, the three of us were standing when a boy and a girl came along to ask directions for the train to Dadar. I must mention that among all my friends here, it is a common opinion that no one knows the transportation more than I do. Something they can do without, but that is for another day. I was on a call when Raju (one of the three) asked me where would the Dadar bound train be. I confused it with the slow train and pointed to platform 1. In hindsight, I was thinking platform nine and three quarters when suddenly I realized that I just gave them the wrong direction. Since then, I have been contrite. To compound matters, when I got on to the Dadar bound train, they were staring right in my face, and like a celebrity (that goes without saying in matters concerning me) convict who shies away from the camera after having been caught for some faux pas, I buried my face in my palm. I think guilt is the strongest of emotions that can happen to a man.

Opeth-o-Graphy

Prologue:

When, stands a moor under the weeping moon,

What thinks he? Ah, but does he think at all,

Of orchid, birds, his forests? And maroon

His land, the moor, his home, as stars befall.

Stays back, the night and the silent water

To stranger lands with promises of hope,

Charges for absent friends, clad in otter,

A silhouette, bleak, fading down the slope.

The drapery falls, bares a mystic sun.

Afresh, they wake up to rid the disease

The weakness, for but good, to be undone

By that horse rider, melting with the breeze.

Yonder he left, say they, yonder he drove

Apostle in triumph, with valor, the cove

Yes. Everything there is surreal. Another still day, beneath the sun. What had the fortunes brought me to? A lasting impression of what should have been, interspersed with the hope of these idyllic images race through an empty mind. Hitting hard with every impact. There had been those war-mongrels, ravaging my lands, and here are these complaisant, congenial folks, welcoming me into their hearts. This is not Karma. I had left for a cause, and here I stand, refusing to accept this denouement. Ways of the world, say they. How am I to tell myself apart from   those I had come for? I need not. In the quest of chasing away my demons, I'd come a long way ahead. In fact, left them far behind.

I tread along, in the devil’s orchard, or so I think, eying every movement with suspicion, every slither with hostility. And in the midst of all this, sparing a moment or two for my place. In every hustle through that harlequin forest, I find a raison d’etre for my presence; and in every tranquil moment, relive a lifetime in the watershed of her love. In this relentless journey for deliverance, I have found a way or two to go back, beneath the mire of this manufactured repugnance, and hide myself in the garment of her passion. Does her love check my advent into the unknown or does it give me a rationale to continue with this pursuit? For little that I know of this pursuit, I find comfort in that she kissed me goodbye under the white cluster of our reveries.

In the mist she was standing, quiet, privy.

Her porcelain heart, absent to the world,

Lay bare, carving patterns in the ivy.

Dew of her youth, silken, as it unfurled.

And smothers, his face, the dripping nectar

Of her flesh, as he lies dumbfounded there.

And finds the moments breaking the specter

Of the smog, into a form that’s so rare.

Benighted, oblivious beneath the sky

They render a touch in credence, in trust

“To bid you farewell”, he whispers his sigh

She chooses silence, and silence she must

April, ethereal, obscures in time,

Those hours of wealth, the twosome, sublime.

Staring down the memory lane, everything comes back a full circle, this is what people say. They say you are always running away from what you were, from what was to what you were and what was. How difficult, rather rare, it is to find newer things and not connect them to things you have left behind! Memory after all is a beautiful thing, although not a twin, but still, a relative to truth; a heritage that leaves you only poorer. And how callous a thing, to betray your true state of mind with wishful longing for the absent.

Coming to think of it, there was no particular reason why I thought I should leave my land. As the harvest season progresses, so does my mind waver from one pursuit to another. I am already a part of this rich cultural exuberance, with only a quaint memory of the autumn when I left for the unknown. And nothing bothers me, particularly. They have taken kindly to me, unknowledgeable of my identity. For myself, I had no reason then, and not one now. As a matter of fact, I do not even know if they are the same demons, of the fall, as my people called them. Every sunset, I sing a madrigal or two with them, and with every folklore, wish to break free of that unkempt feeling of self-condemnation of not having found stable, mental peace. I realize that I am losing any desire of going back to my place, into that forest of October and instead, want to live an unassuming life here, only thinking that the ravager would not be ravaged.

Sonnet XIII: To bid you farewell

In the mist she was standing, quiet, privy.

Her porcelain heart, absent to the world,

Lay bare, carving patterns in the ivy.

Dew of her youth, silken, as it unfurled.

And smothers, his face, the dripping nectar

Of her flesh, as he lies dumbfounded there.

And finds the moments breaking the specter

Of the smog, into a form that’s so rare.

Benighted, oblivious beneath the sky

They render a touch in credence, in trust

“To bid you farewell”, he whispers his sigh

She chooses silence, and silence she must

April, ethereal, obscures in time,

Those hours of wealth, the twosome, sublime.

Day in and Day out

People talk about fresh mornings and sultry evenings. People talk about tiring weekdays and colorful weekends. People talk about boring workplaces and even boring colleagues, yeah sometimes a few exciting ones find themselves studded in those jaded descriptions. I am indifferent. To all these talks and to all these phenomena. Only a couple of hours ago was I in the office, staring at my computer screen, trying to concentrate on the Nightwish song the system was playing. And in a flash, I flew down to...nowhere. I was still sitting, still listening and still thinking about the paucity of work through this week. Today is a Friday.

I have realized that just as the spring starts to draw curtains on the inconspicuous winter, the days are growing longer. I wake up to a brighter, warmer morning everyday. A fresh morning though has yet to flare my day. The irksome chores are growing all to heavy on me. Someone who used to wake up at the slightest hint of a ripple in his immediate surrounding now chooses to ignore the dramatic, irrepressible spirit of the milkman, who finds amusement in the cacophony generated by the prolonged ringing of a door bell. Every morning is a painful realization of the fact that now, I am spoilt for choice. That historic question, of course history repeats itself everyday, of what would I look to have just stumps me. On the one hand, I have a choice, and on the other, it is only either potato, beans...yeah, buzz off. No one is interested in what you eat. You were talking about things people talk. Fresh mornings.

After listless days, I wonder what is left for the evenings. Nothing by the wild swaying of my head, sometimes in unison, though mostly in disharmony with the BEST buses. Again, a realization. I have lost control over my powers to remain awake during a BEST bus journey. Something with the bus, or the ride. Something. I just cannot manage to stay awake. Yesterday, I leapt into the empty bus, got a seat and took out Neruda. An exercise to ward off the dozing cycle. As beautiful has he might write in Spanish, I do much better in English. I shove it back into my bag. And the treacherous, villainous siesta encroaches. The observation here is that until Wednesday, I used to sleep all by myself. Wednesday onward, I have lost control of that as well. Once a passenger requests me to sit by the window so that I can rest my swaying head; the second time, when I wake up, I find another passenger, the more amorous one, offering his shoulder for my head. I alight at the next stop, embarrassed. So much for the sultry evenings.

Anyway, another weekend goes by. I am still searching a jazzy one.

Sonnet XI: A Tryst with Midnight

Long due, the midnight presented its face
Into a sparkling form, maidenly mould;
Silver, her skin shone, entangled with grace,
Caressing my breath, I saw her unfold,


I lay enthralled in her arms, staring wide,
Musing, on her muted gestures and more,
Embracing her, all my love I confide
Ask her to stay for me, ardour implore.


Gently, her hands brush my eyelids to rest
Draping me warm, tender feelings enclose
Slumber trespasses, despite my protest
Imposing, her love renders me to repose


Timeless, this tryst with my love, I surmise
We slowly part, the moon melts in her eyes

Deliverance

I will have to repeat many words. Please, understand.

Having been a witness to the surreal experiences of seeing first Eluvietie, then Lamb of God, Metallica, Anoushka and finally, Opeth perform live in concert, I have developed an opinion that none of the fans would return unhappy after the performance of any of the above mentioned artists. That is true, barring the case of Opeth. I am as big a fan of LOG or Metallica for that matter, as they are but then there has to be something that sets Opeth apart. I can thus lay my claim to being the biggest Opeth fan that has treaded upon the face of the earth, and in furtherance of what I said above, I am a disappointed fan after February the 5^th, 2012.

For three continuous months, I had been waiting. Waiting for that moment when I would listen THEM play live in concert. Yeah, they had come to India once, but then I had just started to listen to western music and Opeth (what a shame it is) were relatively unknown in the college, and hence to me. But since then, and as I got into Opeth, they have left an indelible mark on my musical side. I can proudly say that I picked up a guitar listening to Metallica, but Opeth are the ones responsible for introducing good music and the ability to discern between something that is a sun to the million other stars.

For me, if there is one band that has produced brilliant music album after album since Led Zeppelin, it has got to be Opeth. I think there is hardly any song on any of their releases that I can classify as ordinary, leave alone bad. Starting from Orchid and right up to their 10^th release in Heritage, they have continued to amaze their fans with a platter of deliciously rich music, dished out in the most understated, under acknowledged setting. From their heavy metal roots to the genre that conspicuously straddles between something of jazz, the classical 70’s rock and the progressive elements, with a dash of folk and a pinch of Opeth (yes, I consider them to be another genre altogether), they have transcended any modern day band to become the most adventurous, yes, but at the same time, one of the most critically acclaimed bands, musically. Like they say in our country, if cricket is religion then Sachin is God, so I say, if music is religion, OPETH is GOD.

I know I am too diminutive a mortal to try and write something about the virtuosity of the band. But what I can do is present a caricature of what my experience on the night of the  5^th of February, 2012 was. Opeth came to India with Suidakra and Nothnegal. I could not listen to Nothnegal but Suidakra was a musical masterpiece in whatever I could listen of them. They were a judicious mix of alternative, old school, the frenetic 80’s and the Celtic folk influences. I don’t know, I was still looking for people and I think I missed out on a hugely promising band. That is that.

Opeth grandly opened with the groovy “The Devil’s Orchard” (Heritage). Breathtaking riff work and some brilliant drumming lend a weirdly eerie feel to this song, with Mikeal proclaiming the death of God. I don’t know what to make of the lyrics, frankly, but in any song, it is just that music that attracts me and “The Devil’s Orchard” has it plentiful. Just as in the album, they followed it by “I Feel The Dark” (Heritage). I know I am going to use this a zillion times throughout this writing, but it perfectly sums up what Opeth has been throughout their musical life. Trying, testing and expanding. With the smooth start to the screeching break right in the middle of the song and back to the mellow ending, they have crafted such effortless transitions that it is impossible for me to ignore the enormity of their music.

“Face of Melinda” belongs to those days when they used to call themselves a death metal band. Can you believe it? I can. With Opeth, the significance of their music lies in their ability to surprise you with the most absurd concepts theoretically, but the most ear-gasmic ones pragmatically. Sandwiched between two expansively composed songs, primarily on distortion, it is one beautiful song that sure does send a chill. I have never been someone who judges songs on the merit of their lyrics but with Opeth, you can rest assured that you will never get any chance. They seal off the easiest excuse, quite gracefully. Such restraint and yet so cathartic a song, equaled only by, perhaps “A Fair Judgement” (Deliverance) in treatment, is enrapturing to the first-time-listener, leave alone who know what Opeth is.

Immediately follows “Slither” (Heritage), that Mikael says he wrote as a tribute to Ronnies Dio James. As towering a personality Ronnie was, and this song might not be the most Ronnie-istic song, but Opeth took me back to the era of the rock music scene. “Credence” which followed, is again a beautiful song, and from my one-of-the-ten favorite Opeth albums, My Arms, Your Hearse. In an epic album which weaves a beautiful narrative into the songs through pacy, silent, racing and heart stopping music, served with a handful of (I dare say) diligently assorted words, “Credence” that song which halts you to a thoughtful stop, before signing off with that final, brutal rush. I can easily say that it is the most context-fitting song in the album. Yeah, in respect of the concert, I think it was a little ill timed, but again, who cares as long as it was Opeth.

“To Rid The Disease” is a nice, jazzy song from their only clean album, Damnation, but somewhat lazy and perhaps carries the risk of losing the concert going listeners somewhere in the middle. Joachim (whose first name is Mother and the last name is Fucker) fucks up the keyboards and we have to wait for the first growls of the evening. “Folklore” (Heritage) acts as the filler between the angel-like-clean-and-the-Satan-like-deep, as they say, bowel-crunching-growls. Okay, as big a fan I might be, I could not recollect that it was “Folklore” and only after they finished playing, towards the end of the song, I realized. I thus wasted 8 minutes trying to figure out the song in an egoistic rush of madness, and foolishly, not enjoying the song that was.

With an hour already into Opeth, I think the wait was worth it. The first growls were “Heir Apparent”. I reckon the heaviest song in the album, “Heir Apparent” is a mix of some pounding riffs and some nice acoustic guitar and piano work sprinkled throughout the song. To just compliment Per Wiberg is a huge understatement to the binding theme that he has provided to Opeth songs. This was just what was needed from, and expected of Opeth. I like them. Immensely. I like their clean vocals but the one thing that leaves them incomplete is the absence of growls (“Heritage”) and they just about made up for the night with this one.  “The Baying of the Hound” is another masterpiece from their most complete album, “Ghost Reveries”. With some nice, tight drumming, it was a treat. They followed it with “The Drapery Falls”, a crowd pleaser, but certainly not their best from Blackwater Park. It was greeted well by the public as expected. That was it. After repeated chants from the crowd, asking Mikeal to fuck off, and Mikeal, asking earnestly, why, getting horny and then again, nonchalantly playing, he really fucked-off.

Now even as I knew, as did every other not-wannabe fan present that he would come back, we shouted and yelled at the top of our voices, and begged  them to continue. We wanted the barrage of smashing riffs and hammering growls to hit us as hard as possible, we wanted the acoustic passages to mesmerize us and we wanted the stage presence of Mikeal to enthrall us for the rest of the night. At least I wanted more. And come back they did. With a bang. Finally, “Deliverance” struck us all. Alright they fumbled a bit, but “Deliverance” was all that mattered to me. Fuck. “Deliverance”. Signed off in Peace.

Now what made me say that I was dis-satisfied with them is that I have so many favourites, close to 50 odd songs, that would have easily left out any 40 and leave they did. Innumerous songs. “Blackwater Park” should have been palyed, as should have countless other Opeth songs. But I think that is the hallmark of an Opeth performance, that is the hallmark of Opeth’s history and that is Opeth’s legacy.

I want to write more. I want to relive that night. but for now, I am too spellbound to be able to write anything. In the name of Opeth, I trust. All I know is that Peter was very good, but Frederick is brilliant; Lopez was perhaps the best fit for Opeth and Axe, thought slightly different, complements the band well; Per was thoroughly entertaining and creative and his absence will be felt; Mendez is as truthful to his music as ever. Mikael is absolutely DIVINE.

Long Live Opeth. Long Live Opeth. Long Live Opeth.

The Marathon Dusk (reprised)

Towards the close of the evening, a tired traveler desires nothing more than a peaceful exile. There is always hours waiting to feed on him, always the constancy of purpose that slowly grows all too large on him. Somewhere in the midst of all this, he buries the satisfaction that erupts from the day's essays, and calmly lays to rest all that is done and dusted. There are always greener pastures, lesser mortals and idler moments. A walk down the memory lane is not a bad idea for him, for a the traveler has nothing but impressions of what once was, that blow into his face, filling up the chapped lips and calming the furrowed forehead. Within these solitary confines, he builds his own mansion, a place so distanced from the trifles of this world and the idea that is purposefully built on the premise of seclusion. While all that travels alongside him sojourns in that figment of his imagination, some silhouettes continue eluding his capture. En-route, he battles day in and day out, each day, to preserve his creation from the unrelenting examination from the daylight; day in and day out he strives to catch up with them, sit down in a tete-a-tete with them, and how he just runs out if time. It is a burden, definitely, carrying the exact same concoction, but a burden he gladly bears the weight of. There is no refuge from memory in this world, they say; in nothing else is one richer, in nothing else poorer.

"...because you are sure you never can tell..." The song played listlessly in his ears. The visibility was growing fainter with the light. The glaze of the dust-smitten sun was no better than the subway bulb he was standing beneath. The sharply outlined form of a twosome slowly broke into a vision, resembling that of a wet stratosphere. There were no more shadows stamped on the asphalt beneath. His sandstone mansion had survived one more day of gruesome battle against the array of sun rays and the sun, finally, was forced to retire. The mauve was swallowed by the leaden sky, the wait still azure.

“You can take my overcoat if it comforts you.”

“No, thanks, I think I am doing fine.”

“So you have not been here recently?”

“Does it make a difference to you?”

“I expected an answer.”

“… (blank)…”

“I did not know silence was still in vogue.”

Sharp. Stinging. Memories. Everything seems to bite back in disgust. Preserving things as they were might not be all that good an idea. Not all memories are pleasant and not everything is averse to change. But the good thing about relations and emotions is that they leave you with memories, pleasant and scarring. For a traveler, the pleasant ones are summoned more often than the more irksome ones. A raconteur finds solace in reprising the more ambiguous reminiscences. The underlying mordancy of his memory was the unaltered play of events that unfolded when he met her. Every act is on a fresh slate, and every action that elicits some reaction is untouched by the past and remains free from the infection of hope for the future, was what he has reasoned out for the way life presented itself to him. And somehow, he sees everything decaying, robbed of its very premise by the cruelty of the precipitating memory.

No. There are better avenues to bury oneself than a displeasing thought. The demonic resurrection of that phantom gets even harder to ignore once you start ignoring it. But there is always the subterfuge of that quaint sense of longing one experiences at this juncture.

Sonnet X : The Apology

And thus, for ever lasting peace to you I swear
And unto death, in tormenting guilt undertake
The vow, the solemn word that never shall I share
My happiness, my deference you so deem fake


And so I will not admire your graceful dance
And neither would I wonder at your knowledge bank
But silently, shed tears and keep looking askance
When ravens, on you, drop their shit and mongrels flank


Or when you trip in gleaming shoes, or dress hip hop
Or when you count the times a person goes to wash
I vouch, shall I not be amused, but instead drop
My head, and acknowledge the kill of your panache


With this covenant I sign off, and with this clause
Now do me good and be mindful of these faux pas 

Sonnet IX : Chair in the moonlight

Behold! there stands, in solitary bliss

A geometric grace, though laden with grief

Jilted with time, it yearns to reminisce

How four of its legs once seated the fief.

Hours in throes, evil moon does rejoice
Sinister, impales all with wax of its light
Hapless cathedra, it has but no choice
Naked, it wears on the plague of the night.


So walks in a rowdy brat, drunken too deep
To notice the desolate chair, to find
A step all too proper, he tumbles a heap
The creaking wood breaks, as he breaks a wind


He walks on non-chalant, reminding my stare
The moon's just the moon, the chair just a chair

Untitled

Are you upset about something? Or rather, pre-occupied with something?


Huh?


I thought a question elicits an answer, and not a “Huh”


Ummm sort of..


OK


Pre occupied


And something that keeps you pre-occupied disturbs you as well, upsets you as well?


Yes it does…very disturbing


I understand...How do you think are you faring on this front...coping with this difficult thought?


Nothing is helping…talking about it will not help…neither will asking why…


I think silence is the only refuge then


But I cannot help wondering…it's unusual I look so calm…and 
I have a hurricane of thoughts in my head...


I would still say that nothing is unusual...had it been nothing and still the hint of a storm in your head, I would have called it unusual for you…but if there are thoughts, they are basically emotions swirling up there


They are...so many of them...and I am not able to sort them out as well..


I do not know in what manner things have brewed up, but I am sure you will get over the disturbing time. Would it help, filtering the thoughts...they would still be there, right?


They might stay.. Oh I don't know…you know what I usually do when I'm so confused? I work... It keeps me from going insane


If keeping quiet helps, I would leave it there


Oh no...I wish I could sort things out enough to get your opinion…


I know I am being "wise" for no reason. Yeah...I am sorry


Sorry? Among the two of us, u r definitely the wiser one :-)


Oh no...I meant I am sorry for thrusting my opinion onto you when you are wise enough to sort them out yourself


U don't have to be... Haven't I always welcomed your wisdom? ;)


Ok...you carry on with your thoughts. Indeed...it is a wonderful world!

Sonnet VIII

In the bright of burning candle I see
Your silhouette, in the orange milieu.
And rhyming, dances your hair in the glee
Of being together, in moments so few.


Every moment, ephemeral, though long
Enough for me to cherish, and every
Thought, dying on me, as I sail along,
Flickering, somewhere in a reverie.


Thoughtless, though, the candle dies and wearied
Does the night whiff out, I still keep searching
Moments of wealth, an hour isolated
And think of times, of endless believing


Ah! then the charming dusk draws to a close,
Smiling, I live in the joy that life throws.

Why this fuss?

I am certain I already have given an overdose of the city and myself, or my workplace, to complete the trio. But for someone who does not like drinking, does not like watching movies in the theaters, does not like fooling around with strangers or allegedly, does not like hanging out with friends, there is not much left to talk about. I do not meet people (I thus give you an excuse to start complaining), have lost my keen, observing eye, lost my stories and lost my aplomb. Things change. For good? I am not dwelling on that

_____________________________


So what is this fuss all about?


Ok, what fuss, if there is any?


Can you not see the irrepressible spirit and those persons themselves who have the most colorful life in the city? Man I so envy them. So much shit happens in their lives. Every fresh week is a testimony to their larger-than-life life. I am so awestruck at their flamboyance and so dumbfounded at how in the name of the son of God am I wasting my life.


Do not go bonkers, man! Colorful...what the fuck! Don't tell me about larger-than-life lives. Who are these resplendent (im)mortals and what is this baroque tribe?


No you see dude, I have these people around me...who have so much to talk about...so full of verve and replete with anecdotes...who are all too much concerned about the scale of grey in my colorless life. I am blessed enough to have generous people as my colleagues and friends, who want to go the extra bit and do their part in flashing the reds and blues in an otherwise grey and white canvas that my life has become.


I am afraid...


Shut the heck up! One the one hand, I am getting the golden (does that qualify to be called a color?) chance of enjoying my life, filling colors in my life and breaking the carapace of dullness (ennui?) that enshrouds my personality and on the other hand, you are trying to sow the seeds of doubt...go away and let me break free from the shackles of monotony and thrust into that world magnificent joys.


But...Ok, so what is the reason that they are all too happy and your life is all too cocked-up? I mean, yeah, people have different modi vivendi. Some like colors and others like the ashen grays and the murky whites. So what is the trouble here? What is so big about this colorful thing? Besides, I have been thinking about the reason why they think your life is achromatic, and do not quite get one. Okay, so let me put it this way-color means joy right, or at least celebration of something?


I think so...at least that is what color might symbolize...presence of a certain degree of celebration yeah...this one reminds me of Christmas and the moods. See, the color is all white (it snows, right) but the mood is all pink. Oh! how would they (those demigods of colleagues) be celebrating the holidays and I am squandering my life talking to you about all this.


Excellent! Now, how much do your colleagues know you? I mean how familiar are they with you and your habits?


What do you mean how much they know you? Yeah, we are work place friends...everyday is a rendezvous.


Dude not that way! See, now I am also trying to figure out ways to make my life colorful. So it becomes important for me as well.


Got you. No, wait, gotcha (colorful?) I knew joy is infectious and that colors are hard to contain. So basically, on the outset, we are just workplace friends, but I have immense respect and admiration for them and their lifestyle. I do not hang out with them over the weekends, fine, but only recently have I started realizing how momentous a mistake am I committing by watching stupid (read classic) Amitabh movies on the television instead of flashy, trendy Ladies vs. Rciky Bahl or a Dirty Picture with them; going to insignificant landmarks like the Kala Ghoda or Salim Ali Chowk instead of an up-market restro bar or a pub in the much vaunted suburbs of Bandra or on a birthday celebration of someone as a massive surprise.


Dude, do me a favor, let us just shelve that discussion for sometime now and cerebrate on the color first. On a different note, do you have a color television or a black and white...those of Amitabh's era?


Fuck off!


Ok, so you guys know each other only as much as I know...umm...the woman who sits next to my bay. Gosh! she is so HOT! Only the other day a colleague and I were swooning over her figure and gait. Man! she is one woman! But you see...she (the colleague) told me how unshapely her (the HOT girl's) bottom (read back-side) was and we discussed over that for at least a quarter of our lunch time.


Dude! is this some lecherous, scandalous discussion that we are having or are we talking about colors and my life?


Hey man, listen! I think this is where you fail! This is what a colorful character is all about. Chasing girls, discussing aloud their anatomies with colleagues, ogling at women across the street, having multiple girl friends, boasting about how you are a playboy enough or a Casanova, whichever suits your age and stories, drinking out at the most exquisite binge-stations, preaching the way of life to simpler, uninteresting and colorless so to say, people like you.


Now do not get started again. I know that I have been a moron. Just do not add insult to injury...


What man! I am just trying to figure out what I think is wrong with you.


Buzz off you irksome nuisance. How dare you say something is "wrong" with me? Who are you to ordain what is right and what is wrong for me or with me


Calm down buddy! This is not a time to panic or act like a hate monger. Ok, I admit I have no business decreeing the right and the wrong for you, but that is the whole point, ain't it? Why should you workplace colleagues have an upper hand when it comes to setting canons for your life? On my part, I am just stating something I thought you wanted to listen to.  But again, dude, do you not want colors?


Oh! yeah...colors...yeah...I am sorry you see...these are touchy matters and I tend to get temperamental. Yeah, of course you have a right to judgement.


Dude! Take it easy...Now don't be too harsh on yourself. See when I came from my place to this megapolis, I too was flummoxed by the definitions those are existent here. I remember a conversation with a colleague about a weekend. He asked me how I spent the weekend and I proudly told him that I cooked something for myself. Smirk was all I got. For words, "Have you come to Mumbai to cook?" I realized that life is much more than austerity or simplicity. This is my new avatar, one who knows what a bitch this life is.


Ok, so coming back to colors...
__________________________________

Freedom

I can begin writing about my idea of Freedom by quoting some of the most famous speeches made by remarkable men, both Indian and otherwise. But that would rob the whole exercise of its purpose, wouldn’t it? Yet, I would do exactly the same, not because I am shorn of ideas or that I do not have any contoured definition for myself, but because I want to trace what has been talked about and juxtapose that with what I think. That way, a long due process of dedicating some time in thinking about a subject that has been the hallmark of the existence humankind can be initiated. I am no scholar, and I do not proclaim that I will produce something momentous, but what I can do is reflect on what defines my being, the rationale of it and the ultimate objective that underlines it.

Of all the recorded exemplars, Lincoln probably was the earliest, and perhaps the most influential architect of the concept of a free land, “a nation conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.” There might have been many more advocates of freedom before him, and even more philosophical, but what sets Lincoln apart from them is the nature of his campaign. While others might have been fighting for their freedom, the independence of their land, Lincoln was advocating for freedom in a nation already free from foreign rule. Those days, the ghost of slavery was rampant in the States, and being a northerner himself, Lincoln was more vocal than any other political figure in the exorcism of the ghost. What might have freedom meant to him? Was it the same for his fellow Americans? I cannot guess.

The only other example I would like to cite before I go on to my rendition of freedom is that of Gurudev Tagore. While he was arguably the single most intellectual figure in the history of modern India, he was also a freedom fighter within his ambit. I do not belittle the gargantuan contributions of many other Indian freedom fighters, but this is not what we are talking of is it? Freedom, a territory “where the mind is without fear and the head is held high”, was much more than the independence from British rule for Gurudev. Where tireless striving stretches its hands towards perfection and where the stream of reason has not been lost in the dreary desert sand of dead habit, it is that free land where he wants India to awaken.  

When I think of Freedom, suddenly everything starts becoming nebulous. The independence associated with the flight of thoughts suddenly starts getting arrested as I find myself caught in a situation where I have lot of views but am really short of an opinion. One might wonder what the difference is, and that is where it becomes difficult to identify what is a cultivated view and is an original opinion. There is so much of brouhaha, and in such a limited time-frame, that it becomes overkill. Everyone, all of a sudden, has an opinion.  Is it a patriotic feeling? Is it about killing the rampant corruption? Probably…not infringing on the freedom of someone else?

I was walking along the boulevard, thinking about the meaning of freedom, the significance of freedom and went on to ponder on relevance of Independence Day in the modern day context. Unlike most other people, who talk about patriotism and all that blah, what was more vocal in my concerns was the tolerance, and more than that, acceptance of the idea of individuality. When I say freedom, I think I should mean the “swikriti” of my being, not only in my immediate surroundings but also in the proximity on which I do have a direct bearing. I can claim to be a member of a free society and go on to exercise my freedom in plentiful ways, but will that guarantee my acceptance? I am doubtful. I can, likewise, lay a claim to being a free citizen but will that assure me of being treated as one? What happens when I impinge on someone else’s individuality, directly or indirectly? Is there something at all that can be called someone’s individuality? Is freedom trying to break free from all obligations that one feels were a restraint? We can discuss at length about these and many more questions, and that will not establish anything; it will not precipitate anything from the pall that already is.

Gandhi had a very eloquent definition of freedom, or independence, if I may. People say he was free from any fear, that he taught his countrymen to rid all reservations that restricted their thoughts, thereby making simple things complicated. Fair enough. He had his own ways. Does he, by any means, if measured by the methods of achieving his ends, become any greater or any different that many of his contemporaries, Indian or not? No. Many others say he was an industrious schemer. Will that reduce his impact world over? No. The one thing that can make the simple crack in the perception of Gandhi’s and others look like a wider chasm is the acceptance that he has gained in the history of humankind. I am not polar when I say that he can be called one of the most influential and popular political figures of the last century, almost as tall, if not taller that Churchill or JFK. And many today might not like eulogies being written about him, but that fact of the matter is that when we talk about freedom, we inherently talk about Gandhi. Such was his stature and such is his acceptance.

Was Gandhi a free man? I am too diminutive a person to talking stuff of such magnitude, and trying to make sense simultaneously. I am an ordinary person, and like ordinary beings, I have ordinary opinions. What I say of believe is undoubtedly conditioned by what I listen to, what I see and what I am subject to. The emotions that an American has about freedom are visibly different from what I am subject to. Money minded person might think the Laissez-Faire to be the ultimate form of freedom; a patriot might want to see his nation’s flag waving high above in the space of nationhood; a socially ostracized entity might want acceptance; a painter has a different pair of glasses to envision freedom and they all might be different. Agreed. But do I have something that I can say is my idea of freedom? I am afraid.

Allow me to take another step towards understanding freedom and putting it before you. When I see people from different walks of life, engaged in completely disconnected activities, acknowledge a particular code of conduct, without begrudging the necessity or perhaps the need of it, I think I am living in a society where the civic code can be indubitably be called Freedom; when I see cultures intermingled to the extent that the physical divisions seem a mere camouflage to the real congruence that resonates in those cultures, I think I am a part of a free social echelon; when I see conflicting ideologies, and the subsequent disposition to harbor the differences argumentatively, I think I am witnessing a free thought process, “where”, to quote Gurudev, “the words come out from the depth of truth”, and “the world has not been broken down into fragments by narrow domestic walls.”

Now, there is a little skepticism growing in my mind, even as I point out my definitions of freedom. Will these ideas be accepted as illustrations of Freedom? Am I able to talk sanity? Here is where I will conclude. If I am a free man, I have all the time and entitlement to produce my variants, and if I am a part of a free society, the populace will, magnanimously tolerate my catharsis and accept it, even if after a stimulating and provocative discourse. By the virtue of being living beings, we are free to follow any course of action or voice any concern/opinion, but that alone does not vouchsafe a free identity. The collective unconscious of a people that can together represent a level of acceptance for any independently expressed thought, action or deed, will indeed be the hallmark of freedom for me. Freedom is not, and cannot be a product of a fleeting thought, but a companion of an ever present identity.

Signing off

Vivek Sharma

Settling Down

I got a place to live in. And quite a swanky place that is, let me tell you. For those who are a little too concerned with the details, it is a 2bhk without an expressive toilet and an open, even smaller kitchen. I got a sofa in my kitty, even as I stand to lose a seventh of my salary every month along with the three others I am sharing the flat with. The flipside is that I am not sharing the place with someone I have known well enough. Besides, methinks this joy, the kind that I am feeling after having finalized a place, robs me of the pleasure of enjoying the company of dearer people, and those who helped me put up with this unclean city for one seemingly unending month. You can’t have the best of both worlds, tells a fellow employee, and very rightly. On a second thought, I realized that there is a third angle involved, the one which now has assumed paramount importance: the employment that I have. A recent, random browse over the internet seemed to pull up a fascinating report in which they ranked my employer as the best people to start your career with. How many of us, fresh graduates, will agree is the question. But that is what reports are meant for, aren’t they? And what different work are we, as consultants (this is still a far-fetched euphemism for the labor we are entrusted with), providing to our clients, if not detailed reports on things they already acknowledge and the labyrinthine maze of details that stares in their face if otherwise. To account for the third angle, this place is closer to the office, theoretically.

I got a new job in one of my dreams. In fact, I was offered two jobs, one with QUALCOMM, and the other with ZS Associates. No sooner did I accept the ZS offer than I was shaken awake. Would I leave for zs? This was a moment was realization that my dreams are no longer the pleasure they used to be. What has become of the brain-box that was the source of a Bengali-British romance? Or a Russian, in the worst case? Instead, all I dream is about abandoning one clerical post for another, and even worse. The QUALCOMM thing was just the dream, one of those which you can attribute the “too good to be given a thought to” phrase to. The dwindling memories of the college days bring a cheer or two to the chapped lips. Ah! The days of glory! (I hereby announce the poetic liberty to concoct stories that render exuberance to an otherwise drab personality).

I will come back to the city and its attributes, and not just for the sake of it. Besides, there is a lot more to this city than meets the eye. Now this one is not a hateful ranting, but just another piece of observation and something that co-incidentally turns out to be not-so-pleasant for people who admire this city. This thing is about the fact that no matter how early I leave for home after work, there has not been a single day that I have reached within two hours. It so happens that I do not get a bus that goes to my place within half an hour. And when I do, the traffic here does not allow the vehicle to move. So, I am not at fault if I am left thinking that this whole city contrives against me, and wants me to be out. But I am a gutsy feller and I am still sweating it out here, ain’t I? Another incident that I now remember is a train journey and some help I thought could have done me some good. Never mind the details, but I was hurried into boarding the wrong train by none other than the station master. I was going to get the paperwork done for the new place I am going to be in. And the perfectionist that I am touted to be, I found flaws with the land-lady, the broker and almost everyone else involved with the handing over. (i am back to writing this after a span of 3 weeks or more and I can assure that this was not how it was going to be at the moment of inception).

Ok, so the place is somewhere in a locality called Chunabhatti, just of the eastern express highway. Does it ring familiar bells? Nopes, because the bell tolls for the four horsemen. Yeah, I am done improvising (fooling around).

Now, theoretically, it should take only thirty minutes to get to my workplace. But the place this city is, and Vivek Sharma, the perfectionist, does not want to try and find fault with it, makes it impossible to get back to my so called “home sweet home” after a boring day at work before an hour and a half. Do I give up? Nopes. I am still trying alternate routes, and discovering that travelling through slums, on a theoretically longer path makes your life easier. This is almost equivalent to saying that you want to catch your nose with your fingers, proverbially, and there is this “catch”. There is a plate full of palatable dishes, let’s make it sweets, and your hand cannot avoid them once you set your eyes upon it. Hence, whenever it gets an option of reaching for your nose directly, it first glides through the highly contaminated space to the plate, thrusts the delicacy into the ever small-ing mouth, and then “tries” to locate the sensory organ that was instrumental in causing the delay (can be both the eyes and the nose, and I would chose the nose here). Now, there is always an alternate. Life is a little too generous in a way that it always offers you a choice. You can restrict your hand to catching your nose from behind the neck. Not that the sense organ or your eyes would not get a whiff of the mouthwatering delight, but that since you hand is only as long, the prospect of pampering yourself first would seem a far-fetched idea. Consequently, after a bearable spell of disliking the process, it consummates. You have the tip of your nose in your finger tips and can award any punishment for causing the pain of missing out on your favorites. Need I say more?

Once upon a time Vivek Sharma was a student. Ah! Those days seem so far removed thoughts. Now Vivek Sharma is a salaried employee who cannot afford to miss a single day in office lest he should lose a valuable chunk of his monthly gross. The trouble is not about being regular or having been stuck into a routine life; that was anyway the case back in college. The issue here is that I “cannot” miss here whereas I did not “want” to miss there. Those were the days when I used to be a “potli baba” is you remember one from our childhood. For those who were sophisticated enough to watch Simpsons or any other cartoons for that matter, he had a lot of stories in his “potli”. Now, I fare no better than a grandma who keeps repeating the same stories. But then there is always a better way to repeat a story. I have some of them in my repository as well. How many of you think that as a writer, I need an apprentice? I don’t think; a friend here does. She asked me to employ her as my secretary who would keep giving me ideas on topics to exercise my writing skills on. Not a bad idea at all, if it is a she is it?

I get my bus from a stop named Priyadarshini, right on the Eastern Express Highway, and that is the busiest route in Mumbai, so far as I can tell. Anyone who has to move out of Mumbai to the central suburbs and the harbor line areas, has to go through this route and via Dadar. This causes an understandable amount of suffocation on this route. There are 15 buses to my destination. Only one can avoid this route, remember the catching-your-nose story. So I always have 15 choices. Yesterday, I took a bus which was vacant but with a swarm of people towards the back door. I thought of getting in through the front door, and I did. To my horror, the drover and the conductor, both, blocked my way, asked me to get down and board the bus from the back door and no sooner did I get down than they started the bus. I was aghast at this pompous behavior of those public servants. And they say Mumbai has the best people you find in India. I have yet to come to terms with this. To add to this, the bus dragged on a rather old man while he was trying to get on to it. I was more the more fortunate one to be able to set a foot on the stairs. Later inside, when a few sympathetic travellers raised the case of the poor fellow, the conductor simply shrugged off the responsibility by saying that every day, everyone boards the bus, there is no different treatment to any one, and that the driver was not at fault. There is a proverb saying that the boss is always right. Here, everyone, right from the bus driver and the conductor, let alone the boss, is always right it seems. This land of dreams gives me dreads.

One thing that I realized from my stay here in Mumbai is that overstaying your welcome is not the best of ideas. A fool that I was, I was already a bit late to realize it and even more late to act upon it. As they, if you do not make mistakes, you do not learn. I am a wiser man now.