Chasing butterflies,
And, catching 'em, indeed.
Plucking 'em from the skies,
Only to be freed.
And, catching 'em, indeed.
Plucking 'em from the skies,
Only to be freed.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
[Anbu Kathegalu] Good shot!
Anbu's Grandpa loves his place so much that he had never left it for many years then. Not even to visit Anbu's place. Though it pretty much isolated Anbu from any cricket-playing population of his liking, his Grandpa’s is a nice, little farmhouse; somewhere in between the coffee plantations and the wide green meadows, on the eastern slopes of the Western Ghats, in Kodagu district. His Grandpa is a photographer, by passion, if not by profession. At his age, he still goes on those lonely hikes across Nagarhole, to capture wild animals. In his photographs, that is. And, he never really finds those lonely hikes, lonely. Apart from clicking amazing photographs, his Grandpa does all the work at his place by himself – cooking, cleaning, gardening, and what not. But, on that occasion, his grandson wanted him to play cricket.
Anbu was at his Grandpa’s place, to spend a good part of his summer vacations. He was dropped there, by his parents, as they had their own plans; and, who cares, really, for those of the little one? He was missing all the cricket that had been going on back at his place. What’s worse, he feared he'd be out of form when he returned. Yes, Anbu takes his cricket seriously. As seriously as the best cricketer in the world would take his, or even more. So, then, he had pledged to somehow make his Grandpa play cricket with him. He contemplated for a while, as to how to approach him. But then, he couldn't give it much thought for the kind of mood he was in. He had decided to take him head on.
“You just keep clicking these photographs all the time. Don’t you get bored? Come, let’s go and play cricket“, said Anbu, in a loud and stern tone.
His Grandpa turned to look at him, observed him for a second, got back to looking through the lens, and said - “I shall join, sometime. But, I don’t get bored of this”, without even looking at him anymore.
“Really? It should be quite boring, when compared to playing cricket”, stated Anbu., in haste, and then bit his tongue, realizing he spoke too loose.
“What makes you say so? Amazing, don’t you think, are photographs?”, asked his Grandpa, now looking at him.
“They sure are. But, I think I like the movies more. You should make movies atleast, instead”, Anbu replied, looking right back at him.
“I see. May be, you should tell me why you like the movies more“, his Grandpa enquired.
“Because, there’s some action in the movies. Fights, dances and all”, said Anbu, and he meant it, as well.
“True. But, I don’t know. Photographs have something quite unique, something mystic, about their beauty“, said his Grandpa, placing the camera on the rock beside him, to tie his shoe lace.
“What is it, Grandpa? Don’t tell me you don’t know! You have been clicking photographs since I don’t know when! “, enquired Anbu, drifting from disregard, to indifference, to curiosity, within no time. He’s a kid, after all.
His Grandpa laughed out, and, as he shook quite a bit while laughing, he couldn’t finish tying the lace properly. He just moved onto answering the curious kid. What, other than a curious kid asking him about something he is most passionate about, could excite an old man more? “Well, I really don’t know. But, if you insist, it’s probably about, umm, you know, freezing a moment”, he said, and paused. “Forever”, he added, looking into Anbu's eyes, with a twinkle in his.
“Motion pictures, as you say, are more encompassing when it comes to mirroring the world, as they have the dimension of time. But, photographs are snapshots of brief, little moments. May be the beauty is in that brevity”, he said, and paused to gather his thoughts. “Much like life in real, motion pictures have a beginning and an end. Whereas, photographs are little moments eternalized. And yet, each such little moment is, you know, complete in itself”, he explained, all animatedly.
“I don’t get what you are saying!” interrupted Anbu, with a puzzled look.
His Grandpa pondered for a while, as to how to explain all that to the kid. And, he did find a way. “Alright. Let’s talk cricket. Every ball bowled has a result, right? Be it a six, a dot or a wicket”, he asked.
“Yes”, Anbu said, and nodded slowly wondering where he was getting at.
“So, every ball is complete in itself, though it’s just a brief part of the match. And, do you run out of balls in your test matches? No. You run out of time. Similarly, I don’t think I will ever run out of moments, worth capturing. Yes, eventually, I will run out of time”, said his Grandpa, as his gaze got fixed, on nothing in specific.
Anbu vaguely understood what he meant. “Please don’t say all that Grandpa. Ok, forget all that. I’m beginning to like this. Can you teach me how to click good photographs? “, asked Anbu, more out of the urge to distract his Grandpa’s thoughts from where they were heading to.
That worked, as well. “You should start by asking, yourself, what are your “good photographs”. For me, photographs that excite you, surprise you, the ones that make you smile, ones that make you cry, or bring about some such genuine emotions, are all good photographs. And, how do you click such good photographs? Such photographs are more about the moments that are captured, right? So, we can become good photographers only by chance, when we get to be at the right place for the right moments? Not really. We become good photographers by exhibiting patience and readiness, I feel. We should wait patiently for those right moments, and when they come by, we should be ready to capture them in the most enchanting of ways. That's what I feel”, said his Grandpa, and smiled; running his wrinkled fingers through Anbu's dark, silky hair.
“That could be tough – waiting patiently, being ready and all“, Anbu reflected.
“That’s the challenge, right? That’s the game. It’s very much like your batting, and, may be, slip-fielding, isn’t it? “, his Grandpa remarked, and started walking away.
Anbu sat with his legs folded, thighs drawn to his chest and his chin resting on his knees, on the footsteps at the entrance of the farmhouse. He re-ran the whole conversation in his head, as the cuckoos' calls echoed around him. After a while, he ran in the direction his Grandpa walked. “Grandpa!”, he shouted across, as he spotted him. His Grandpa stopped and turned. Anbu walked up to him, bent down, tied his lace, looked up into his eyes, and asked - “Can I come with you?”, his eyes agleam with fresh and genuine enthusiasm. His Grandpa acted quickly enough, to eternalize that expression.
Anbu accompanied his Grandpa in many of his photography-hikes, thenceforth, during the time he spent there. And, he returned to his place, as a better cricketer.
That next summer, to his parents' surprise, his Grandpa visited Anbu's place. Soon after he came, he unpacked a new cricket bat, and showed it to Anbu. "Wow! Is this for me?", asked Anbu, holding the gorgeous piece of willow in his hands, being more excited than he had ever been. "No", replied his Grandpa. "It's for me".
Saturday, December 24, 2011
[Anbu Kathegalu] On the way home
Anbu opened the window, as Malvika watched on worriedly. They are on their way to Honnavara, Anbu's hometown. Malvika is new to this part of the country. She's going to spend a few days of her end-semester vacations at Anbu's place. The bus has halted somewhere near Sagara, for an early-morning tea/toilet break. It's freezing cold outside, especially by Malvika's standards, as it has always been towards the end of December, in this part of Karnataka. The cold air, that suddenly hit their faces, as the window was opened, literally sent chills down Malvika's spine. She got goose-bumps. On the other hand, the cold air gave Anbu a warm feeling. She's a child of this chilled air, after all, that envelops the gorgeous Western Ghats. She's feeling home already. She got goose-bumps, too, albeit for a different reason.
The fog outside is pretty thick, and hence the bus-driver has decided to extend what was supposed to be a ten-minute break. Malvika forced Anbu to close the window. But, she realized, yet again, how tough it is to be Anbu's friend. Anbu forced her to go out to have tea. Opposites, pretty much, are these two. A very stubborn and impulsive character, Anbu is known to be, in contrast to Malvika, who is quite balanced and well-composed, in general.
The tea there is made out of locally grown tea leaves, Anbu informed Malvika. Malvika thoroughly enjoyed the steaming hot, and what she thought was the best she ever had, tea, while Anbu had to have a barely warm cup of tea, as she was busy telling Malvika what the most interesting things about her homeland are, which she can look forward to.
As they got engrossed in the moment, sitting on the swaying wooden bench at the tea-stall, enjoying the beauty of the fog-filled, lush-green surroundings, the lingering taste and the refreshing odour of the tea, the final bit of warmth left in the tea-cups, and a conversation about wonderful things, a small kid, who looked like he could barely push through the thick fog, walked up to them, asking them if they would want to buy a newspaper. Anbu never reads newspapers. Malvika, though, checked what newspapers he's selling. The kid smiled, until she told him she's looking for an English newspaper, which he does not have. Malvika cannot read Kannada. The kid soon disappeared into thick fog again.
The driver got back into the bus. He started the engine and honked, signalling the passengers to get back on. All the passengers got into the bus soon, except Anbu and Malvika. Finally, they too, quite reluctantly, made a move. They returned the tea cups to the vendor. "Yeshtu amma?", enquired Anbu. Eight rupees, she was told. Anbu gave her the three two-rupee coins and two one-rupee coins she had with her. As they turned to walk towards the bus, Anbu spotted a jack-fruit vendor close by there, faintly visible through the fog. The driver started moving the bus, slowly, to bring it on to the main road. Anbu ran across to the jack-fruit vendor. She found out that its the kuzha type of jack-fruit - her favourite. After some keen examination, she chose pieces worth twenty-rupees. They made the bus wait for ten-minutes already, and the driver's fuming for that. Malvika briskly pulled out the required change and paid the vendor, and, with that, they ran out of coins and notes of denomination less than hundred, she thought. They quickly ran across, got into the bus, and occupied their seats. Within a moment, Anbu opened the window again, to have another glance at the lovely place, before leaving.
The kid, the one who was selling newspapers, is back there. He is standing at the tea-stall, looking for someone. As soon as he spotted Anbu, she understood whom he is looking for - herself! He ran upto their window. "Madam! Engliss Pyapaar!", he shouted across to them, and even before they realized, he rolled the newspaper and threw it into the window of the moving bus. "Driver anna! Ondu nimisha", he screamed across to the driver. It shocked Malvika, that that kid could shout so loud. The driver looked back at them, and his expression read "what now?".
"3 rupees madam" the kid said, and started wiping the sweat on his forehead. Yes, he's sweating in that weather. He had to do a bit of running to get the engliss pyapaar for them. Anbu understood that. She also observed that the kid considered the job done. He counted the three rupees in his earnings for the day. He's not even looking at Anbu and Malvika anymore. He's looking around, for more buyers. His mind's thinking of the next task already.
"Change ..", Malvika began to signal to the kid, that they don't have change, and held the newspaper out of the window. By then, Anbu already pulled out three rupees from her coin collection, which she is carrying with her, to deposit in the bigger repository she has back home. These are special currency coins released in India, commemorating various special occasions. Anbu has had a hobby of collecting those, right since her childhood. And, Malvika knows how serious she is about it. During their initial days at hostel, there were occasions when both of them ran out of money, and Anbu went to sleep hungry, and, even worse, made Malvika do that too, when she could have used a few of those coins to buy some food. Since then, Malvika has stopped considering those coins as usable currency. Hence, what Anbu has just done, came as a big surprise to her. Those coins were too valuable for her, to buy something else using them, she thought. But, for Anbu, those three one-rupee coins had never been as valuable when she had them with her, as they have become once she gave them away to that kid. She felt quite good about that.
Malvika began to wonder if Anbu has changed a bit in a semester's time. Three and half years of hostel-life ahead. Seven home-coming occasions. Malvika has begun to look forward to those, already. The bus whizzed past the little kid. Malvika couldn't get a final glimpse she wished to get, of him. She then looked at Anbu. Anbu, too, looked at Mavika, and smiled, very faintly, but with her eyes lit up. She couldn't make eye contact with her anymore, at that moment. She rested her head on Malvika's shoulder, holding her hand tight. Malvika let the window be open. And, their journey continued.
The fog outside is pretty thick, and hence the bus-driver has decided to extend what was supposed to be a ten-minute break. Malvika forced Anbu to close the window. But, she realized, yet again, how tough it is to be Anbu's friend. Anbu forced her to go out to have tea. Opposites, pretty much, are these two. A very stubborn and impulsive character, Anbu is known to be, in contrast to Malvika, who is quite balanced and well-composed, in general.
The tea there is made out of locally grown tea leaves, Anbu informed Malvika. Malvika thoroughly enjoyed the steaming hot, and what she thought was the best she ever had, tea, while Anbu had to have a barely warm cup of tea, as she was busy telling Malvika what the most interesting things about her homeland are, which she can look forward to.
As they got engrossed in the moment, sitting on the swaying wooden bench at the tea-stall, enjoying the beauty of the fog-filled, lush-green surroundings, the lingering taste and the refreshing odour of the tea, the final bit of warmth left in the tea-cups, and a conversation about wonderful things, a small kid, who looked like he could barely push through the thick fog, walked up to them, asking them if they would want to buy a newspaper. Anbu never reads newspapers. Malvika, though, checked what newspapers he's selling. The kid smiled, until she told him she's looking for an English newspaper, which he does not have. Malvika cannot read Kannada. The kid soon disappeared into thick fog again.
The driver got back into the bus. He started the engine and honked, signalling the passengers to get back on. All the passengers got into the bus soon, except Anbu and Malvika. Finally, they too, quite reluctantly, made a move. They returned the tea cups to the vendor. "Yeshtu amma?", enquired Anbu. Eight rupees, she was told. Anbu gave her the three two-rupee coins and two one-rupee coins she had with her. As they turned to walk towards the bus, Anbu spotted a jack-fruit vendor close by there, faintly visible through the fog. The driver started moving the bus, slowly, to bring it on to the main road. Anbu ran across to the jack-fruit vendor. She found out that its the kuzha type of jack-fruit - her favourite. After some keen examination, she chose pieces worth twenty-rupees. They made the bus wait for ten-minutes already, and the driver's fuming for that. Malvika briskly pulled out the required change and paid the vendor, and, with that, they ran out of coins and notes of denomination less than hundred, she thought. They quickly ran across, got into the bus, and occupied their seats. Within a moment, Anbu opened the window again, to have another glance at the lovely place, before leaving.
The kid, the one who was selling newspapers, is back there. He is standing at the tea-stall, looking for someone. As soon as he spotted Anbu, she understood whom he is looking for - herself! He ran upto their window. "Madam! Engliss Pyapaar!", he shouted across to them, and even before they realized, he rolled the newspaper and threw it into the window of the moving bus. "Driver anna! Ondu nimisha", he screamed across to the driver. It shocked Malvika, that that kid could shout so loud. The driver looked back at them, and his expression read "what now?".
"3 rupees madam" the kid said, and started wiping the sweat on his forehead. Yes, he's sweating in that weather. He had to do a bit of running to get the engliss pyapaar for them. Anbu understood that. She also observed that the kid considered the job done. He counted the three rupees in his earnings for the day. He's not even looking at Anbu and Malvika anymore. He's looking around, for more buyers. His mind's thinking of the next task already.
"Change ..", Malvika began to signal to the kid, that they don't have change, and held the newspaper out of the window. By then, Anbu already pulled out three rupees from her coin collection, which she is carrying with her, to deposit in the bigger repository she has back home. These are special currency coins released in India, commemorating various special occasions. Anbu has had a hobby of collecting those, right since her childhood. And, Malvika knows how serious she is about it. During their initial days at hostel, there were occasions when both of them ran out of money, and Anbu went to sleep hungry, and, even worse, made Malvika do that too, when she could have used a few of those coins to buy some food. Since then, Malvika has stopped considering those coins as usable currency. Hence, what Anbu has just done, came as a big surprise to her. Those coins were too valuable for her, to buy something else using them, she thought. But, for Anbu, those three one-rupee coins had never been as valuable when she had them with her, as they have become once she gave them away to that kid. She felt quite good about that.
Malvika began to wonder if Anbu has changed a bit in a semester's time. Three and half years of hostel-life ahead. Seven home-coming occasions. Malvika has begun to look forward to those, already. The bus whizzed past the little kid. Malvika couldn't get a final glimpse she wished to get, of him. She then looked at Anbu. Anbu, too, looked at Mavika, and smiled, very faintly, but with her eyes lit up. She couldn't make eye contact with her anymore, at that moment. She rested her head on Malvika's shoulder, holding her hand tight. Malvika let the window be open. And, their journey continued.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Could he be thinking so?
Just when Triple H was about to smash Undertaker’s head, with the hammer, someone from behind closed my eyes with his/her palms. It was something I was dying to see and thanks to this clichéd act of announcing one’s presence as a surprise to another, I missed it. It made me angry. Furiously angry, I should say, like I almost considered being Triple H and that person to be Undertaker. But, the moment I realized who it was, I had to beam like I really was pleasantly surprised and follow the usual ritual of throwing some sweet-sounding greetings at them and giving those repeated hi5s and prolonged hugs, before I got back to watching television. I am asked to do so. My care-taker tells me they are the ones who helped us a bit, might help us ahead, and, most importantly, ‘can’ help us. So, we are asked to market ourselves by advertising our sweetness, obedience, innocence and the likes, that way. Some of these people come to us whenever they are free, to play with us and feel good, and sometimes I felt like telling them I was not. But, I couldn’t take that risk. Apparently, I’m too less privileged to do so.
And then the “occasion” types - these neighbors who come down whenever there is some birthday or some such thing of their kids and some once-in-a-year-philanthropists who turn up only around the Xmas time every year. We are supposed to sing the birthday song for those kids, loud and in a laudatory tone, or probably sing and dance to the Xmas-in-the-air songs, praising Lord Jesus and cursing the Satan, for the other set of people. They give us candies and other such stuff, that’s their investment, God’s blessings, the returns, and we, the medium, the market - to use a more discomforting word. I would have been pleased had the kid been my friend, who joins me at play, etc, and gives me that candy for he/she wants to give it to me, or had those Xmas visitors visited a bit more often and not just to repair their goodness-accounts maintained by Santa. I mean, I don’t quite know who that kid is and he/she doesn’t know who I am, though we are each other's neighbors! They don’t distribute candies in some random school, to some well-privileged kids, do they? That gives me a feeling I am being used, merely as that medium.
Also, by these people who run this place, I feel. A well funded religion theirs is, enabled to win people to practice it, I suspect, and we are easy pickings, I feel. I’m a believer, practicing their religion, as they kindly chose to take care of me - that’s the obligation, the deal. They preach religious stuff, day in and day out, through a thousand sermons and prayers. All that never interests me, as much as WWE and Tamil movies do. But, I don’t have a choice, like in most other cases. What’s worse is, I can’t watch the “super-hit” Tamil movies’ Sunday premieres on television, as we are made to sing at the Church during that time, probably only because it looks nice and cute to everyone there. That makes me angry, but I’m scared to be angry for I fear I’m sinning that way and will end up on Satan’s side – “the losing side” – though I’m quite doubtful about all such things they teach me. So, I atleast act I’m not.
Overall, I’m a good actor, am I not? Tamil movie superstar, I wish to be. Wonder if someone can help at that. Anyways, Triple H won. I'm happy for now.
And then the “occasion” types - these neighbors who come down whenever there is some birthday or some such thing of their kids and some once-in-a-year-philanthropists who turn up only around the Xmas time every year. We are supposed to sing the birthday song for those kids, loud and in a laudatory tone, or probably sing and dance to the Xmas-in-the-air songs, praising Lord Jesus and cursing the Satan, for the other set of people. They give us candies and other such stuff, that’s their investment, God’s blessings, the returns, and we, the medium, the market - to use a more discomforting word. I would have been pleased had the kid been my friend, who joins me at play, etc, and gives me that candy for he/she wants to give it to me, or had those Xmas visitors visited a bit more often and not just to repair their goodness-accounts maintained by Santa. I mean, I don’t quite know who that kid is and he/she doesn’t know who I am, though we are each other's neighbors! They don’t distribute candies in some random school, to some well-privileged kids, do they? That gives me a feeling I am being used, merely as that medium.
Also, by these people who run this place, I feel. A well funded religion theirs is, enabled to win people to practice it, I suspect, and we are easy pickings, I feel. I’m a believer, practicing their religion, as they kindly chose to take care of me - that’s the obligation, the deal. They preach religious stuff, day in and day out, through a thousand sermons and prayers. All that never interests me, as much as WWE and Tamil movies do. But, I don’t have a choice, like in most other cases. What’s worse is, I can’t watch the “super-hit” Tamil movies’ Sunday premieres on television, as we are made to sing at the Church during that time, probably only because it looks nice and cute to everyone there. That makes me angry, but I’m scared to be angry for I fear I’m sinning that way and will end up on Satan’s side – “the losing side” – though I’m quite doubtful about all such things they teach me. So, I atleast act I’m not.
Overall, I’m a good actor, am I not? Tamil movie superstar, I wish to be. Wonder if someone can help at that. Anyways, Triple H won. I'm happy for now.
Friday, September 24, 2010
This is how I heard it
Don't look at me that way. I'm not born mad. No, I am not.
Yes, I do scream at the top of my voice, for this, that and everything. But, I do it particularly well only when I'm exceedingly frustrated, amongst other times when I do it for the fun of it or some silly thing of that stupid sort. That genuinely beautiful woman sitting next to you, nor the perfumed pervert sitting next to her, and not any ugly swan down the lake, nor any cute little pig nearby the gutter, none of you give a damn about me. As if I care! Intact, I quite hate you guys being scared of me to look cute to your girlfriends or acting brave for them when you are actually scared of me.
And please ask your girlfriends to stop feeding me the food they are supposed to have. It is cliched, and not cute anymore. I would make a sincere request to you all, to not even imagine of pitying me. I don't expect any warmth from your bloody breed-- the warm-blooded bodies with cold-blooded minds. You please be bothered about the warmth and wars amongst yourselves, in the first-place. And, yes, I can win my own food, the hard way that I've learnt, or die hungry instead, though I still do run behind your semi and super luxury cars, and I know that irritates you, like hell. But, that is how my screwed up head's wired, making me think anything that is running away from me is my Goddamn prey. But, its ridiculously easy for you to ignore my innocence, isn't it? You throw stones at me, and give bones to your belt-wearing bitch. Please continue doing that, sir.
I should admit, it indeed gives me an extraordinary pleasure when you are really scared of me, though. Go pray, for you ought to play prey to my ego, now on. Another dirty look or a fucking stone my way, I'm going to bite your ass off you, you son of a woman!
Yes, I do scream at the top of my voice, for this, that and everything. But, I do it particularly well only when I'm exceedingly frustrated, amongst other times when I do it for the fun of it or some silly thing of that stupid sort. That genuinely beautiful woman sitting next to you, nor the perfumed pervert sitting next to her, and not any ugly swan down the lake, nor any cute little pig nearby the gutter, none of you give a damn about me. As if I care! Intact, I quite hate you guys being scared of me to look cute to your girlfriends or acting brave for them when you are actually scared of me.
And please ask your girlfriends to stop feeding me the food they are supposed to have. It is cliched, and not cute anymore. I would make a sincere request to you all, to not even imagine of pitying me. I don't expect any warmth from your bloody breed-- the warm-blooded bodies with cold-blooded minds. You please be bothered about the warmth and wars amongst yourselves, in the first-place. And, yes, I can win my own food, the hard way that I've learnt, or die hungry instead, though I still do run behind your semi and super luxury cars, and I know that irritates you, like hell. But, that is how my screwed up head's wired, making me think anything that is running away from me is my Goddamn prey. But, its ridiculously easy for you to ignore my innocence, isn't it? You throw stones at me, and give bones to your belt-wearing bitch. Please continue doing that, sir.
I should admit, it indeed gives me an extraordinary pleasure when you are really scared of me, though. Go pray, for you ought to play prey to my ego, now on. Another dirty look or a fucking stone my way, I'm going to bite your ass off you, you son of a woman!
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Goodbye
On the other side,
of those glass boundaries,
they are all there,
the founts of my best memories.
Guess I am carrying
the passport, the passes,
and all I would need,
but not the willingness.
I can feel the vacuum,
all around and within.
What am I missing?
Well, everything!
They are all waving,
my memories' founts,
from there beneath,
those wide glass bounds.
I wave back to them,
and everything blurs out,
as my eyes get filled,
I can hear them shout.
I stand still, wondering,
'why cant we all be together',
as time and the crowd
go hell for leather.
Another look at them,
my best memories,
I can see myself,
on those glass boundaries.
of those glass boundaries,
they are all there,
the founts of my best memories.
Guess I am carrying
the passport, the passes,
and all I would need,
but not the willingness.
I can feel the vacuum,
all around and within.
What am I missing?
Well, everything!
They are all waving,
my memories' founts,
from there beneath,
those wide glass bounds.
I wave back to them,
and everything blurs out,
as my eyes get filled,
I can hear them shout.
I stand still, wondering,
'why cant we all be together',
as time and the crowd
go hell for leather.
Another look at them,
my best memories,
I can see myself,
on those glass boundaries.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Dear 10
You drive me crazy
You cut me loose
You sweep me off my feet
Never let me choose
[..just unbelievably glorious stuff from the little master.. ]
I have a conscience,
I’ve learnt some science,
And theory of probability too,
In the time you let me to.
Yet I staunchly believe,
In an Almighty soul.
Who else, dear Ten,
You never let me choose.
[..like a rampaging river.. unnnstoppable.. Wooh! That's a wookie-pookie! ]
I neither know you much,
Nor owe you as such,
On personal fronts,
Or material grounds,
But, quite often, dear Ten,
May be moronic, and ironic,
That out of all, to me,
Ten comes before 9.
[Crowd roaring .. "Sacheeen.. Sachin..".. (3 claps).. ]
Coz you just drive me crazy
Cut me loose
Sweep me off my feet
And never let me choose
[..I run out of superlatives now.. can just say I feel absolutely privileged to be watching this.. ]
Monday, October 5, 2009
Wonder what I'm gonna be...
Hoi-polloi are busy,
occupied, so to be,
I'm alone, n at sea,
Wonder what I'm gonna be.
[humming]
Like a sunflower, on a gloomy day,
my comrade in confusion,
that wonders what to look at,
I wonder what not to.
The noetic senescence
got only to nonsense.
The tiny star, twinkling all night,
my comrade in confusion,
it wonders whether to glow,
n I, where to go.
Wit and sapience,
hit no difference.
'm not a flower,
'm not a star,
as none can decipher,
a reference to a cipher.
n there's none of the humankind,
as my comrade in confusion.
I'm alone, and at sea.
Wonder what I'm gonna be.
The whole senescence
made no sense,
n all the sapience,
no real difference.
I've grown old,
I turned cold.
Is it a shame?
All the same.
I'm still a nobody,
Wonder what else I could be.
Hoi-polloi are busy,
occupied, so to be.
They wanna progress,
n they have a process.
[sigh] I can't follow,
I can't follow.
Can only remain cold,
and let my story unfold.
A tragedy, a lullaby,
Wonder what it's gonna be.
[humming]
I'm alone, n at sea,
Wonder what I'm gonna be.
occupied, so to be,
I'm alone, n at sea,
Wonder what I'm gonna be.
[humming]
Like a sunflower, on a gloomy day,
my comrade in confusion,
that wonders what to look at,
I wonder what not to.
The noetic senescence
got only to nonsense.
The tiny star, twinkling all night,
my comrade in confusion,
it wonders whether to glow,
n I, where to go.
Wit and sapience,
hit no difference.
'm not a flower,
'm not a star,
as none can decipher,
a reference to a cipher.
n there's none of the humankind,
as my comrade in confusion.
I'm alone, and at sea.
Wonder what I'm gonna be.
The whole senescence
made no sense,
n all the sapience,
no real difference.
I've grown old,
I turned cold.
Is it a shame?
All the same.
I'm still a nobody,
Wonder what else I could be.
Hoi-polloi are busy,
occupied, so to be.
They wanna progress,
n they have a process.
[sigh] I can't follow,
I can't follow.
Can only remain cold,
and let my story unfold.
A tragedy, a lullaby,
Wonder what it's gonna be.
[humming]
I'm alone, n at sea,
Wonder what I'm gonna be.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Bapu Bommalu
Bapu Bommalu [of another kind]
Location: Ramakrishna Beach, Visakhapatnam
Soundtrack: Vaishnavo Janato from Water, by A.R.Rahman
(Hugely) Helped by: Jyothi Tetali [Rather, I helped her, I should say. ]
Thankful to Chandra Bose Baabu and Gandhi [the two kids]
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Cogito, ergo sum
I am Thin King. I decree the decryption, deduction, decorum and deliberation of the chemical chaos, sounds stupid, but, ironically, called intellect, in this completely complex component, human brain. It's not just a component, though. As they say, the world is a perception, just how an individual perceives it, and hence is all in his/her/its brain. That way, I am the King of this (human's) world. The Thin King reigns the big fat world!
Everyone's is wired weird, the brain. There are an enormous number of those, on the face of the earth, each one wired weirder than the other, apart from myriad other things, making the world an incredibly complicated and amply eventful (sample) space. And all the world's in the brain, and the world has all those brains again. Legion things in one region. Alas, I'm the king of it.
There's an awful lot for me to take care of, that I often fail to. Inspirations, influences, interests, emotions, ethics, calculations, facts, intuitions, illusions, logic, learning, laws, ideologies, opinions, ideas, rules, memories, reasons, beliefs, obligations, obsessions, sense, nonsense, order, not in any order, are a few nameable things that, quite literally, sit on a human's head. Hence, like hell and heaven, the Thin King has got a lot of work to do. And like in this case, I will have to be selfish sometimes, and think about myself as well- thinking about Thin King.
All worlds have sections and so does the brain. Highly dominated by the right wing, always has been, my kingdom, which means I am bound to give a lot more time to the emotional front, rather than the logical and reasoning. The reason for this, I do not know, or, rather, I haven't sought, as yet, may be for the very reason that it is right wing dominated, and I don't give much time for reasoning out things.
By the way, my kingdom here is a female's brain; that is, her past, present, future- to an extent- and her world. Pressure, beyond measure, to say the least, was what I've been experiencing all the while. I always failed, miserably, to manage my kingdom. She was never peaceful under me. She had to face suspicions, her interests got distorted and battered, she was only an entity, without any identity, like heck fell upon the hecklers on whatever she did, the naysayers always had their say, the renegade brigade constantly on the offense, and to top it, the society was shamelessly, matter-of-fact-ly sexist, that even I'm calling myself Thin 'King' while ruling a female's world. The big fat world has ruled the Thin King.
To add to the defeat, only humiliation I see all around, not any humanity. I cant take it any more. I've decided to put an end to the agony. "Ee life naaku nachchaledu!", I made her write, leave the note on the bed, walk to the top of the building, and jump down. Within no time, she hit the ground, with the right wing hitting head on. The left wing, still with a modicum of life left, raised it's voice. "It's senseless, remorseless and (left)brainless to kill the kingdom for the king's shortcomings. This Thin King could have given way to another", it said. But, wasn't it too late?
["Ee life naaku nachchaledu" wrote a young girl and did as mentioned. Was wondering what she was 'thinking'. ]
Everyone's is wired weird, the brain. There are an enormous number of those, on the face of the earth, each one wired weirder than the other, apart from myriad other things, making the world an incredibly complicated and amply eventful (sample) space. And all the world's in the brain, and the world has all those brains again. Legion things in one region. Alas, I'm the king of it.
There's an awful lot for me to take care of, that I often fail to. Inspirations, influences, interests, emotions, ethics, calculations, facts, intuitions, illusions, logic, learning, laws, ideologies, opinions, ideas, rules, memories, reasons, beliefs, obligations, obsessions, sense, nonsense, order, not in any order, are a few nameable things that, quite literally, sit on a human's head. Hence, like hell and heaven, the Thin King has got a lot of work to do. And like in this case, I will have to be selfish sometimes, and think about myself as well- thinking about Thin King.
All worlds have sections and so does the brain. Highly dominated by the right wing, always has been, my kingdom, which means I am bound to give a lot more time to the emotional front, rather than the logical and reasoning. The reason for this, I do not know, or, rather, I haven't sought, as yet, may be for the very reason that it is right wing dominated, and I don't give much time for reasoning out things.
By the way, my kingdom here is a female's brain; that is, her past, present, future- to an extent- and her world. Pressure, beyond measure, to say the least, was what I've been experiencing all the while. I always failed, miserably, to manage my kingdom. She was never peaceful under me. She had to face suspicions, her interests got distorted and battered, she was only an entity, without any identity, like heck fell upon the hecklers on whatever she did, the naysayers always had their say, the renegade brigade constantly on the offense, and to top it, the society was shamelessly, matter-of-fact-ly sexist, that even I'm calling myself Thin 'King' while ruling a female's world. The big fat world has ruled the Thin King.
To add to the defeat, only humiliation I see all around, not any humanity. I cant take it any more. I've decided to put an end to the agony. "Ee life naaku nachchaledu!", I made her write, leave the note on the bed, walk to the top of the building, and jump down. Within no time, she hit the ground, with the right wing hitting head on. The left wing, still with a modicum of life left, raised it's voice. "It's senseless, remorseless and (left)brainless to kill the kingdom for the king's shortcomings. This Thin King could have given way to another", it said. But, wasn't it too late?
["Ee life naaku nachchaledu" wrote a young girl and did as mentioned. Was wondering what she was 'thinking'. ]
Monday, June 8, 2009
La' footpath
La La La.. La La La..
HOoowls of loud horns,
Bowls of cloud corns,
Traffic seize, a terrific breeze,
Rising dust n falling dusk,
A month too soon
are the monsoons.
Headin’ home is the city,
We’d stay here, show no pity,
Ramblin’ on the footpath,
Gamblin’ on all we hath.
Some more rum n come and hum!
La La La.. La’ footpath!
Rolling stones, strolling clones,
Some lazy folk n lousy smoke,
Oozing gutter, booze n stutter,
Eager sellers, meager dwellers,
N evening jogs of starving dogs.
Dear O dear, all that’s here,
Is either bad, or so sad,
Yet we sing, a cheerful song,
N we have, the skies to bong,
Bring it on; come sing along!
La La La.. La’ footpath!
Enter the buzz, bus and bustle,
The grumbling crew, in the tumbling dew,
Seeking havens, cursing heavens,
They all got wet, and all upset.
But a pretty lass, liked the jazz,
Pushed the fuss, came to us,
Took a peg n shook her leg,
Like her swirling gown could shade a town.
“Fool O fool; life’s beauteeefooool!”
The dancing doll, says to all.
That multitude can hardly infer,
N we can only hope, that it were.
Yet, boy O boy, buoy the joy!
La La La.. La’ footpath!
La La La.. La La La…
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
లోకులు కాకులు!
కాకిని.
ఏ కాకిని?
ఏకాంత లోకపు ఏకైక కాకిని.
ఎక్కడా లోకం?
మదిలొ ఓ గదిలొ.
ఎందుకా గది?
కాకులకు, లోకులు కాకులు. శోక మూకలు.
వాటి కేకలకు లేవు బ్రేకులు.
అందుకే,
నావి కాక ఏ కాకి కేకలకు నా మదిలోని ఈ గదిలోకి లెవు రాక పోకలు.
ఏమైంది ఆ కేకలకు?
కావు కావు మని గావు కేకలు.
ఆ కేకలు నాకోసం కావ్!
ఆ కాకులు నాకు ఎమీ కావ్! కావ్! కావ్!
నేను కాకిని కానూ? నావి కేకలు కావూ?
అవును కదా. ఇప్పుడె కావు కావు మన్నా కూడా!
అయ్యూ! confusion గా ఉంది.
ఎదైన కాకి దొరికితె బాగుండు,
కాస్త నా బాద పంచుకోవచ్చు.
అయ్యయ్యొ! నా మదిలొ ఈ గదిలొ నేను కాక ఏ కాకీ లెదే!
నెను ఏ కాకికీ ఎమీ కాకుండా పోయింది నేను కట్టుకున్న గొడల వళ్ళెన?
కాకిని.
ఏ కాకిని?
ఏ కాకి కాకిని?
ఏకాకిని.
ఏకాకి కాకిని.
ఏ కాకిని?
ఏకాంత లోకపు ఏకైక కాకిని.
ఎక్కడా లోకం?
మదిలొ ఓ గదిలొ.
ఎందుకా గది?
కాకులకు, లోకులు కాకులు. శోక మూకలు.
వాటి కేకలకు లేవు బ్రేకులు.
అందుకే,
నావి కాక ఏ కాకి కేకలకు నా మదిలోని ఈ గదిలోకి లెవు రాక పోకలు.
ఏమైంది ఆ కేకలకు?
కావు కావు మని గావు కేకలు.
ఆ కేకలు నాకోసం కావ్!
ఆ కాకులు నాకు ఎమీ కావ్! కావ్! కావ్!
నేను కాకిని కానూ? నావి కేకలు కావూ?
అవును కదా. ఇప్పుడె కావు కావు మన్నా కూడా!
అయ్యూ! confusion గా ఉంది.
ఎదైన కాకి దొరికితె బాగుండు,
కాస్త నా బాద పంచుకోవచ్చు.
అయ్యయ్యొ! నా మదిలొ ఈ గదిలొ నేను కాక ఏ కాకీ లెదే!
నెను ఏ కాకికీ ఎమీ కాకుండా పోయింది నేను కట్టుకున్న గొడల వళ్ళెన?
కాకిని.
ఏ కాకిని?
ఏ కాకి కాకిని?
ఏకాకిని.
ఏకాకి కాకిని.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Off ease!
I am a stranger,
to this place- the strangest,
amidst a mist,
of an irrational rationale,
and unaddressed aims,
of these well-dressed souls,
who are homeless,
though not house-less.
They are all going somewhere,
but never coming.
They run a race,
for no place,
as its against the time,
and the time one takes,
is what the time takes.
There they go,
runnin' way into the future,
shunnin' away from the present.
They are all going somewhere,
but never coming.
They run miles,
tossing false smiles,
and stupid tepid wishes,
The reasonless yet relentless
retention of pretention.
There they go,
runnin' to be someone,
shunnin' away from themselves.
They are all going somewhere,
but never coming.
They run down,
draining their lives,
honing their knives,
and when they hang-up the boots,
they won't have the fruits.
There they go,
runnin' hard to earn a life,
shunnin' away from the one they have.
They are all going somewhere,
but never coming.
This is so bad.
I am going mad.
Not a moment I can stay,
let me run far away.
I run to a station,
"Which one?" I ask one,
"Work-station!" he says,
seemed a familiar face,
"what about the place?",
"its your work place,
wake up sir", he said,
and offered the tea.
The time is just three,
'm not yet free to flee.
to this place- the strangest,
amidst a mist,
of an irrational rationale,
and unaddressed aims,
of these well-dressed souls,
who are homeless,
though not house-less.
They are all going somewhere,
but never coming.
They run a race,
for no place,
as its against the time,
and the time one takes,
is what the time takes.
There they go,
runnin' way into the future,
shunnin' away from the present.
They are all going somewhere,
but never coming.
They run miles,
tossing false smiles,
and stupid tepid wishes,
The reasonless yet relentless
retention of pretention.
There they go,
runnin' to be someone,
shunnin' away from themselves.
They are all going somewhere,
but never coming.
They run down,
draining their lives,
honing their knives,
and when they hang-up the boots,
they won't have the fruits.
There they go,
runnin' hard to earn a life,
shunnin' away from the one they have.
They are all going somewhere,
but never coming.
This is so bad.
I am going mad.
Not a moment I can stay,
let me run far away.
I run to a station,
"Which one?" I ask one,
"Work-station!" he says,
seemed a familiar face,
"what about the place?",
"its your work place,
wake up sir", he said,
and offered the tea.
The time is just three,
'm not yet free to flee.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
మేఘ సం"దేశం"
ప||
హరివిల్లు ఇల్లుగ.. పన్నీటి జల్లుల.. స్వర్గమేన
జడివాన నీడలా.. కన్నీటి కళ్ళకి.. స్వప్నమేన
అ ప||
వెలుగు-నీడల వెర్రి యుద్దము..
..............................పెను తుఫనుగా మారేన
వెండి పూతల నీలి మేఘము..
..............................కాంతి క్రాంతినే ఆపేన
ప||
హరివిల్లు ఇల్లుగ.. పన్నీటి జల్లుల.. స్వర్గమేన
జడివాన నీడలా.. కన్నీటి కళ్ళకి.. స్వప్నమేన
చ||
మల్లె అంచును విడిచి వెళ్ళిన..
...........................మంచు జాడలు తెలిసేన
నింగినంటిన వడగల్ల గర్వము..
..........................పూల కాడలే తుంచేన
నీటి గూటిని కొల్లగొట్టి..
........................(కుర్ర)కారు మబ్బులు ఎదిగేన
చల్లగుండు మరు చొటికేగి ..
........................కుండపొత కురిపించేన
ప||
హరివిల్లు ఇల్లుగ.. పన్నీటి జల్లుల.. స్వర్గమేన
జడివాన నీడలా.. కన్నీటి కళ్ళకి.. స్వప్నమేన
ప||
అనుమాన నీడలు.. వెన్నంటి ఉండగా.. సాద్యపడునా?
జబిల్లి మెల్లగ.. మబ్బుల్ని వీడగా.. సత్యమగునా!
అ ప||
వెండి పూతల నీలి మేఘము..
...........................కాంతి ఉందని ఆశేన
వెలుగు-నీడల ఐకమత్యము..
...........................హర్ష వర్షమై కురిసేన
[Inspired by a tune made by Ringo.
The tune started of with a rain-theme, and suddenly Ringo came up with a music bit, which, we all thought, was patriotically oriented. Hence, this came up. This was lying incomplete for a longtime and hence the song never got completed.
The standard patterns, usually followed to write songs, weren't followed. I couldn't. There is only one charanam, and I'm not sure if the part called anu-pallavi by me can actually be called that. Please point out mistakes if you happen to find some. ]
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
You and I
"There she goes! High up in the air and goodness me! She bruised her brow and tamed the beauty of that dame out there in the Grandstand. ( Another voice:) She was the only one around who is more beautiful than this shot, Tony. Sadly, not anymore. Shes off for some medical assistance..".. the television blared out of that window. The window through which he saw me for the first time when he was 5 years and a few months old. The window on the other side of which i saw him resting in peace, every night. The window which is now rusting in peace, day and night.
"This day and night fight might not catch the sight of the night as this light began to show its might. Its Yousaf Pathan!".. He was fondly called You, by his grandparents and friends. It was this place, where he batted, and battered the ground underneath him. That little trench still vacuous to testify the test innings he played then. My job was just to stand behind him, subbing the stumps. That wall, hit by the ball, turned ruddy and muddy for this pixilated kid frescoed every pixel of it. His granma was kind enough to let him whitewash his mischief, but only by whitewashing the wall. Now shes watching him on TV and would be recalling, yet again, how it all began when his granpa, a philosopher-gentleman, first taught him, only when he was asked by You, the quintessence of the gentleman's game one day.
"One day cricket has not seen this before! Seven sixes in an over and the English skipper is at sixes and sevens now while the crowd are in the seventh heaven. (The other voice: ) Wonder if his bat is the eighth wonder and there you see the Indian camp on cloud nine. (The former voice: laughs,) Its all numbers out here. Each of those whopping number of sixes made us number to our senses. Did he have his sixth sense helping him?.. (louder laughter).. "......
"I, like my granpa, like batting. "Batting is battling with eleven at a time" he said. He admired the views of Ramu Gandhi ji, a fellow philosopher and cricket lover, and believed in the love of wisdom and the wisdom of love. " .. was what You had to say to the newspaper his granny is reading now, sitting here in the lawn, awaiting You's return from England. She is happy to know that he personally met the lady he hurt and saw her in wellness. She is probably recalling now, how You, like Ramuji, wished God was a cricketer and knew about the second innings, when his granpa was out in the uncertain nineties.. ..
Not that I can't talk for silence is gold. Not that I can't go places for I would only find my motherland is the best. Not that i thought about having a sex and having sex when I helped You see his love by allowing him to climb upon me and jump into the next house. Not that that species dominates the world. Infact, I hate them for what they do to us. But I have to admit that, sometimes, I wanted to be You for trees rarely make their countries proud. Human innings is such a fascinating play of passion and love, ain't it? And I fail to explain or understand what the two are but can only be passionate about and love them.
"This day and night fight might not catch the sight of the night as this light began to show its might. Its Yousaf Pathan!".. He was fondly called You, by his grandparents and friends. It was this place, where he batted, and battered the ground underneath him. That little trench still vacuous to testify the test innings he played then. My job was just to stand behind him, subbing the stumps. That wall, hit by the ball, turned ruddy and muddy for this pixilated kid frescoed every pixel of it. His granma was kind enough to let him whitewash his mischief, but only by whitewashing the wall. Now shes watching him on TV and would be recalling, yet again, how it all began when his granpa, a philosopher-gentleman, first taught him, only when he was asked by You, the quintessence of the gentleman's game one day.
"One day cricket has not seen this before! Seven sixes in an over and the English skipper is at sixes and sevens now while the crowd are in the seventh heaven. (The other voice: ) Wonder if his bat is the eighth wonder and there you see the Indian camp on cloud nine. (The former voice: laughs,) Its all numbers out here. Each of those whopping number of sixes made us number to our senses. Did he have his sixth sense helping him?.. (louder laughter).. "......
"I, like my granpa, like batting. "Batting is battling with eleven at a time" he said. He admired the views of Ramu Gandhi ji, a fellow philosopher and cricket lover, and believed in the love of wisdom and the wisdom of love. " .. was what You had to say to the newspaper his granny is reading now, sitting here in the lawn, awaiting You's return from England. She is happy to know that he personally met the lady he hurt and saw her in wellness. She is probably recalling now, how You, like Ramuji, wished God was a cricketer and knew about the second innings, when his granpa was out in the uncertain nineties.. ..
Not that I can't talk for silence is gold. Not that I can't go places for I would only find my motherland is the best. Not that i thought about having a sex and having sex when I helped You see his love by allowing him to climb upon me and jump into the next house. Not that that species dominates the world. Infact, I hate them for what they do to us. But I have to admit that, sometimes, I wanted to be You for trees rarely make their countries proud. Human innings is such a fascinating play of passion and love, ain't it? And I fail to explain or understand what the two are but can only be passionate about and love them.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Thereafter, I never lost again
Kuan-Yin
copyright (c) Kuan-Yin, 2031
To my parents and the world of friends who helped me.
Prologue
Me, the starter of that nonstarter debate. Dad, my resister and mom the conductor. I was a punter who always lost. Meanwhile, a plane i thought. One could guess its still at a distance as the shadow did not pass by the window yet, though the sound was strange and the quiver was queer . 'Boom!' dad said. Sonic boom, i thought. 'IT boom' he continued 'Never the planes flew past, in the past, at this hour, at this place'. 'Wait! The debates on?' asked mom. 'Yea boy' dad said quickly 'Tell me whats the name of chapter.. errr.. one.. Of..aa.. the most recently read novel'. 'Thats too easy to test ones memory man!' said mom. I thought it is not, until I thought of it again, a bit harder. Well, how can one forget the very memorable first line, 'WTF!' I said. As I said that and the sound got louder and stranger, Dad the 'pun'ter said 'Aww! What a take off!' and all broke into laughter!
Seconds later, i remember its their wedding anniversary. Hours later, I could only wish I could wish them a happy anniversary. I lost and not just the debate.
Fate was the fiend, great were my friends. Thereafter, I never lost again.
Chapter one: WTF!
Walking through fire .. .. ..
WTF: Write the future
..
copyright (c) Kuan-Yin, 2031
To my parents and the world of friends who helped me.
Prologue
Me, the starter of that nonstarter debate. Dad, my resister and mom the conductor. I was a punter who always lost. Meanwhile, a plane i thought. One could guess its still at a distance as the shadow did not pass by the window yet, though the sound was strange and the quiver was queer . 'Boom!' dad said. Sonic boom, i thought. 'IT boom' he continued 'Never the planes flew past, in the past, at this hour, at this place'. 'Wait! The debates on?' asked mom. 'Yea boy' dad said quickly 'Tell me whats the name of chapter.. errr.. one.. Of..aa.. the most recently read novel'. 'Thats too easy to test ones memory man!' said mom. I thought it is not, until I thought of it again, a bit harder. Well, how can one forget the very memorable first line, 'WTF!' I said. As I said that and the sound got louder and stranger, Dad the 'pun'ter said 'Aww! What a take off!' and all broke into laughter!
Seconds later, i remember its their wedding anniversary. Hours later, I could only wish I could wish them a happy anniversary. I lost and not just the debate.
Fate was the fiend, great were my friends. Thereafter, I never lost again.
Chapter one: WTF!
Walking through fire .. .. ..
WTF: Write the future
..
Friday, March 21, 2008
Ek nazaria
The fourth co-ordinate is barely a concern to many at university level. Myriad minutes of madness. A, late and after, teen story of umpteen jaw dropping moments, but most, only to yawn. What cannot be done and what is done slimly differ, which is strangely strange enough, both being nothing. A positive, if not the only one, is the dazzling genius shown to find most astonishing ways to kill time. Prompts the presence of potential?
If I can feed an aim to one of my pastimes, what am I waiting for?Let the nation see lesser sorrow on the morrow only by you and me doing a little better. Let me live here like i would live long.... when my last second here breaks to nought, my vision would not.... as my spirit would live..... as an ignited mind!
Small aim is crime.. and less is the time..
If I can feed an aim to one of my pastimes, what am I waiting for?Let the nation see lesser sorrow on the morrow only by you and me doing a little better. Let me live here like i would live long.... when my last second here breaks to nought, my vision would not.... as my spirit would live..... as an ignited mind!
Small aim is crime.. and less is the time..
Friday, December 21, 2007
Saturday, November 10, 2007
The beginning of the end
Its flat with flattering illusions. My story, a plot built two dimensionally. The leads of the story are Man and Time. Woman, a deserving lead, was relegated, as a law, never made, existed. A flaw, in disguise. So, this stuff, never really distaff. I am called The Mankind. And, my story - "The Male Chauvinism".
The innumerable amateur livers of the delusively glorious society are the terrific authors of my story. The story was equally terrifying at a time. It was when there were almost nothing called rights to that sector, wrongs were called the rights and fools made the rules. But, gradually, by natures law, after years and years which saw living practised, they learnt the art, the simplest one. Nevertheless, amateurs still exist.
2007 A.D and in circulation is a magical drug which claims that one would give birth to a male child on consumption after conception. Less ironically, people also seem to be getting carried away by the claims of the “doctor” and more deplorably, a professor I know, went for it. No social evil is as bad as the bad.
Audacious should I say, those who were just normal to go off path of an abnormal social club. I should, may be, because I should see it the other way round. Thanks for the twist in my tale. Nevertheless, amateurs are restless and being perfect is at some distance.
Traveling distances that way is boring. One would say "bus!". Hyderabad to Goa.
I am as bad at times that id listen to conversations which don't have me involved. I was traveling alone with everyone in the bus. Two young women, each one new to the other and to me, reserved those seats which were special as were meant for ladies. Their conversation built up so well that even Chacha Chowdary couldn't tie me up. "Wait a bit old man! Two young women there!". Both Goans and working in hyderabad. One a techie in siemens and one in- "thaili"- the conductor interrupts. Seems like a call center. After talking about the regular shit and usual crap relating their jobs, in short one had a benign boss and the other a crooked HR, they moved on to talk about lifestyles- dress, consumption, entertainment and they live alone. Acculturation evident as the traffic-jams dint get them frustrated, road accidents dint see them frightened, security checks not a big issue and they neither slept nor ate- can call them hyderbadis. But there was one thing which had them uneasy. Those who were adequately expressive, as their lines of work necessitates, seemed lethologica struck suddenly, as they talked on it. And its absolutely disheartening that the problem was so obvious that each one knew what the other said silently or rather was not willing to say.. i knew it too..
My friends tell me, they don't like public transport,etc. And some of them are still freedom fighters at home.
Hopefully, the story is quickly approaching its end and certainly the last lines would read, "Long live humankind. The end of the male chauvinism".
The innumerable amateur livers of the delusively glorious society are the terrific authors of my story. The story was equally terrifying at a time. It was when there were almost nothing called rights to that sector, wrongs were called the rights and fools made the rules. But, gradually, by natures law, after years and years which saw living practised, they learnt the art, the simplest one. Nevertheless, amateurs still exist.
2007 A.D and in circulation is a magical drug which claims that one would give birth to a male child on consumption after conception. Less ironically, people also seem to be getting carried away by the claims of the “doctor” and more deplorably, a professor I know, went for it. No social evil is as bad as the bad.
Audacious should I say, those who were just normal to go off path of an abnormal social club. I should, may be, because I should see it the other way round. Thanks for the twist in my tale. Nevertheless, amateurs are restless and being perfect is at some distance.Traveling distances that way is boring. One would say "bus!". Hyderabad to Goa.
I am as bad at times that id listen to conversations which don't have me involved. I was traveling alone with everyone in the bus. Two young women, each one new to the other and to me, reserved those seats which were special as were meant for ladies. Their conversation built up so well that even Chacha Chowdary couldn't tie me up. "Wait a bit old man! Two young women there!". Both Goans and working in hyderabad. One a techie in siemens and one in- "thaili"- the conductor interrupts. Seems like a call center. After talking about the regular shit and usual crap relating their jobs, in short one had a benign boss and the other a crooked HR, they moved on to talk about lifestyles- dress, consumption, entertainment and they live alone. Acculturation evident as the traffic-jams dint get them frustrated, road accidents dint see them frightened, security checks not a big issue and they neither slept nor ate- can call them hyderbadis. But there was one thing which had them uneasy. Those who were adequately expressive, as their lines of work necessitates, seemed lethologica struck suddenly, as they talked on it. And its absolutely disheartening that the problem was so obvious that each one knew what the other said silently or rather was not willing to say.. i knew it too..
My friends tell me, they don't like public transport,etc. And some of them are still freedom fighters at home.
Hopefully, the story is quickly approaching its end and certainly the last lines would read, "Long live humankind. The end of the male chauvinism".
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